Read Last Hit (Hitman) for Free Online Page B

nicer than mine. I notice that he’s got tattoos on his fingers, and that when they touched mine, they were callused. The tattoos are a bit unnerving, but I have seen a lot of tattoos on people on the streets. Perhaps he simply appreciates the artistry of them.
    I pick up a pair of wet jeans and shame hits me. They’re old and baggy, and there’s a bleach stain on one cuff. There’s nothing in my basket that could impress a man like him. I sneak a glance over at him, just in case he’s not watching me.
    He is, though.
    I flush and glance away again, hastily shoving my old, worn second-hand clothing into the dryer. Now I’m just being an idiot.
Be bold, Daisy!
I tell myself.
He kissed your hand!
    "So your name is Nick?"
Duh, Daisy. He just told you that. Could you come up with a stupider question?
    "
Da.
"
    "It’s a lovely name. Is it Russian? You sound...foreign." Oh dear. Now I sound really foolish. Regan would laugh at my Pollyanna ways.
    "I am from Ukraine."
    I glance over at him again, and he’s watching me still, his flicking gaze cataloging my movements. It’s not an unfriendly gaze, even though he’s not smiling. It’s intense, though. All gray eyes and piercing stare. Like he wants to know all my secrets. I smile at him again. "I like your accent," I say shyly. "It’s not one I’ve heard often." Ever. Maybe on the internet in a video once. It sounds like he is caressing his syllables with his tongue, but I don’t say this. I’m not quite that bold yet.
    "You are too kind. I know other languages but I am never able to shed my roots," he says, and that accent makes my pulse flutter all over again.
    I wish he would talk more. He seems on edge. Is it because I’m trying to flirt with him, and I’m pathetic at it? “Which floor are you on?"
    He swiftly answers. "Second."
    I light up. "Me too. We’re neighbors." I finish tossing my laundry into the dryer, and then there’s nothing else to do. Should I continue talking to him? I’m suddenly out of answers. I clutch my laundry basket, feeling helpless. He hasn’t moved from his wide-legged stance over in the shadowy corner of the laundry room. "I…guess if we’re on the same floor, I’ll see you around?"
    He inclines his head at me. "
Da,
I will see you." He looks down as if he’s embarrassed by something, and then he adds, "I should like that."
    "Me too. It was nice to meet you, Nick." I feel my cheeks heat. "I’m in 224, if you ever need to borrow detergent or anything. Just let me know."
    Again, he inclines his head.
    I feel a little silly for offering up so much information, but I can’t help myself. "Well, bye now." I turn to the door, feeling as if I’ve just flubbed my first chance at flirting with a man.
    His gaze moves to the flip phone I have shoved in my pocket. "Give me your phone," he says and puts a hand out. "I will give you my number. You call me if you need anything."
    My cheeks pinken, and I pull out my small flip phone. It is a disposable, the cheapest model. Regan’s made laughing comments about me getting a smart phone so I can use the GPS and not get lost in the “big city," but that’s more money each month than I want to spend on something so frivolous. Not when I don’t have a job yet. But I hand it to him and try not to feel ashamed of how pathetic it is.
    He says nothing, simply examines it, and then flips it open and begins to type with one thumb. I watch his tattooed fingers fly and wonder at the markings on each knuckle. It seems impolite to ask what they mean. After a moment, he snaps my phone shut and hands it back. "You call me,
da?
If you need things. I will call you if I need…detergent."
    I nod mutely, give him what I hope is a friendly smile (and not a terrified one) and escape.
    It seems I have two friends now. Regan and my Ukrainian neighbor who is so incredibly handsome that I could stare at him all day. I clutch my laundry basket to my hip and leave, feeling his eyes on my back. Once I am safely back in