Page 9 of His Target
After a while, we're headed back toward my apartment. I take notice of the fact that he doesn't play anything on the radio. The silence is a bit unnerving, but I am able to get a few side glances in at him. Most men scare me, especially tall, fat men. They all remind me of Harold and so many men I was forced to interact with over the years, but there's something about Porter. He's a self-admitted hitman, and yet, I don't find myself afraid to be around him. His brother, on the other hand, I didn't like him. Mostly because of how hard he drove it in that I wasn't welcome.
I get it. I'm a risk to his family, but once would've been enough.
Porter, though, didn't have to save me. He could've let the other hitman finish me off, but he didn't. He got me medical care. I don't even remember the last time a man was nice to me. At my job, most men don't notice me, or if they do, it's for all the wrong reasons. I dress the way I do so no one will notice me. Despite also having the desire of wanting to be wanted by someone and have someone to spend my life with. It's a war in my head of what I want and what feels safe.
Who would want me though? I have so many issues and an ugly body.
I let my eyes close as I rest my head against the door, letting the cold air hit me in the face. My face is numb, but I need it to keep me from freaking out. It's the only thing that's keeping me grounded right now. It's spring in New York, but the snow this year hasn't been as bad or as bitter as it was last year. I've only been in New York for the last year, but my first spring here was awful and I was alone for all of it. I hated having to walk to work in the bitter cold and go home, but I've never known anyone with a car, or I should say anyone I trust with a car, and most people walk in the city anyway.
I hate that I can't talk to him while he's driving; to try and find out more about him or something. But it's clear he hasn't used ASL in a while and I don't want to make him crash. But my voice, if I can even call it that, isn't pleasant on the ears. I hate using it and it tends to hurt after I rasp out a sentence. Before everything, my parents had tried a lot of different things to get my vocal cords to work how they're supposed to, but nothing ever helped and now they probably think I'm dead. It's probably better if they do; knowing this version of me would be too painful for them. My mother would take it the hardest.
He pulls into my apartment building. At first shock courses through me. He got here without ever asking me for directions, but then I remember that he told me he'd been watching me for the last week. It makes me wonder what he had seen. I don't do much when I'm home. I mostly lay on the sofa bed and stare at the TV. The one good thing about this place is that it came with a small washer and dryer in the unit, so I didn't have to leave to go do my laundry at the coin-op.
He reaches into the back seat and pulls something out. He hands it to me. I look at it. A scarf? I turn my questioning gaze onto him.
He motions for me to put it on. "You need to cover up. He pulls out a cap from the back as well. "Put your hair up in this and I have sunglasses for you as well. If there's anyone else tailing you and waiting for you to return to your place, if they can't confirm with one-hundred-percent certainty that it's you they won't shoot. They don't want to shoot someone else and then have to clean up the mistaken kill along with not getting paid for it. They won't risk shooting you if they can't confirm it's you before they do it.
I'm not going to fight him on it. I'm sure he knows better than me.
"What about you?" I sign. "Won't they be able to track you and find me that way if they see you with a person that may or may not be me in my apartment?
He shrugs. "They can try, but it will be more work for them than they want. I'm not known to the public as Porter Bancroft, so they won't be able to find me. So they can try, but they'll give up when it leads to dead ends.
He makes it sounds as if he's super-rich and that the public would know who he is. I don't recognize him. He's attractive by society standards, but I think if I saw him all over the magazine covers or the TV, I would know who he is. That's basically all I have to do for entertainment is live vicariously through gossip rags and the TV.
I put the stuff on, and he makes sure that all of my hair is covered, so that not a hint of the light-red pokes through. Even a little bit would be enough for them to confirm that it is me. Getting out of the car, I reach into the pocket of my sweats for my keys and pull them out. I'm so glad I didn't lose them. That would suck. My landlord is a bitch and to get a replacement key would be a pain in the ass.
I go around the car to him and start to lead him inside. Before I can take another step, he puts a coat over my shoulder, the leather one he'd been wearing. "Put this on, it's cold out here."
Sighing, I put it on, it does feel nice to have it on and it covers my arms, so that if we run into anyone inside they won't see the scars that have been carved into my arms. His cologne, a spiced musk surrounds me, and it brings me a small bit of comfort.
Porter then wraps an arm around my shoulders, letting it hang off them lazily as if he's my boyfriend and acting as if this is normal. I look up at him. He's just enough taller than me that I have to do it. I'm taller than most men, so he has to be over six feet.
He motions for me to keep walking. "Act like it's natural," he whispers in my ear. His baritone voice and warm breath washes over my ear and makes me shiver. I try not to focus on the fact that no man has ever done this with me. This is the kind of thing guys do in romantic movies. I know he's doing it for show. It's another of his things to keep people on their guard. If anyone else has been watching me for a while then they'll know I have no one. He's probably doing that to throw their scent off of me. For me to suddenly show up with a boyfriend would be odd.
I lead him to the entrance to the place. Like normal, the first door has been propped open with a brick, as has the second door as well. They should both be locked so that only tenants can get in and out, but no one ever follows that rule. There are more than a few drug dealers working out of this place, and it won't do if their clientele has to buzz to be let in every time they want to come and do an exchange.
I lead him up the six flights of stairs to my floor, we bypass several teenagers hanging out in the stairwells, all of them smoking or drinking. It's normal for this area. I don't ever leave my apartment at night for this reason. I don't want to have to run into people that want to cause problems.
The only time Porter doesn't have his arm around my shoulder is when there's not enough room on the stairwell for him to do so. I go to my apartment and open the door. It squeaks as we enter and I reach to turn on the light, but his hand stops me.
"Hang on."
He moves over to the window and closes both the blinds and the blackout curtains I use for days I don't have to work and can sleep in.
"Okay."
I turn on the light and it floods the small studio apartment. There's only a small wall blocking off the bathroom from the rest of the place. My cheeks flare with heat at the state it's in. There are takeout boxes all over and a growing dirty laundry pile. It's hard to motivate myself to clean when I'm the only one that has to see the mess.
I go to the hole in the wall with a flower curtain over it that my landlord called a closet and pull down a backpack. I don't have much, to begin with. I've never bothered to collect things. I've been moving constantly since I was a kid. There's no point in putting down roots in a place like this. I knew eventually the WPP or something else would take me away from it, and I was right.
I start to roll up and shove clothes into it, making it as compact as possible. All I care about is my clothes. They help me feel safe. I pull from the dirty pile as well. I don't know if I'll be able to wash them where I'm going, but if the place has running water and he can get me soap after I run out of what I have here, then I'll be okay to wash them by hand. That's better than nothing.
"I can help you. Do you have another bag? I can get your bathroom items and any food you want to take with you. There will be a full kitchen where I'm taking you."
My heart hammers a bit at the fact that I don't know where I'm going. I'm basically just blindly trusting him. He doesn't have my full trust, but he's had plenty of chances to kill me, and if he tries to force himself on me later, I can't say it won't be unexpected. He doesn't seem like a man that would do that, but men can be deceiving, and I don't trust any of them.
I point to the cupboard under the kitchen sink and signbag.
