Page 18 of Himbo Hitman
“Wait! Don’t I get last words?”
Shit. He’s right. “How rude of me. Of course. Right. How do we do this? Ah … God?” I give the bleeding man an uneasy smile. “It’s been a while,” I explain. “St. Clare needs, umm … safe passage to … heaven? That doesn’t sound right?—”
“What are you doing?”
“I know I’m not a priest, but I’m doing the best I can here.”
“I said lastwords, not lastrites.”
“Oh …” It dawns on me that he wants to be the one to say something. “Go on, then.”
“You know what? Just kill me.”
I perk up. “Can I?”
“No!” he snarls. “Jesus, what is wrong with you?”
“Hey, you’re the one with a gunshot wound, so should you really be asking that question?”
Pain spasms across his face, and when he pulls his hand away, the blood staining it is bright red. It’s still bleeding. A lot. If I was lucky, the wound would finish the job for me, but I’m not lucky, and as each second ticks by, I’m becoming increasingly worried that I won’t finish things either.
I let out a frustrated growl, rubbing the heels of my hands into my eye sockets, careful not to poke myself in the eye with the gun. “Why can’t you be dead already?”
He makes a choking nose. “Am I supposed to apologize for that?”
“It would make me feel at least a little better, if I’m honest.”
“You shot me in the fucking ear!”
“AndIalready apologized for that.” I pace a few steps away and back again, trying to find that same pump-up speech about puppies and … and …
Shit, now he’s sweating. And looking pale.
I could end all this by ending him.
I could do it.
Except I really, really can’t.
I’m so fucking angry with myself when I duck down, yank his jacket from his shoulders, and turn to his shirt instead.
“The fuck—” St. Clare tries to slap my hands away. “—you doing?”
“I need your shirt.”
“Fuck off.”
I go for his buttons again, and again, he slaps my hands away. I hit his back, and heshovesme, and before I know it, we’re fucking wrestling against the pavement as I try to get his shirt off and he tries to stop me.
“I’m trying to …” I pant, holding off a hit to the head. “Help you.”
“You shot me!”
I belt his shoulder. “Why are yousohung up on that?”
“Hung up? It happened a few minutes ago.” He sends a strong kick to my thigh, but I grab his leg with the hand holding my gun and manage to pin both his wrists to his chest with the other. We’re both panting, both glaring at each other, and he’s lookingreallyworse for wear now.
“I need your shirt so I can tie it around your head. To stop the bleeding. They do it in movies all the time.”
