Here is Chapter 4. There's not much more I can say really? Should I change this to an M rating? If so, tell me ASAP so I don't get banned or anything. Anyway, reviews are appreciated as always. Thanks.
Chapter 4: The Third Strike
Helena woke up from her drug-induced sleep; her head felt heavy and cloudy. She sat up in the warm bed were Bayman had placed her, feeling the small sore where the needle had stuck her. She stood to her feet, looking at the closed, white door before her. On the handle, a simple outfit hung for her to change: jeans, a red shirt, and a pair of tennis shoes. They fit her perfectly, which Helena found peculiar. How much did Bayman really know about her? She opened the door, walking into the same, cold room as before. She stayed silent, not wanting to make the wrong move and receive another tranquilizer in the arm.
She approached the door opposite from her current bedroom, trying to turn its handle, feeling it stick. It was locked—from the inside? Bayman must have done it to protect her from the outside and from escaping. There was another door, which she opened slowly, revealing another bedroom, almost identically to hers. She could sense that it was his room by the musky scent inside. Helena was dumbfounded by how plainly the assassin lived. Aren't they paid a fortune? she questioned mentally.
She continued to snoop cautiously, finding a closet beside his bed. She opened it slowly, finding an organized storage room of stuffed cabinets, filled with various files and folders. She stepped in, slipping on a piece of paper beneath her foot. It was a photo of a young child and his parents. The kid looked so smile, but yet there was something to his eyes that Helena recognized, yet she didn't know from where. On the back was some Russian words, one of the few languages Helena couldn't read. It must have been some of the people he assassinated. What a monster she thought, finally realizing no matter how nice he was towards her, he was just Machiavellian—out for himself in the end. Suddenly, she heard the knob of the locked door turn. She placed the photo down and ran out into the foyer and quickly into her room, closing the door.
Bayman entered slowly, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. He had a paper bag with him and carried it into his bedroom, setting it on his bed. He opened the closet, finding nothing but a misplaced photo of his family—with a faint tennis shoe imprint on it. His suspicions were right; Helena had formidable curiosity. He entered her room, finding her looking out the window, leaning on it, staring out at the ocean before her, sighing.
"You can stop acting," he said, "I know you were in my room—"
"What?" Helena interjected, turning around as if surprised by his sudden entry.
"And you seemed to have stumbled on this," he said, holding up the shoes-stained photograph. Helena stepped back, nervous her keeper would do something rash. He then looked at it, sighing deeply, placing it in his back pocket.
"W-were they assignments too?" Helena asked, hidden contempt in her voice.
"No," he replied simply. Helena could see in his eyes that he was hiding something, deep secret within him that fueled his rage. There was a long silence between the two. Bayman then left the room and replaced the photo in his closet of files. Helena had followed him out of the room, but didn't enter his bedroom.
"N-now what?" she asked once he returned, closing the door behind him.
"We wait for Donovan to make a move."
"I see," the French woman replied.
Helena approached him, caressing his cheek. Bayman took her hand and held it warmly. He then quickly dropped them, turning around blushing. His feelings for her couldn't interfere with his ultimate mission, not when he was so close. Suddenly, Bayman heard a strange noise, a rumbling.
Helena blushed; her stomach was growling. She hadn't eaten for an entire day. Bayman laughed once, saying, "You must be hungry."
"A-a little," Helena blushed.
"Here, let's go somewhere," Bayman replied, "but first," he touched her hair, removing the giant, blue bow. He watched as her golden hair flowed out beautifully. He smiled, but quickly erased it, not wanting to show his affection for her. He then grabbed a hair tie from the paper bag in his room, tying her hair back in the ponytail. Helena blushed at how kind Bayman's touch was as he tied up her hair.
"T-thank you," she replied, looking exactly the same, sans the giant bow. Bayman took the keys from his pocket and opened the front door. Helena and Bayman entered an elevator, descending about twenty floors. Helena was surprised that Bayman lived in the plain-looking, beachside apartment complex—a humble living space for an assassin. The two walked side-by-side for several blocks before reaching a quaint, corner bistro. The two seated themselves outside seats in the crowd of patrons. Bayman and Helena ordered their meals and then just stared into each other's eyes. Bayman looked away as the two silently ate, unsure of what to say to one another…
Christie could only think of one individual who may have interfered with her assassination of Helena Douglas—an assassin she simply knew as Bayman. She didn't know exactly where the assassin was hiding, word in the underground said he was living quietly in Europe near a French beach. Christie had traveled to one, her first guess being her best. While walking downtown, dressed in black leather pants and a red-flamed, leather jacket, Christie spotted her target from behind, sitting in a small restaurant. Though her elegant bow was missing, her long, golden hair was like a beacon. Christie pulled a
small pistol from her pocket and carefully took aim…
"Helena, watch out!" Bayman screamed, kicking her chair back as soon as he spotted the platinum-haired assassin. Helena fell hard onto her back, seeing Bayman scream in pain as red blood shot from his shoulder. He held it in pain as the crowd disbanded in a fury of screams. Christie lost her target and quickly ran away. Angered that once again her plans were foiled by the same assassin.
Helena ran to Bayman's aid, holding the blood within the wound as best he could. "Where's a hospital?"
"I, I," he winced, the pain excruciating, "I can't go to a hospital."
The two quickly ran back to the apartment, taking the elevator through the garage, trying to prevent as many bloodstains as possible. Bayman opened the door and ran into his bedroom. "G-go into my bathroom! There's a first aid kit there!" Helena followed his commands as he coughed heavily. Bayman was losing a lot of blood. She opened the kit finding gauze and other medicines.
He grabbed a bottle of vodka from under his bed and drank half of it in under a minute. He lay back as she began to apply pressure to the wound. She grabbed the stitching material to close the wounds, but couldn't yet. "W-wait! The bullet's still in there," Bayman yelled.
Helena then grabbed the sterile pliers and dug it into his shoulder. Bayman did not cry aloud, but Helena could see his inner agony. She soon found the bullet and threw it to the floor. She looked frantically for some sort of stitching material. "How am I going to close the wound? It's too big!"
Bayman, he was breathing heavily in pain, replied, "I, I have an iron."
"That's crazy!"
"It's the only way!" he replied. Helena ran to grab the iron, plugging in the outlet nearby, setting it on the highest setting. Helena ripped some cloth, placing it in Bayman's mouth. She then grabbed the iron slowly as Bayman sat on the bed. He tensed his muscles up, suddenly feeling the searing heat against his wound. He screamed in agony as Helena used all her strength to hold the gag down, the iron, and Bayman himself. Second later, the scent of burning flesh in the air, Helena took the iron away. Bayman laid back on the bed, about to pass out, tears in his eyes, his muscles still tense and in pain.
"T-thank you," he replied weakly. He slowly closed his eyes, falling asleep. Helena stared at his massive stature, grateful that he had saved her life—again. Helena, looking around the still-wet, bloodstained sheets, sighed heavily. She grabbed some gauze from the kit and quickly wrapped up Bayman's shoulder.
She cleaned up his bedroom as best she could and sat next to him, caressing his face once again as he lay unconscious. She then looked at her bloody attire and re-entered the bathroom, undressing slowly and entering the shower to wash off the filth.
Hours later, Bayman awoke; his head and body still sore ravaged by the pain of the bullet wound. He grabbed the half-empty bottle of vodka near his bed and drank another swig of it, continuing his buzz. He sat up, looking around the room and then entered the living room of his apartment; Helena was nowhere to be found. He entered her bedroom; she was staring out her window again, just staring out into the sea. He took another swig, dropping the glass bottle. Helena turned around, surprised by Bayman's approach. He approached her, putting hand above her head, staring into her eyes with his currently glassy ones. He sniffed the air quietly, smelling her beautiful scent and her cleanliness.
Helena, on the other hand, smelt alcohol on his breath, but she was still aroused by his manly chest and large frame. He then grabbed caressed his face and kissed her passionately. Helena gasped, but kissed Bayman back. He then powerfully took her in his arms and threw her into the bed, pinning her there. Helena moaned as he kissed her neck, pinning her against the soft bed. Before they knew it, the two were engaged in a moment of bliss and ecstasy, but as soon as it began, it was over, the two, becoming lovers for but one night, were fast asleep as the bright, full moon shone through the beachside window.
