“Now, the way I fuck is different. It’s rough, “he explains to the group as a professor might explain a lesson to a class—a class of militiamen with guns lowered enjoying today’s entertainment, today’s “show”.
“There are more opportunities for…um. How you say?… Pleasure—here.” He cups my bottom, squeezing it hard digging in his fingers and grunting. His head and neck wrap over my shoulder like a snake and his mouth latches onto my neck, sucking and bruising like a leech. He pauses, exhales deeply and props his torso against me, like a runner leaning against a wall catching his breath and collecting his thoughts before a race. His biting aftershave assaults my nostrils—the mix of cedar and lime both numbing and repellant. It carries me to a higher level of unknown misery.
I can’t calm myself with deep breathing without inhaling that scent. I’m allergic to Cedar. My resolve is tittering, unbalanced and weakening by the minute. Must hold on with shallow breaths.
“One last thing… that makes it so good for me. I like to hear the woman scream,” he says hoarsely.
The audience cheers and hollers—the “show” just got better. Their guns hang by their sides as they await the second act. I hear a click and crane my neck around to see a gleaming silver blade.
He’s got a knife! He’s going to rape me and sodomize me with a knife!
My eyes dart from Ethan to Ponytail and back again suggestively.
Take the shot, Ethan! No indecision, no more time now. Be courageous! Shoot Ponytail. He’ll slaughter me with this knife otherwise. Mikhail may try to grab your gun, but you must believe that you can hold on. His men will stand down. After all, Mikhail is an experienced pro and their leader. He has the advantage. And Mikhail’s men may shoot at you, but you can use him as a shield. It’s your only chance to save me and save your soul! If you live and I don’t, you’ll be forever changed!
Moments pass—pregnant with the promise of my violent rape and grisly slaughter. An icy spider of fear crawls on my skin, along my neck and on my back.
It’s my only chance! Now! Act like his broken bitch, his submissive. He’s thinking with his penis anyway. Use that.
Dropping my head to the floor, I see his clutched knife next to my hand. Looking backward beyond the arc of my spread legs, I gently take and stroke his genitals.
“You win. I give-up. Why don’t you put yourself in my mouth? You may decide to keep me, not kill me.”
He gasps and groans while grabbing my breast and dry humping me. As he positions himself to move into me, I cradle, twist and stab with a pen—burying it in his scrotum.
“Fuck! You kunt! I kill you!” As I wiggle away, he lunges forward grabbing my hair, jerking my head back and forth like the steering wheel of an out-of-control car.
“Nyet!! The pain—I can’t stand it!” He screams. I fall forward as he pushes me out of the way. Peeking behind as I scramble across the floor on my knees, I see him doubled over in a pool of blood, his teeth gritting in agony as he pulls out the pen. His searing screams so repetitive they seem to echo in the now still room. The cheering stops, the onlookers frozen in disbelief at the sight of their fallen comrade. Staring at Ethan with white hot intensity, I nod. My eyes pleading yet demanding that he take action—resolve over reluctance.
I did it! Not safe yet. Run!
In an instant, Ethan aims and fires at Ponytail’s arm and fires again at his legs. Swinging his weapon around, Ethan trains his sights on Mikhail, who’s smirking now.
Mikhail motions a man to Ponytail’s side. Bleeding, impaled Ponytail rises with help and leans on his comrade to leave the bar.
Mikhail walks to Ethan. His posture is military erect, shoulders back and chest out. Ethan keeps his eye in the scope and tightens his lips.
That guy is walking up to the gun, point blank range close. Don’t let him grab the gun, Ethan!
“Nyet! No further!’ Ethan orders.
Mikhail stops and stares at Ethan, his face contorted in amusement. His eyebrows raised and his eyes dark—two cesspools of cruel thought. He smiles a toothy mocking smile.
With a steely unwavering stare, he raises his hand and wags his finger back and forth at Ethan’s face. He pauses for a moment, continuing to stare. The silence is deafening, the screams muffled and the room is hemorrhaging terror. And suddenly, he bursts into laughter.
“You think you win here—no win. We begin play now.”
Turning on his heel, he motions his men out of the bar and walks away.
13. HOTEL INTEL
Bar patrons rush to help the two women while we fall into each other’s arms crying.
Ethan draws back and shakes his head as if to fling the tears away. Finally, he wipes them away with the back of his hand. “Are you OK?” he asks me, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice. “You’re ice cold.”
“You are too.” I reach out for his hand again, not ready to let go. Arm in arm, we leave the bar with a bottle of vodka and go to our room. An albatross of ice-cold fear accompanies us down the hallway to our room.
“What a nightmare!! You were a warrior in that bar!!” Ethan says as we lock the door behind us and immediately pour ourselves two shots of vodka. “So aggressive—you changed the outcome! I know it was difficult for you. I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” Ethan snarls.
“We changed the outcome,” I say downing my shot. “You played as big a role as I did. You should own that.” Looking away from him and toward the door, I continue, “I’m so grateful that we’re okay, but I’m worried about Mikhail or Ponytail seeking some sort of retribution against us.” I utter fearful of my where my thoughts are leading me; so, I down my shot as a form of distraction and pour another.
“We have to tell Natasha and ask what precautions to take. We just have to be a little more careful that’s all,” he says, avoiding my eyes—choosing to converse with the curtains in the room.
“I’m not sure that that plan is air-tight. We don’t know who these people are. One thing for sure—Natasha will be explosive when we tell her. She’ll bind us to chairs in the room for the rest of the trip and we probably should be,” I mutter.
“I wish I could’ve helped you more, prevented that all together,” Ethan says as he lowers his eyes to the floor.
“You did help by not being a hot head. You didn’t get hurt or killed, and you didn’t make my problems worse. It made the scene easier to cope with,” I say while guiding his chin upward so that I can look him square in the eyes. I kiss him lightly, and he pushes me away.
“Here, have a shot and a hot bath. I’ll set it up for you,” he suggests, eager to help.
“I probably need a rabies shot and a few sessions of therapy after being around those feral dogs,” I say to make him smile.
Cruel sick men who lust for power and blood as much as sex.
I wrap my arms around my upper body and hug myself in quiet appreciation of being spared. My eyes burn with tears which spill over as I step into the steamy hot bath, park myself and grab the bottle of vodka—uncapping it and tipping it upward for a big gulp. My eyes burn as the fire claws down my throat and into my stomach, radiating towards my extremities. I cough and sink lower and lower into the hot tub as the slap of naked truth hits me again and again.
What an awful scene—a test of composure, strength and survival. How did I manage to handle it the way I did? I think I have to give credit to horses. My riding misadventure with Luke really helped me tonight. I’d have fallen to pieces if I hadn’t experienced that! It taught me to leverage my instincts, to think powerful and be powerful. It taught me that I’m tougher than I ever dared to imagine. It could have been so much worse. Those women could have died. I could have died or been gang raped or both. Both of us could’ve died… And I’ll see a therapist to erase those bloodthirsty sickos from my mind. Ethan will probably need a dose of that too.
***
I turn to look at the clock—6 am. I shift onto my left side to snuggle into Ethan’s back.
“
Are you awake too?” he asks softly as he rotates toward me.
“I don’t want to ever go back to that place! The sooner we put that behind us the better.” I say, shuddering.
“No arguments here. And we can’t tell Natasha,” Ethan says lovingly, stroking my hair as he talks.
Natasha was smart to keep us under house arrest. Now, look at the mess we’re in, scared to go and scared to stay, scared to talk to her since she may think it’s too dangerous to continue.
“Don’t you think we should tell her a diluted version of what happened and leave tonight? Then, we can return in a few days to try to go forward with the adoption. I’m certain they will search for us. Maybe, that’ll throw them off track. We don’t want our baby to be a target too,” I say as my eyes begin to mist.
We’re now the hunted. We don’t know who those people were. They may have to power to destroy our adoption plans.
The tears spill onto my cheeks.
“Look, we shouldn’t leave tonight. They probably expect us to try to rush out of here. We act calm, we look normal, we stay on plan. We’ll tell Natasha soon; so, she can help us protect the baby. It’ll be more difficult to avoid capture the longer we stay. We need to grab our son and leave as soon as possible. “
“What now? What can we do now to fill our time? Safely? We can’t just sit in here and do nothing. I don’t want to spend my time worrying about what can happen.”
“You’re right. The way I see it we’re safer in a public place than cornered like mice in a hotel room. We need some distraction. Let’s start with breakfast. Let’s go to the front desk and ask about the breakfast hours. Casually, we should mention we heard gunfire coming from the bar that way we may be able to find out who those men are,” Ethan suggests.
I’m ambivalent about that, want to know but afraid to know.
Oily dread starts to pool in my throat as I think about the possibilities, either way it’s bad news, Mafia or bounty hunters or public officials.
“Great idea! I’ll ask the front desk on the way to the hotel restaurant,” I offer insincerely.
At least, I’ll avoid Ethan’s edited version of the answers if I ask the questions.
A tall 20ish something blonde with green eyes mans the front desk of the hotel.
She peers up at me as I walk toward her and turns her eyes back to the sheaf of papers in her hand.
“Excuse me, will you please tell me the restaurant hours for breakfast?”
“Yes, the hours are 8 am until 10 am every morning. Do you require the lunch hours or a menu?”
“No, Spasibo. By the way, we heard gunshots last night when we walked in the lobby. I think they came from the bar. What happened?” I asked, my eyebrows raised, knitted in counterfeit curiosity.
Anna, Ms. Front Desk, stares intently at me, her mouth a knotted line that doesn’t want to move. She checks the sides of her desk with her peripheral vision, never moving her head.
“Why do you care to know?” she asks pointedly.
“Well, I’m wondering if we should be worried for our safety. Should we?”
Anna now frowning in irritation nods her head “no” in response. She punctuates her response by rolling her eyes.
I hold her gaze, knowing she may say more if I’m patient. I stand and wait, my arms crossed over my chest.
“Do not worry. You are safe. The Chief of Police and his men search for someone last night. They found the man. The shots fired were required to make him follow orders. It’s nothing unusual,” she says coolly.
I swallow hard as the information fills my brain with fear. I cough as if my head is being held under water. I’m drowning in scary thoughts, molten hot panic races through my veins. I cough again, gasping for air. My heart is battering the underside of my chest. My face feels hot as it reddens. My clothes feel suddenly uncomfortable as if I’m wearing itchy wool. I push my hair aside and massage the back of my now stiff itchy neck.
“Do you require water?” Anna asks with an iceberg stare.
“Nyet, I’ll be okay. Spasibo. “ I amble away striking my right fist against my chest to be more convincing to Anna.
Oh my God! Ethan shot a deputy—an ordained police officer. Oh my God, they’re totally corrupt and amoral! They have the intelligence and resources to get us. And the adoption! I feel my blood run cold. Has this ruined everything? My worried eyes find Ethan across the room; he’s standing patiently with his arms resting at his sides. As he reads my expression, his smile fades into a frown. I walk toward him and stand beside him, not wanting to see him process the implications of the bad news.
Grabbing my arm, he faces me, staring into my eyes with blowtorch intensity.
“Tell me everything,” he demands.
14. FRUSTRATED FOODIES
“Not here,” I say, gesturing for him to follow me to the breakfast bar. I need to think, and I’m hungry. We’ll discuss this in our room after breakfast.”
“No,” he says. “I want to know now. I need to know.”
I study his eyes. They are piercing, hard and angry.
“We have to act normal,” I tell him calmly. “No theatrics from you. No tears from me. Especially now.”
I see the Ultimate Fighter look in his eyes, ready to take a beating but ready to exact some payback too. He wants to deny the truth. And he needs to process it, to digest it. He needs this time.
“So, what’s for breakfast this morning?” I ask as Ethan and I peer over the possibilities, all lined up along both sides of a steam table set-up.
“Let’s see we have—sliced tomatoes, coleslaw, hard boiled eggs, cold cuts and porridge,” he says with a frown.
My stomach somersaults backward at the sight of food.
What about crunchy grainy cereal, bagels, or scrambled eggs? Porridge is the closest thing to oatmeal that I can find and tolerate at this time of day.
And so it is porridge, probably every damn day.
Ethan swallows a bite of a cold cut and mustard sandwich while looking at the choices of the other patrons.
“The blonde at the front desk—she’s walking toward us,” he says suddenly.
What does she want? Did she notice my nervousness?
We lock eyes, promising one another to swallow our angst.
“Did you find all that you require?” she asks Ethan with a half smile.
“Da, Spasibo. Love it!” Ethan answers sincerely.
She holds his gaze for a minute or two and turns her attention to me.
She looks at me in a challenging way.
Really, I hate these choices, but it’s all I care to shove down my throat.
“This is the best porridge I’ve ever tasted, but how about some fresh honey dew melon?”
“What is it—honey dew?” she asks suddenly interested.
“It’s fruit. Just wish there was some fresh fruit.”
She laughs loudly, slapping the table with her hand.
“Fresh fruit in Russia in the winter. That is so funny! There are many things available in Russia, some good and some bad, compared to your country. For example, peace and comfort here come with a price, follow the rules or face the bad result. In the United States, follow the rules or your government slaps your hand after the court decides it can. We are different. If you do not notice, the bad result is quick here.” She smiles in a small knowing way as she tilts his nose upward. She leans closer in to tell us more. Long curled blood red nails accent her vein-rich hand which rests on the table. Her cuticles dangle multiple hangnails.
“The police always find the best way to produce the result to hurt the most,” she announces as she strikes her hand on the tablecloth like a gavel.
She suspects something about us. I bet she’s an informant.
“Spasibo, we pride ourselves on following the rules, especially in countries with less freedoms than ours,” Ethan counters with a cool smile.
Anna puts her hands on hips, standing instantly taller. Her lips knot as her chin tilts upward, her eyes l
ooking down at us now.
“Well, I am on break to take coffee now. Good bye.”
And with that, Anna spins on her heel, heading to the coffee urn.
“Put everything out of your head. We linger and act normal. Be playful,” Ethan orders in a whispery voice.
He’s right. She wants to rattle us. I won’t give her the satisfaction!
“Hey, I know why breakfast is not as social as lunch or dinner,” I declare.
A smile starts to cross his face.
“Why would that be?” He asks curiously, his smile growing bigger. His eyebrows rise in curious interest.
“Because no one feels talkative when they’re trying to choke down food that they don’t enjoy. They’re probably hungry and want to forget what they ate breakfast,” I lean back and cross my arms and angle my chin up, proud of my deduction.
“Well, I’m glad that you’ve got this all figured out. I’m sure people will be thrilled to hear your explanation” He flashes a bright smile and turns away to track Anna.
“As a matter of fact, I bet they will,” I say as I tear the corner of a paper napkin and wad it up between my fingers. He’s too busy trying to disguise his amusement and control his laughter to notice what I’m doing. I thump my little wad of paper at his head and smile.
Anna walks by our table with her steamy cup of coffee. She sits at the table closest to ours.
“I don’t have any answers yet. This is complex. I don’t think we should hide like mice, hiding from the cat. Natasha will force us to do that if we tell her. She may shut down the whole process if we tell her. Remember she warned us about complications. We stay on plan, but very cautiously.”
I accept that—there’s no easy answer. We can’t run because Natasha would want to know why, and we can’t tell Natasha. So, to be able to complete the adoption, we have to avoid capture by the police and avoid telling Natasha about our problem, even though she’s the one who can really help us.
***
“It surprises me that there are so many vodka bars everywhere. It reminds me of the hot dog and pizza vendors in Times Square. And they’re so busy at lunchtime,” I comment the day after breakfast with Anna.
Beautiful Evil Winter Page 7
