Hating Beauty (The Vegas Titans Series Book 6)

by Loren, Celia

  More roughly than I mean to, I jerk her chin up, holding her face close to mine, and find myself kissing her until I can’t tell the difference between her tears and my breath, close and hot. I groan, needing more, drowning myself in her lips. I don’t let her pull away until I can feel her pulse hammering against my hand on her neck, see her breathing change, and feel her body melting into me. I don’t let her pull away until I know that she’s stopped crying. Now I can feel my own body shaking.

  This kiss is different. This kiss changes something.

  She does pull back finally, her skin flushed, her breathing shallow, her pupils dilated. When I reach to brush her hair out of her eyes she almost flinches away, as if she’s scared of me. Then she laughs breathlessly, a deflection, and starts to dig furiously in her duffel bag, zipping and unzipping things. Then she’s on her feet, shutting the computer down, not meeting my eyes.

  “We should go now, before anything else happens. If I know my newspaper girls, the story will be in the afternoon edition. We only have a couple hours.”

  I nod. “Okay.”

  But if I know Breslin, our bodies will be in the morgue by then. Unless I can produce a motherfucking miracle.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Knox Cole

  Now we’re standing outside the fucking Planned Parenthood. I double-check the address on the piece of metal.

  “This is it?” I groan. “This is your big clue? What the hell?”

  But Tatiana’s face is set in secret-agent mode. She’s not letting me in.

  “Yes. And if anyone asks, you are my brother. Ok? Ok.”

  And with that she marches inside.

  “Oh god,” I groan. “Here we go.”

  There’s a metal detector. A receptionist. The woman’s hair is frizzed and she looks about a million years old.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  Tatiana’s jaw clenches, but she smiles. “I am Sunny Dee and I am here to get a copy of my patient records. I called yesterday with the request and they said they’d have it ready. It was Dr. Shenke who handled my case. In 2009.”

  At this point I’m not even surprised to hear Tatiana use yet another name, and it only takes me a second to realize it’s a variation on what her email had said was her sister’s nickname. I wonder idly how much of what she’s just said is a lie and how much is fact that Tatiana’s pulled out of Breslin’s computer. But there isn’t much time to muse on the question because the receptionist is already on the line, announcing us to someone upstairs.

  “I have a Miss Dee to pick up her records. Mmmhmm…” she grunts. “Huh.”

  The receptionist’s face crinkles in surprise. It’s probably the first expression she’s made in a thousand years.

  “Ok.” She hangs up the receiver and stares at Tatiana suspiciously. “Have a seat, Miss Dee. Someone will be out for you soon.”

  We take a seat in the dilapidated clinical chairs, surrounded by tense women queuing for their appointments and anxious boyfriends chewing their nails. Tatiana drops down to the edge of the chair beside me, but her butt barely grazes the pad before she’s back on her feet, pacing, twisting her hair in her fingertips absently. I haven’t seen her this keyed up before.

  “Hey, babe,” I whisper. “You ok?”

  She nods absently, flashes an uneasy smile.

  “Miss Dee?”

  That was fast. Too fast. Breslin fast.

  Tatiana snaps to attention, her body twisting to face the source of the voice. It’s a middle-aged woman in a lab coat, numerous ID tags pinned to her lapel. She gives Tatiana a crisp, impersonal nod.

  “Hi Miss Dee, I’m Maxine Sutherland, one of the case workers. I’m so sorry, but your records aren’t ready. Normally it takes 48 hours for us to make copies, not twenty-four.”

  Tatiana shakes her head slowly. “I am afraid I need them now, today. On the phone, I was told they would be ready. All it takes is for someone to spend five minutes with the Xerox machine.”

  “I’m sorry, we just can’t have them ready today.”

  “Can I speak to your supervisor? This is very important. I need the records, and I have a legal right to them.”

  I stand, placing my hand on Tatiana’s shoulder. “We’re not going to have any trouble, are we?”

  The woman hesitates, her eyes shifting between us. She purses her lips.

  “Wait here.”

  This time Tatiana doesn’t even try to sit. She’s standing, her arms crossed, neurotically tapping her foot. The receptionist shoots her an annoyed look but Tatiana doesn’t notice, doesn’t blink. Ten minutes go by. Fifteen.

  “Fuck,” Tatiana whispers. She closes her eyes. I can hear her murmuring to herself: “Mamao chveno, romeli khar tsata shina…”

  I’m not sure what it means, but I’ve heard her say it before with a gun pressed to her head.

  A patient gets called to the back, and through the swinging doors I get a glimpse of the Sutherland woman deep in conversation with two men in suits.

  The doors close, then burst open.

  It’s one of the men. He’s young, sharp looking, probably fresh out of some psychology program. Definitely one of those social work crusaders with thick glasses, the type who thinks they know what’s best for other people.

  I can’t stand those bastards.

  “Miss Dee,” he says, flashing two rows of perfectly capped teeth. “I’m Roger Kim, I’m a supervisor in our patient care division. I understand you’ve requested a copy of your records, but there seems to be some confusion. The name you’ve given us –”

  “Sunny Dee,” Tatiana interrupts. “S-u-n-n-y, D-e-e.”

  Kim clears his throat. “Yes, well, that’s the difficulty. We don’t have any records of you as a patient.”

  Tatiana registers no physical reaction, but takes a long moment to reply.

  “That’s impossible, Mr. Kim.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s true. Might you be mistaken about the branch you visited?”

  “This is the only Manhattan branch. I am not mistaken.”

  Mr. Kim gives a strained, insincere smile. “Well, I’m sure you can understand our problem. Much as we’d like to help you Miss Dee, you unfortunately aren’t one of our patients and we have no records to give you.”

  “That’s a lie,” Tatiana spits. “Yesterday on the phone, the person confirmed. She said she had my files in her hand. I talked to her. Her name was Rose. Rose Campanel. Is she here today? Ask her.”

  “I’m sorry, but you’re wrong. There are no records in this facility for Sunny Dee. As far as we know, there is no Sunny Dee. There’s nothing else we can do.”

  He turns to leave.

  “No!” Tatiana’s voice rips through the tense, silent waiting room like a thunderclap. “I am not mistaken! You have them! I have the right to the records! You are required by law to release them! I know they are here! I know this is the place! I know that is the name!”

  She’s grabbing at Mr. Kim’s jacket, pulling at his clipboard. Her voice rises to a keen, high and otherworldly, accusing and terrifying. The entire room shifts, their focus and attention riveted on the young woman going insane.

  “Give them to me! I know they are here! I know it! I know she was here! What did you do to her in this place, you bastards?! What did you do to her? What happened to her? What happened?”

  Tatiana is sobbing as Mr. Kim and several security guards dive in to the melee. I’m up and swinging, shoving every asshole that tries to drag her away. All I see is a confusion of florescent lights and shouting faces as we are thrown out into the street.

  “Try that again and we’ll call the police,” someone shouts. “Get the hell out of here.”

  “Ok,” I say, holding up my hands in surrender. “Ok, we’re leaving.”

  Tatiana has collapsed on the sidewalk, huddled on all fours weeping.

  “I know it,” she’s moaning. “She was here. I know she was here.”

  I’ve never seen her like this. I didn’t t
hink it was possible to see her like this, that cool exotic Mystery Girl I met only a day or two ago. Yet here she is losing her shit, a hot mess on the side of the street. The little hurt kid I glimpsed in her eyes before is on a rampage.

  Without thinking I sweep her up in my arms, lifting her body from the ground and holding her tight against me. She sobs, her ribcage rattling against mine like an earthquake, as something deep and old finally rises to the surface.

  A guy doesn’t need a psychology degree to see this breakdown was a long time coming. She’s not a secret agent. She’s not a gangster.

  She’s just a scared young woman who is all alone.

  “Tatiana,” I whisper, “Breathe, ok, just breathe. I got you. You’ve got to calm down. We’ve got to walk. Can you walk? We can’t stay here, baby girl, and I am really going to need you to explain what is happening, because I don’t understand what is going on with you. You’ve gotta snap out of it. We gotta get the hell out of this neighborhood.”

  She’s not answering. She’s unhinged, crying, talking to herself in her language that I can’t understand.

  “Shit.”

  Opening my arms, I lean her up against the brick wall of the building, trying to make her stand on her own. Every time I let go she starts to slide to the ground, sobbing.

  “Shit. Tatiana! Hey! Come on, don’t go nuts on me now. We can’t stay here. You can’t stay like this. Whatever that was about in there, Breslin probably was a part of it. We’ve got to keep moving. Hey!”

  I even try giving her a light smack in the face, the way you would to wake up a drunk, but it doesn’t work.

  “Shit.”

  The security guards are staring at us from the door of Planned Parenthood. I make an executive decision and hail a cab, opening the door and tumbling Tatiana and her bag in to the backseat before the driver can object.

  “Just drive,” I bark, sliding in next to her. “Anywhere.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Rusudan Tsetsilia Dadiana

  A.K.A. Tatiana/Katja/Jana/Mystery Girl

  blah blah blah

  It doesn’t matter

  Once upon a time I had only one name. Once upon a time I was simply myself. I was a child like any other, and I had a mother and a sister. Even a father, such as he was.

  I had a home.

  We lived by the Shavi zghva, the Black Sea, and for a short time I was happy. There everyone called me the same thing, because it was my name. Rusiko. Rusudan. The little bright one, the daylight. The little princess.

  My real name. No one has called me by my real name since 2010, five long, lonely years. No one knows it anymore. Sometimes I almost don’t know it myself.

  Have I become someone, something, else?

  If no one calls you by your name, is it really yours?

  How does a person really know who they are, if there is no one in the whole world to tell them? If there is no one left in the world to love them?

  Six years since I have had a family, five years since I have had my own name, my own identity. It’s been five years since I have existed. Since then, I have been everyone, anyone, but me.

  I am my sister, my ‘Sunny,’ Madlena Ketevan. Keto. I am my mother, my Deda, Tamar Darejani. I am all of the women of my house now. I am whoever I need to be to stay alive, to keep their memory, to avenge the wrong that was done to us. I am the only one left to whisper their names to the icon of Saint Nino in prayer, the only one left to ask the Ghvtismshobeli, the Holy Virgin Mary, to pray to God for them.

  And for those bastards at the Planned Parenthood to say to me that there is no Sunny, that there is no record, that she doesn’t exist! To lie to my face! For them to say that, it takes away even my lack of self. It takes away the last shred I have of her. The last hope.

  It takes away everything, all over again.

  There is a dull ache in my chest that never goes away, a constant physical reminder of my orphan state, of the fact that I no longer belong to anyone. There is a pressure in my head, an urgency to make things right. It steals my sleep even on the good days, when I feel proud of the work I have done. There is never, ever a moment when I can be at peace, because I lost myself when I lost them.

  Sometimes it’s almost as if I can hear their voices from within my heart: Rusiko, Rusiko, don’t forget us. Don’t forget. I am the only one left to remember, the only one who can make the man who destroyed us all, pay. But how can I remember them when I am starting to forget myself?

  There are other times, more and more often lately, when I don’t even hear their voices or see their faces in my heart at all. Sometimes, instead of pain, there is a terrible silence where they used to be. And the silence is worse.

  “I have to go home,” I say aloud. “It’s time to go home.”

  Through the windows of the taxi, lower Manhattan gives way to the Williamsburg Bridge. It’s still early afternoon, the bright light of day reflecting off the East River and the glass facades of the skyline in blinding brightness.

  “What?”

  It’s not until Knox Cole’s deep, gruff voice pulls my focus back inside the cab that I realize I’ve been speaking in Kartuli, in my native language. Rubbing my tears off my cheeks until they are raw, I take a deep breath and try again—this time in English.

  “I need to go home.”

  Now I turn to look at the handsome, dangerous man beside me, blinking my eyes until they are clear. The expression on his face smites me with guilt. He is confused, concerned, and desperate. Hurting. How long has he been watching me like that, waiting for me to come back from the edge?

  My words have done nothing to ease him.

  “Home?” His brow twists in consternation. “You mean that place where we almost got shot this morning? You mean that window we jumped through? You mean that floor covered in Rex’s blood? You’re the one that poked at Breslin until he turned to swat you like a fly. You’re the one that sent that email to the press that’s going to make this all blow up even more, remember? ‘No negotiating, no compromise’? Baby girl, I really hate to be the one to remind you, but there’s no home left to go to until this is over.”

  “No,” I sigh. “I know that. This is not what I mean.”

  “You scared the shit out of me back there. What was that about?”

  “This is what I am trying to tell you, if you would listen.”

  “Well tell me then, Mystery Girl, and make it make some fucking sense. Because I was just about convinced I’d have to jump off of this bridge in a minute, between your crazy and Breslin’s crazy. If I’m gonna die, I at least want to know it’s coming.”

  I stare at him for a minute, collecting my thoughts.

  He already knows more about my story than is safe. Every instinct that I’ve honed over the years, every sense of survival, resists telling him more.

  But oh, how I’d love to belong to someone. To have someone say my name.

  “We’ve got to trust each other,” Knox says, as if reading my mind. His face is firm even if his voice is uncertain.

  So, I am not the only one afraid of speaking too much.

  “It’s our only chance,” he insists. “Otherwise, we both might as well jump off of this bridge right now.”

  “Really? Does that mean you trust me? You are willing to put your story in my hands?”

  His silence is enough of an answer, and I chuckle to myself. Objectively, I know I have little reason to trust him either. Objectively, I know this could all just be a trick. Our entire time together could be a lie, a double-cross. It could have been their plan all along, to trick me into thinking of him as an ally, to use him as a spy to find out everything I know about Breslin before they destroy me.

  I know this, but I don’t care enough to let it stop me. I don’t want to believe that is the case. I want to trust him.

  Not just because of the way that I feel my insides glowing when he looks at me…or because of the way that his touch makes me stronger…or because of how I somehow know that when he sou
nds cross or angry with me, it is only because he is uncomfortable and embarrassed and doesn’t want me to know how confused he is, how unsettled, how attracted.

  A woman knows these things, from time to time. My mother had always said that, but I never really knew what she was talking about until now. A woman knows when a man’s voice and touch are more than what they seem. When there is something under the surface, something more. Something that maybe scares him with its power, something that he is afraid to name.

  And I understand it, because I feel it myself. I felt it clearly this morning when he kissed me after the email. He isn’t using me, not really, even if that’s what he is telling himself he is doing. He wants to protect me. I felt it even earlier, last night when we were making love. That wasn’t meaningless sex, and I know the difference. He knows it, too. He made love to me, when he was supposed to destroy me. He is my lover. Neither of us will admit it, but it’s true.

  I don’t want to be strong anymore, or to be alone. I want Knox to know me, to help me. I want him to fill the silence, to say my real name. No, it’s more than just a want.

  I need him.

  And so, I need to explain.

  “I have to go home, whether I want to or not. Not to the Leo house, you idiot. To my country, to Sakartvelo. What you call Georgia. A legal necessity.”

  He is staring at me blankly.

  “You know, Georgia, Eurasia, Caucus Mountains, Black Sea. Supermodels? Former Soviet Socialist Republic, birthplace of Stalin? You Americans, don’t you know anything?”

  “Ok, ok, I get it. What do you mean you have to go back?”

  “It is a long story, but I have no choice: I have to leave the US by the end of the next two weeks. This is why I have to find my sister, fast. This is why I had to attack Breslin, now. This is my last chance. If I don’t find her now, it will really mean that she is lost to me forever. And Breslin will have won.”

  Knox nods at the traffic on the bridge.