by Hart, Callie
I frown at her reflection in the vanity mirror. “You know her, don’t you? That’s why you wouldn’t go down there. You knew the name of the fair.”
Making eye contact with me in the mirror’s polished surface, she presses her fingers to her lips, her cheeks draining of their color. “Could say that,” she mumbles from behind her fingers. I recognize the expression on her face as one of guilt. “You remember when I told you I was born in Poughkeepsie?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry, sweet girl. I just…I’ve never liked telling people where I came from. That…I don’t know where I was born. Somewhere in the south, probably, before we moved up here. The Midnight Fair belonged to my grandparents. Shelta’s my sister, and she’s a sour piece of work. I haven’t seen her in…what? Thirty-five years?”
Oh, come on. This has to be some sort of joke. There’s no fucking way she’s telling the truth right now. The world isn’t that small. There are no coincidences this big. My life cannot have gotten so fucking weird in such a short space of time. Kidnapped little boys. Possessed payphones. Threats from salty old fortune tellers. Run-ins with the Russian mafia. And now my friend, a woman I’ve known ever since I moved to Spokane, is telling me that she’s somehow related to the same fortune teller? It’s just all too implausible.
“You got the name wrong at Hitchin’s the other night. They’re not Travelers. They’re Roma. But back then, when I still lived with them, people used to call us Gypsies,” she says in a soft whisper. “Being Roma was nothing to be proud of. At least, according to the outside world, it wasn’t. I was always proud of my heritage, though.”
My mouth hangs open. “So, what? The fair is run by Roma? You’re Roma?” I suppose, in a weird way, this makes sense. Last week, back in Hitchin’s when Henry brought up Gypsies, Sarah had gotten very quiet. Very quiet, indeed.
She shifts uncomfortably. “I used to be, once upon a time. I was twenty-six when I left my family. I haven’t seen or heard from any of them since. To them, I’m just a Gadje.”
My ears prick. “They called me that when I was at the fair.”
A huff of a laugh. A twist of a bitter smile. Sarah gets to her feet and moves back to her closet, pulling out a green pea coat. She slips it from the hanger and replaces it with her new fur coat. “Gadje is a term for someone who isn’t Roma. An outsider. But, like anything, it depends on how it’s used. When I left my family and Shelta called me gadje, she meant it as an insult. To them, I’m the lowest of the low. I walked away from my culture and my family traditions. I became an unclean, contemptable thing.”
I hear the hurt in her voice. In all the time I’ve known Sarah, I’ve only seen her cry once, when her cat Fifi died. Her voice has a hollow, choked sound to it that makes me think she’s fighting back her tears now, and my heart is breaking for her. “Why did you leave, then? Why did you walk away?”
Pain flickers in the depths of her eyes. Perhaps I should mind my own business and keep my questions to myself. Can’t take it back now, though. It’s already too late. “There was a scandal. I really…” She shakes her head. “It’s a long story. I don’t think I’ve got the heart to tell it right now. Honestly, it’s…” Her words evaporate. Silence follows.
“You could have gone down there,” I whisper. “It probably wouldn’t have been so bad. They might have been happy to see you.” As far as I’ve known, she’s not been unhappy with her life here at the Bakersfield. She’s always seemed more than content; I’d never have thought she was missing anything, mourning the loss of such a huge chunk of her life, of her identity, but looking at her now, that’s exactly what I see on her face.
Sarah laughs. “You met my sister. She’s always been that way. Cold. Unfeeling. Hard to read. She terrorizes everyone at every opportunity. Yes, she would have loved to see me at the fair. It would have made her very happy to have me show up on their doorstep. I don’t doubt that’s why she even came to Spokane. But her joy wouldn’t have been at seeing her long-lost sister. It would have been at the chance to crush me all over again, thirty-five years after the fact. It would have been shitty. Really fucking shitty, Zara. Shelta should never have been matriarch of the clan. She doesn’t have a maternal bone in her body. It’s a blessing that she never had any children of her own.”
I jerk back, my eyebrows almost hitting my hairline. Oh…fuck. I know I mentioned the rude bastard with the eyes. I know I did. But…didn’t I tell her who he was? Damn. Will she be happy to learn she has a nephew? Or will she be devastated that her sister had a child after all, and she never had the chance herself? It’s a coin toss. I battle with myself, trying to decide if I even have the right to keep something like this to myself, when it’s really Sarah’s right to know. I wouldn’t see her hurt any further for all the world. If keeping this to myself will save her from more heartbreak—
“Out with it, girl. You look like you’re about to burst into tears.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I just…” I have no idea what to do. In the end, it’s the worry on my friend’s face that forces me to spill the beans. She’s far too astute, and I’m horrible at hiding my feelings. “She did have children. Or she had one that I know of, at least. The man I told you about? The one I laid into outside the fair? She said he was her son.”
So, so pale. Sarah looks like she’s seen a damn ghost. “Are you sure? She actually said he was her son?”
I cast my mind back, double checking, making sure that memory is holding true. “Yes. I’m sure.” Sarah slumps down into her chair again—I don’t think her legs would have held her up a moment longer if she hadn’t. “What is it?” I ask. “What’s wrong?” Because something is obviously very wrong.
She takes a deep breath, her nostrils flaring; her eyes are vacant, staring down at the floor, seeing nothing. “If Shelta had a son,” she says under her breath, “then that changes things. That changes everything.”
15
ZARA
THE ITCH
“The ungrateful shit needs to leave. I caught him fucking some girl in my bed on Sunday. Christ knows what they were doing but there was blood everywhere.”
I recoil from Andrew’s words, shocked that he would even say them out loud. Garrett’s cheeks turn bright red, and Waylon wobbles, damn near falling off his barstool. The three of us exchange mortified glances as we drink deep from our rocks glasses. When I’d stopped by Sarah’s apartment to collect her for our regular Tuesday late night drinking session, she’d said she had a migraine and was going to get an early night. Good thing, too, because she would have just spat her Balvenie all over the place.
Behind the bar, Henry slaps his hands down on the bar, violently shaking his head. “Jesus, Drew. Good thing the place’s closed. Half the bar would have heard that. The girl was probably on the rag or something.”
Andrew scratches at his jaw. “Don’t be stupid. They wouldn’t have been having sex if she was…you know. Menstruating.”
We all look at him now. We all raise our eyebrows. “And why not?” Henry asks.
Flustered, Andrew fidgets, loosening his tie a little. “Well. She wouldn’t be able to, would she.”
Garrett’s eyes bore into the sticky, beer-soaked tiles at his feet as if he’s wishing that they would crack, the ground would open up beneath them, and he would promptly be swallowed up, never to be seen again. Waylon frowns so deeply, the lines in his forehead look like they’ll be permanent. “You’re kidding right?” he says.
“What?”
“Why wouldn’t she be able to fuck if she was on her period?”
“Physically impossible.” Andrew’s deadpan as he says this. Sounds like he really believes it to be true.
Waylon’s howls of laughter flood the empty bar. “For real? What, you think a woman’s pussy just seals itself up for a week out of every month?”
Andrew’s never liked being made fun of. He clears his throat, his mouth working as he peers into the bottom of his glass. “Something like that.”
&
nbsp; “Then how does the blood get out?”
Andrew looks at me pleadingly. “Tell them, Zara.”
Oh god. I do not want to be part of this conversation. It’s pretty unbelievable that Drew’s so misinformed about women’s biology, though. I give him an apologetic smile, open my mouth, and—
“Oh, it’s very possible to fuck a girl when she’s on her period.”
Waylon, Garrett, and Andrew all look over my shoulder in unison, surprised by the sound of the voice that comes from one of the darkened booths to our right.
Oh…my…shitting… fuck.
That voice.
Honey, and rough whiskey, and fire, and smoke.
It can’t be, though. My ears are playing tricks on me.
My heartrate rises as I swivel around on my bar stool, peering into the booth that I had assumed was unoccupied when I arrived here thirty minutes ago and sat myself down with my friends.
Aaaaaand…
…fuck.
There he is, Mr. Green Eyes, nursing a glass of what looks like whiskey. He’s wearing a leather jacket this time, over a black button-down shirt. I can’t see his pants under the table, but I’m willing to bet they’re fashionably ripped. His focus remains straight ahead as he says, “Most women are primed to fuck at that time of the month. There’s a heat in their blood. An itch that needs scratching.” He lifts his glass to his mouth, placing the rim against his bottom lip, tilting it so that the burned caramel colored liquor inside drains into his mouth. I’m pinned to the edge of my seat.
What the fuck is he doing here?
“Shit,” Henry hisses. “I forgot about him. Hey man, this is a private conversation,” Henry calls out to him. Apologetically, he shrugs his shoulders at the rest of us. “Paid me two hundred bucks to let him sit and have a couple more drinks. Didn’t think he’d be any trouble. Arrived here five minutes before closing, sober as a judge. You guys want me to kick his ass out?”
I spin back around, heat flaring in my cheeks. Whoever he is, he shouldn’t be here right now. He has no right, and it’s no coincidence. Hitchin’s is over ten miles away from Rochester Park. This is obviously no accident.
“S’okay, Henry. He’s fine,” Andrew says. His face is beet red, probably from the embarrassment of realizing how little he knows about general biology. “Excuse me?” he calls over. “You’re more than welcome to join us if you like? It’s never fun drinking on your own at one in the morning.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why the hell would he invite him over? I scowl at Andrew, hoping to god he reads my mind and withdraws his hospitality. I can’t turn around. I’m sure the bastard already knows I’m here. I walked through the front door and sailed right past him not that long ago, after all.
There’s an amused huff of laughter from the booth behind me, and then a sliding sound, material on leather, as he presumably slides out of the booth. There’s a seat available on the other side of Andrew. The only other available seat is to my right, next to me. Please let him go around. Please let him go around. Please let him go around. I nearly die of relief when I see him out of the corner of my eye, skirting around Garrett and Waylon with his drink in his hand.
Holy shit, he really is tall. I’d temporarily misplaced that piece of information, distracted as I was by the way his mother spoke to and then summarily dismissed me the other night.
His eyes catch on mine as he takes a seat at the far end of the bar. His bone structure…fuck, it’s hard to explain. He is so hard to explain. Nothing about him makes any sense. Separately, his features would appear too delicate and feline for a man, but together their combination is somehow extraordinarily masculine. High cheekbones. Narrow nose, with the slightest of kinks at the bridge. His square jawline looks like something you’d see on an army recruitment poster. A perfect cupid’s bow forms the curve of his top lip, which is full, and the wet tip of his tongue—
Fuck!
I rip my eyes away from his face, my pulse staggering all over the place inside my chest. He knows I was staring at him. The fucker caught me red handed, or rather red eyed, but did he do what any other polite person would and pretend like he hadn’t noticed? Nope. Not even close. The fucker just licked his goddamn lips. He wasn’t too obvious about it. Not blatant enough that the other guys would think it strange when he wet his lips. But to the woman lasering in on his bitable mouth, it was obviously a very calculated move.
“I’m Andrew. This is Waylon, Garrett, and on the end there, we have the delightful Zara. Quite the knockout, huh? You don’t find that many redheads around these parts.”
Oh, no. Andrew’s taken one look at this guy, recognized that he’s attractive, and now he’s entered matchmaker mode. The guy smiles. Wolfish. Predatory. Sinful. “Yes. Zara. She does have beautiful hair, doesn’t she? Like a sunset.”
“Or a nightmare,” I fire back. Shelta’s son hums with amusement. Meanwhile, Henry looks at me like I’ve lost my fucking mind.
“What kind of comment is that? You can’t describe your hair as a nightmare.”
I treat Henry to a show of mock surprise. “Oh, really? Huh. I guess you’re right. Now that I think of it, that is really fucking weird.”
Dipping his head, the stranger tucks his chin into his chest, concealing the ghost of a smile. Next to me, I suddenly realize that Garrett’s hand is tightening and untightening around his glass, and the knuckles on both of his hands have gone white. Oh shit! Up until now, it’s totally escaped me that Garrett must recognize this interloper, too, and…fuck, he looks like he’s about to fly across the bar and start throwing punches. Waylon, who knows nothing about our experience at the Midnight Fair, or Sarah’s secret past with the visiting Roma, also looks like he wants to rip this guy’s head clean off his shoulders and toss it into the dumpsters out back.
Andrew, oblivious, sweet, naïve Andrew, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to register the tension that’s suddenly developed at the bar as he ploughs on with his conversation. “And you are?”
The jade coloring in the stranger’s eyes seems to flash as he looks askance at the man sitting next to him. “Oh, I’m nobody,” he says, grinning. Whiter than white, his teeth would be perfect but for the slightly crooked incisor next to his left canine. I can’t seem to stop myself from cataloging these tiny details about him and squirreling them away.
“I meant your name. What’s your name?” Andrew says, elbowing the guy with a wry shake of his head.
“Mmm. There’s power in a name,” Shelta’s son says. “I don’t often hand it out to strangers.”
What a weird thing to say. And after Andrew just introduced us all, giving our names to him like any normal person would. In the middle of the night, relaxed and at ease, there’s never any discomfort or animosity between the members of our little group. We’re all so at home with one another that it’s easy to forget sometimes that certain members of the group, one in particular, shouldn’t be fucked with; Waylon can be a fucking psychopath at times. He threw a guy through the tempered glass window of Hitchin’s once, for uttering something wholly unsavory about Sarah, on a rare night when we all showed up before Henry kicked the regular patrons out.
The ex-intelligence officer’s demeanor shifts, his shoulders loosening as he leans back, away from the bar. Anyone else might think he’s relaxing, getting comfortable, but that’s not the case. Far from it. He’s positioning himself so he can get up from his seat and grab hold of the guy, quicker than you can say fuck you, smartass.
There’s a chance the other man understands that’s what is happening, because he winks at Waylon. God, he must have a death wish. “You all look like trust worthy types, though,” Green Eyes muses. Slowly, his eyes travel down the line of men sitting at the bar, and then they’re on me, burning holes into my skin. A gaze like that is capable of breaking hearts—I’m all too aware of that fact, as I’m sure he is, too. The confidence; the intelligence; the arrogance, not to mention the raw, shocking beauty of so much green… Those eyes are a gift and a cu
rse, perfectly capable of mesmerizing anyone foolish enough to make contact with them. His voice is low when he speaks again—the sound of stone against stone, the lilting brogue penetrating deep down into my bones. “My name is Pasha Rivin. And I’m very pleased to meet you.”
Pasha Rivin.
Pasha.
There’s nothing normal about the astonishing creature sitting next to Andrew. Everything about him is a little larger than life. A little different. A little strange. It should come as no surprise that his name is out of the ordinary, too. The image of his lips pressing together to form the P of his own name will be forever burned into my retinas. It will be the only thing I see when I close my eyes for the foreseeable future. Fucking asshole.
That sinister, suggestive smirk catches hold and develops into a fully-fledged smile as Pasha Rivin gestures down at his glass, silently asking Henry for another drink.
“Sounds Russian,” Henry observes. “Pasha. Honestly, I thought that was a girl’s name.”
Pasha huffs down his nose. “Maybe it is. Who knows. My mother has a unique sense of humor.”
Unbidden, a scathing bark of laughter erupts out of me. “Yeah. Right.”
“You okay, sweetheart?” Andrew leans closer to the bar, toward me.
I shoot daggers at Pasha. Garrett hisses, elbowing me in the side. Hard. He doesn’t like the game Pasha is playing any more than I do. It’s time to end this charade, before Garrett takes matters into his own hands and ejects the guy from the bar. “I’ve actually had the pleasure of meeting your mother, haven’t I, Pasha? She was pretty rude. I’d go so far as to say the woman doesn’t possess a sense of humor, unique or otherwise.” I still don’t know what happened between Sarah and Shelta to have caused a thirty-five-year long rift between them, but I know my friend. I’m certain that the blame for their enmity doesn’t lie at Sarah’s feet. Shelta is a grade A bitch.
