by H L Day
I took a few hops forward. "Why?"
"You said something nice. I wasn't sure Valentin Bychkov was capable of such a feat."
"Yet, you're still helping me. What does that say about you?"
He hitched me closer as his grip started to slip. "That I'm a complete and utter masochist. I'd already worked that one out."
Our arrival at Accident and Emergency forestalled any possible response I might have given to Max's statement. He sat me down in a plastic chair, next to a man bleeding profusely from a cut on his temple. I couldn't say I'd had any experience of mixing with the general public in a British hospital. Dmitry had always paid for private medical care. Looking around at the smorgasbord of sick and injured, I couldn't quite decide whether the prospect was horrifying or fascinating.
Chapter Nine
Max
I glanced back to where I'd left Valentin, checking he was still there. He was. Not that he could get far if he tried to escape when he couldn't even walk. My mind went back to the moment he'd collapsed onstage. I hadn't seen it—having decided after the party that if I couldn't have him, I would only watch him dance when it was absolutely crucial to doing my job properly. But I'd heard the stunned silence that had descended on the theater, lifting my head to find the horrifying image of a prone Valentin lying on the stage.
I'd watched Dmitry stroll to the stage, his slow amble completely at odds with the anger on his face, as if Valentin's collapse was a personal affront to him. I didn't know what the Russian words he'd spoken were, but the cold tone they'd been delivered in had left no doubt that they were less than friendly. I'd continued to watch as Valentin had made a valiant attempt to get to his feet, only to fall again, agony etched across his face. I'd scanned the theater, waiting for someone to go to his aid, but no one had moved. Some had even left. Even the theater director had edged his way to the back of the auditorium, the furthest he could get from the stage without actually leaving.
Dmitry's final cruel words, delivered in English for maximum impact, had rung in my ears, and I'd known that anyone who might have been in two minds about helping, now wouldn't. They’d be too scared to bring the attention of Dmitry crashing down on them. For a few horrifying seconds, I'd actually considered following their lead. All I had to do was stay in the sound booth and look away. After all, it wasn't as if Valentin would thank me for rushing to his aid. In fact, he'd probably be furious. But my legs had already been moving toward the stage. Halfway there, I'd been brought to a premature halt when someone had grabbed my arm. Expecting to find a muscle-bound goon, I'd been surprised to discover that of all people it was Noel, his face a picture of concern. "Max! Leave him." I had no idea what he knew, whether the rumor mill after the party had filled him in on the fact that I'd ignored all his previous warnings or whether he was simply acting on instinct, but to be honest, I didn't care. Valentin needed me. Any repercussions could wait. So I'd shrugged Noel off and climbed onto the stage.
"Fill these in, please."
The request from the receptionist, together with the fact she was holding out a clipboard of forms that needed completing in order to get medical treatment, brought me crashing back to the here and now. I took them from her outstretched hand, offering a smile, and returned to where I'd left Valentin. The pain etched on his face hit me anew. I was used to seeing him looking haughty and superior, acting like nothing and no one could hurt him, so seeing him brought to his knees—literally—caused an overwhelming mixture of feelings that I wasn't quite ready to process.
I sat next to him and handed over the forms. "You need to fill these in. Then I'll take them back to the receptionist. I don't know how long we're going to have to wait for treatment. It depends on how many emergency cases come in."
He took the pen from my hand and started to fill it in, his handwriting a messy scribble. "And after a doctor has seen me. What then?"
"What do you mean?"
He gestured down at himself, a reminder that we'd left the theater without collecting so much as a shirt or shoes. "I can't go back to the hotel where Dmitry is. I need to... give him time to calm down. I don't have money for another hotel." His expression darkened, and he looked uncomfortable. "Can you lend me money? I hate to ask. Just for one night. It doesn't have to be anywhere fancy." He forced a smile. "I can slum it for one night. I'll work out a way to pay you back."
I stared at him aghast. "You think I'm going to dump you in some shitty hotel and leave you? You're coming home with me."
He reared back as if my announcement had carried actual physical weight, and I braced myself for the argument that I knew was on its way. "You can't do that."
I sighed. "I can. And I am. And don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't sharpen your knives and say something deliberately hurtful in order to try and convince me to get rid of you." I could tell from his expression that that was exactly what he'd been planning to do. I smiled smugly. "You're so predictable."
"Not to most people."
The admission made my smile grow wider. I leaned in, kissing his cheek, not giving a damn who might be watching. "Now, finish filling that form in, or we're not going to get out of here before midnight."
"Max?"
"Yeah?" I waited, wondering whether I was going to receive even more insight into the man who sat next to me.
"I need a cigarette."
I let out a laugh. "I'll get you one. I'll even hold you up while you smoke it. After you've filled in the form."
* * * *
The wait to see a doctor had taken nearly three hours. Once inside the examining room, the doctor had gotten Valentin to lie on his stomach while he examined the injured side from his calf down to the ankle. I sat on a plastic chair at Valentin's side while the doctor carried out a thorough examination, pressing on the muscle in various places and asking how much it hurt. Satisfied he'd seen enough, the doctor instructed him to sit up. Valentin gingerly maneuvered himself to a seated position, his legs dangling over the edge of the examination table.
"You've partially torn your Achilles tendon. I'm guessing from the extent of the inflammation that this has been an ongoing medical issue and that you were probably warned that there was a risk of this happening if you continued to dance on it."
Valentin nodded, a look of resignation on his face that was hard to swallow. If he wasn't going to stick up for himself, then I was. "It's not his fault. He was pressured into continuing to dance." I didn't know that for sure. I hadn't even known about the injury before today. But given everything else he'd told me about Dmitry, and everything I'd experienced when it came to him, it wasn't a huge leap to assume that sitting out the show had never been an option.
The doctor's face maintained a professional blankness. "I see. Well, whatever the circumstances, you now have an injury that's going to require extensive rehabilitation and may still require surgery. We need to do an MRI before I can say for certain. If the tear is not too severe, then there's a chance we can get full range of motion back without surgery. Tendons do heal on their own, but it's going to take a long period of rest and then physiotherapy."
"So he'll dance again?" It probably wasn't the wisest thing to blurt out the question like that, particularly given the way Valentin's fingers reflexively dug into his thighs.
The doctor looked up from the note he was making. "We'll know more after the MRI, but if I'm right about it being a partial tear, then there's no reason why he shouldn't as long as he's careful from this point on."
The relief on Valentin's face was palpable. "I will. I don't care what anyone else says anymore. I won't dance until my ankle is a hundred percent better."
The doctor nodded. "Stay here. Someone will be down to take you for an MRI soon, and then we'll have a chat about pain relief. One of the nurses will sort you out with crutches and a walking boot." He frowned at Valentin's bare feet. "Just the one I'm afraid. You'll have to come up with your own footwear arrangements for the other."
* * * *
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The shower turned on, and I stood for a moment, listening for any signs of difficulty. Valentin had assured me that he didn't need my help, that even on one leg, he was quite capable of taking a shower on his own.
At least the MRI had brought good news: the doctor announcing that the injury was indeed a partial tear and should heal without surgical intervention. A loud bang from the ceiling above caused me to rush to the bottom of the stairs. "Valentin? Are you okay?"
His voice sounded muffled, due to the closed bathroom door between us. "I'm fine. No need to panic. One of my crutches fell. That's all. You can stand down." He sounded amused by the fact I was so worried, but it was hard to get that image of him lying helpless on the stage out of my head. I returned to the kitchen, getting a beer out of the fridge before settling down at the kitchen table to wait.
Alone, the enormity of my actions started to sink in. I'd gone against a dangerous man's wishes. He'd wanted to see Valentin humiliated, and I'd stopped that from happening. The question was, what did that mean for me? There was no doubt in my mind that Dmitry would find out. He might not have stuck around to witness it, but there'd been plenty of people left in the auditorium to let him know, not least the two hired goons, whose job it was to report to Dmitry about all things Valentin related.
But then, he'd made it clear that he didn't care about Valentin, that he was of no more use to him. So did that mean he'd let him go? If that was the case, then maybe he wouldn't care one way or another? I could only hope. I jumped as my phone rang, my mind immediately leaping to the assumption I was about to be faced with an irate Dmitry on the other end. If Valentin had managed to get hold of my number, then it stood to reason that a man with all the connections Dmitry had could get it too. Did I answer it? Did I let it go to voicemail? I reached out, bracing myself for the screen to show an unknown number. Instead, it said Noel. I breathed a sigh of relief but didn't bother to take the call. He could wait a bit longer for an explanation. He might be a friend, but I didn't owe him anything.
The shower turned off, and then a few minutes later, there was the awkward scraping and bumping sound of Valentin maneuvering himself down the stairs one by one. I tamped down the urge to offer help again and watched the kitchen doorway, waiting for him to appear. When he did, I almost did a double take. I'd only ever seen him in full makeup and with his hair teased to perfection. Face scrubbed and with his hair still wet, lying flat against his head, he looked like a completely different person: younger and less hard-faced. He left his crutches by the door and hopped the last couple of steps to join me at the table.
He grimaced when he picked up on my scrutiny. "Sorry. You'll have to put up with me looking ugly. Unless you've got makeup I can borrow?"
I shook my head, slow to pick up on what he'd said. "You're not ugly without makeup. Far from it. Don't say that."
He shrugged. "Dmitry hated the way I looked without it. He—"
"I'm not Dmitry."
He reached across the table, curling a hand around the beer bottle. I thought he was going to take a drink, but instead he turned it around to where there was a gap in the label, pulling it closer to see how much beer was left in the bottle. "He must have done a real number on you... this man who you drink to forget."
I went still, my fingernails digging into my palms, the words far too close to the truth. "I don't know what you mean."
He smiled. "Yes, you do. You know exactly what I mean. The man who you never talk about, the man who made you vow never to have a relationship again." His gaze fastened on mine. "The man who broke your heart."
I snatched the beer out of his hand, downing the last few drops and immediately getting up for another, my heart pounding far too fast.
"What was his name?"
I spun around. "This is the thanks I get for helping you? I get hounded." My words sounded way too accusatory, not to mention defensive. I waited for him to bite back. At least then we could have an argument, and I could storm out of the room and avoid the subject. He simply arched an eyebrow and patted the seat I'd recently vacated. He waited until I was seated again, his voice much quieter than it had been before. "Have you ever spoken about him to anyone?"
The familiar mixture of feelings flooded my body: guilt, self-loathing, teenage devastation, and a good dose of shame. I shook my head. It was easier than speaking.
"Was he anything like me?"
My head jerked up, and I couldn't help the laugh that escaped. "Like you? I've never met anyone else like you."
Valentin traced invisible patterns on the tabletop with his fingertips. "Good! I was worried your interest in me was about chasing the memory of something you lost."
"It's not." I felt as if I should say more, but I was still reeling from how easily he'd been able to psychoanalyze me, and I was also struggling to come to terms with the fact that there was a tiny part of me—buried deep down inside—that wondered how I'd feel if I did tell him. Would it be like lancing a boil? Would all the bad memories finally seep out of me and disappear? Or would remembering bring everything back into sharp focus after so many years of pushing it down that I'd at least managed to give it fuzzy edges?
"If you're not going to talk to me about anything meaningful, we should play a game."
"A game?" I studied his face, trying to see through the words. He looked much better than he had earlier, the sick exhaustion of pain having given way to something lighter. "What sort of game?"
His lip quirked at the corner. "A game of choice."
"Okay... I think."
He laughed. "Don't look so worried. I think you'll find that you win either way. I'm just intrigued to find out what you'll go for." He held his hand out, palm up, his fingers retracting into a clear instruction to hand something over. "Your beer."
I grudgingly handed it over to him, my eyes never leaving his face.
He placed it on the table in front of him, leaning forward on his elbows so that his face came much closer. "Here's the choice. What would you rather have a taste of?" He gave the bottle a poke. "This beer, or"—he dragged out the pause—"my lips? You can only choose one."
I rocked back in my chair, staring at him as if he'd grown two heads. "Are you saying I can kiss you if I get rid of the beer?"
He cocked his head to one side, and I waited for him to say that he was joking or that he just wanted to see how I'd react. He said neither, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips. "I guess that's exactly what I'm saying."
I snatched up the beer bottle, noting the immediate disappointment on his face. That was until I got up and poured it down the sink. "Do I need to pour the rest of them down there as well?"
"Would you?"
"Yes." My answer was instantaneous, but even if I'd had longer to think about it, it would have remained the same.
He rested his chin on his hand, looking thoughtful. "Well, that's interesting, isn't it?"
I retook my seat at the table, reaching out to draw him even closer, my hand tangling in his hair, the strands unusually soft beneath my fingertips without the usual hairspray. I tugged him forward, our lips only inches away. "Is it?"
He shrugged. I kept expecting him to pull away. How many times had I asked him point-blank if I could kiss him, and the answer had always been no. What had changed? I sought for the right question to ask, the question which would check for consent without changing his mind. But words were jumbled in my head. There was only Valentin and Valentin's lips. Everything else had ceased to exist. Dmitry himself could have walked in, and I doubted that I'd have even registered his presence.
"Ty che, blyad, Max! What the fuck! Would it help if I said that the offer is only open for about five more seconds?"
I smiled and closed the remaining space between us, starting a gentle exploration at one corner of his mouth with just the slightest pressure. It was the complete opposite to the way sex was between the two of us, but this seemed infinitely more precious. It was strange, but I knew that Valentin offering his lips meant far
more than the day he'd stood in his dressing room, pulled down his ballet tights, and offered his ass.
My hand moved from his hair to his cheek, tilting his head to one side as I deepened the kiss. His lips parted, and I took the open invitation without a moment's hesitation, my tongue dipping inside to meet his own. I'd already known I was falling for him, but it was funny that one kiss could make that so much clearer. He was a craving. He was a need. And now I'd tasted those lips, there was no way I was letting him go. When he finally brought an end to it, our lips separating and my hand falling from his face as he sat back in his chair, I protested, not caring how desperate I came across. I stared at him, noting the lidded eyes and the flushed cheeks. My cold Russian was definitely heating up.
"What was his name?"
I closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing, and for the first time ever, I wanted to talk about it. I wanted to tell someone, or more specifically, I wanted to tell Valentin. When I opened them again, Valentin hadn't moved, his hazel eyes expressing nothing but empathy and a willingness to listen to whatever I had to say. "James. James Wentworth. He was my... teacher at school." I didn't get any more reaction than the slight lift of an eyebrow. "He was fifteen years older than me."
"How old were you when it started?"
Valentin had an unerring knack of getting right to the heart of a situation. I had no idea how he did it. It was as if he could read minds. I shifted restlessly. "Do you want a cup of tea?" I didn't want one myself, but if I was going to talk about things I'd kept locked up inside me for years, then it seemed as if it would be far easier if I busied myself with doing something else.
Valentin nodded, and I climbed to my feet, filling the kettle with water, and turning my back to him. "Milk and sugar?"
"Yes. Both. One sugar."
I got two mugs out of the cupboard, my fingers itching to reach for a beer instead, but the kiss still lingered on my lips, and I'd made my choice. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the kettle boiling. I clenched my fists on the countertop, watching the steam as it rose from the kettle. "As far as I know, people think it started when I was sixteen. It was a huge scandal. He lost his job because, although I was legally old enough, I was still a student, and he was still my teacher."
