by Holly Bargo
Eventually, he was seated by the restaurant owner who served as host. He slung his jacket over the back of the other chair to bask in the soft air of a warm evening. Two pimply faced young men raced from kitchen to dining room to patio, waiting tables. He looked over the menu and could not help but smile a little. Buried in the mostly Tex-Mex items were two of Cecily’s Cleveland specialties: blini and pelmeni. Both were served with Russian salad. Looking around the other tables, he noticed that several diners liked that deviation from the pervasive Tex-Mex food options in San Antonio.
In due time, he placed his order: asado de puerco. Tomorrow, he thought, he would sample the barbeque that San Antonio offered. Tonight, he dined with a Mexican flair. A brown-haired, pimply-faced waiter brought his meal and a cold beer with a wedge of lime. Pyotr thanked him and looked at his food. The presentation, he thought, wasn’t quite up to Cecily’s usual standard. He took knife and fork to the meat and found it tender enough not to need the knife. Putting a morsel in his mouth, he enjoyed the flavors that exploded on his tongue. Perhaps the presentation wasn’t up to Cecily’s usual standard, but the food itself most certainly soared over that high bar.
Replete, Pyotr watched the waiter clear away his dishes. “I wish to speak to the chef,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” the waiter responded and hurried away, narrow shoulders bowing beneath the weight of a tray laden with heavy plates and glasses.
A few minutes later, an old man bellied up to his table and asked, “I understand you wished to speak with me? Was your meal satisfactory?”
“The food was excellent. I asked to speak with the chef.”
“I am Javier de la Vieda. I am owner of this establishment.”
“But you are not the chef,” Pyotr said in a quiet voice. “I wish to speak with Cecily.”
The old man’s smile turned into a scowl. “If you are trying to steal my chef for your own restaurant, then leave now. She is my discovery.”
“Actually, I discovered her back in Cleveland,” the big blonde man with the icy blue eyes corrected.
Javier’s eyes narrowed. “Are you what she ran away from?”
Pyotr rested a scarred hand on the table and rolled up a sleeve. The movement was calculated to appear casual; however, the old man was not deceived. He recognized the tattoos for what they were and understood the implicit threat of violence in their reveal. Though his complexion had turned ashen, the old man held his ground.
“My chef is under my protection, señor.”
“I have no intention of hurting your chef,” Pyotr said as he rolled up the other sleeve, baring the colorful tattoos decorating that forearm. “I merely wish to speak with her.”
“You will coerce her to leave.”
“I will not coerce her to do anything.” He spread his big hands on the table, then clenched them. “But I may do some damage to this property if you do not allow me to speak to her.”
Javier’s shoulders sagged. “Promise me you will not hurt her.”
“I will not hurt her. You have my word on it.”
The old man nodded and trudged back to the kitchen where Cecily had set her new assistant to sautéing onions and peppers.
“Cecily, there is a customer who insists upon speaking with you.”
Cecily frowned. “Javier, I’m far too busy here to spend time making nice to a customer.”
“I’m afraid he insists.”
She huffed and wiped her hands on a towel. “Oh, all right. Let’s make this quick or the paella will burn.”
She followed Javier outside, blinking as her eyes adjusted from the bright kitchen to the dim dining area. She stumbled, recognizing the big, burly figure sitting at a table toward which her boss walked.
“No, oh, no,” she murmured and forced herself to continue walking. When she reached the diner’s table, she faced the man of her every fantasy and fantastic memory and force her mouth to speak: “Hello, Pyotr.”
“Cecily,” he said, jutting his chin at her boss. The old man moved away. “It took a while to find you.”
“I’m not going back,” she said, figuring that she might as well get it over with.
“I didn’t ask you,” he retorted, stung by her cold tone. He looked around and mustered another dose of patience. “Why are you cooking in a dump like this?”
“I’m doing what I need to do. Why are you here, Pyotr?”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“Don’t give me that.”
“I wish to speak with you in private. What time do you get off work?”
“The kitchen closes at ten.”
“That doesn’t tell me what time you get off work.”
“Pyotr, let’s not drag this out” Cecily noticed that they’d attracted the patrons’ attention, particularly those who were waiting for their suppers. “I don’t want to have this conversation in public. Or at all, really.”
“Then I’ll get to the point,” Pyotr said, every syllable clipped. He pulled out the velveteen box from his pocket and dropped to his knee on the floor. “Cecily, will you marry me?”
“Say yes!” an eavesdropping patron shouted.
Soon other patrons were adding their encouragement. Cecily’s cheeks burned with embarrassment.
“Honey, if you don’t want that man in your bed, then I certainly do!” a woman’s brassy voice called above the general clamor.
“Yes,” Cecily finally said, telling herself it was just to shut everyone up and to avoid humiliating Pyotr.
He rose to his feet, took her hand, and slid the ring over her finger. Pulling her against him, he whispered into her ear, “Tonight I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk.”
Cecily gasped even as the crude promise zinged through her body and made her blood sizzle. No, she told herself, it was anger that made her blood sizzle. She leaned her head back and opened her mouth to chide him, but he lowered his lips to hers before she could say anything. Hoots and applause accompanied the kiss.
“This isn’t over,” she muttered when the kiss ended.
“No, it’s not. The next time I kiss you, I’ll be tearing your clothes off. And then I’ll be buried so far inside you that you won’t know where I end and you begin.”
“Pig.”
“You love it and you love me.”
God help her, she did. Her cheeks burned as she finally admitted to herself that she did love him. But, feeling angry and embarrassed, she refused to admit it to him. Fuming, Cecily returned to her kitchen, ignoring the applause that followed her.
“What’s going on?” her assistant inquired as he deftly sautéed asparagus spears in butter and lemon.
“My ex-boyfriend is here. How far behind are you, Jimmy?” She quickly slipped off the lovely ring and dropped it into her pocket to keep it clean. She looked at an order ticket and grabbed two filets of flounder. She quickly dredged the delicate flesh in seasoned flour and set them in a hot skillet.
“Not too far.” He transferred the asparagus to a plate, wiped the edge of the plate clean, and carried the plate over to the counter for a waiter to deliver. “Service!” He looked at the ticket Cecily worked on and got started sautéing another two servings of asparagus.
“So why would your boyfriend’s arrival be cause for clapping?”
She huffed, disgruntled at the deliberate drop of the “ex” part, and mumbled, “He proposed to me.”
“He what?”
“He proposed to me. In front of everybody.” She shook her head and removed the fish from the skillet. She slid the plates toward Jimmy who was just about ready to plate the asparagus and finish the orders each with a dollop of pico de gallo. “I had to say yes, so as not to embarrass him.”
“Wow, that’s just... wow.”
“Yeah, I know.” She moved on to the next ticket, hand reaching automatically for the necessary ingredients and implements.
“What are you going to do?” Jimmy slid the plates to the counter and called, “Service!”
“I don’t know. I left him to come here. I don’t want to go back to Cleveland where he lives.”
“So, tell him that.”
She laughed, but the short-lived sound was bitter. “You don’t just tell Pyotr Idaklyka no.”
Jimmy looked at her, his expression alarmed. “He won’t hit you, will he?”
She had the grace to blush. Or maybe it was the heat radiating from the cooktop. “No, Pyotr won’t hit me. He’ll just... convince me that I want what he wants.”
Jimmy chuckled at the idea of the full-figured beauty who ran her kitchen like a military general being convinced by anyone. He felt his own body react and coughed self-consciously. But Cecily paid him no attention, her focus instead directed on the entrees she was preparing.
They settled back into the fast-paced rhythm of a commercial kitchen until the last order was carried out. Cecily switched off the gas burners and leaned against a countertop. She used a somewhat clean corner of her apron to wipe her sweating forehead.
“God, what a night.”
Jimmy grinned at her and wiped his forearm across his own perspiring brow. “It just keeps getting busier. We barely kept up with the orders.”
“Javier’s going to have to hire more kitchen help. I’m dead on my feet.”
“Yeah. And we still have to clean up.”
“Ugh.”
With weary dedication, they bent their energies to cleaning every surface, every plate, cup, and bowl, every fork, knife, and spoon, and every pot, pan, and spatula. Jimmy hauled a loaded trash bag out to the Dumpster in the alley. When he returned, he stumbled over his own feet.
A big man—a really big man—had Cecily crushed to him and was kissing her senseless. Who was this guy? Thor? He looked like he could star in a comic book.
The Nordic god made flesh apparently realized he and Cecily were no longer alone. He ended the kiss, keeping Cecily’s head tucked against him.
“Who are you, little man?”
Cecily’s hand smacked the big, big man on his broad, superhero chest as she turned her head to see who had entered the kitchen. “Stand down, Pyotr. It’s Jimmy, my assistant.”
Thor’s eyebrows lowered and the icy blue eyes glared at him. “He wants you,” he growled.
“Don’t be stupid, Pyotr. What he wants is to go home and get a good night’s rest.” She tilted her head back. “And I want the same thing. I’m exhausted.”
“Then I take you home.” His lips peeled back from his teeth in an expression that Jimmy did not misinterpret. “And I make sure you sleep.”
Jimmy understood that Pyotr-who-looked-like-comic-book-Thor wasn’t asking. He untied his apron and tossed it into the hamper where the waiters tossed soiled napkins and tablecloths. Javier had hired a laundry service to take care of cleaning and folding them.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Cecily,” he said and made his escape before her ex-boyfriend—who apparently didn’t grasp the concept of “ex”—decided that he was a threat to his woman. Jimmy readily acknowledged that he was no alpha male, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t recognize one. He also didn’t miss the tattoos that peeked from beneath the cuffs of his linen jacket.
“See you later, Jimmy,” she called after him.
Pyotr shifted his hold on her so that he could propel her forward. “Let’s go,” he said.
“Have you found out where I live?” she asked as she locked the door.
“Nyet.”
“Then quit pushing me, you big oaf. I know where I’m going; you don’t.”
The pressure of his hand against her lower back immediately decreased, but he did not move his hand. Cecily knew the presence of his hand was as much reassurance for her as it was a declaration of possession for him.
“Why did you leave me, Cecily?” he asked, his voice pitched low so as not to carry. “I love you, you know that.”
“I don’t want to discuss this in public.”
“You don’t want to discuss this at all.”
“No, I don’t,” she agreed and kept on walking, her feet protesting every step.
“You must be going in the wrong direction,” Pyotr said as the neighborhood rapidly deteriorated.
“No, I’m not.”
“I will not allow you to live in such a place.”
She looked around and snorted. “That’s good, because I don’t live in this neighborhood.”
“Khorosho.”
She snorted again. There was nothing “good” about where she lived. And she hadn’t had an opportunity to discuss raising her wages. The lapse annoyed her.
“This is unacceptable,” Pyotr murmured when they finally stopped in front of her apartment building.
“It’s all I can afford right now.”
“You will be my wife and live where it is safe.”
“Take that uppity attitude with me and I’ll boot your carcass out of here,” she threatened, though both of them knew that she lacked the sheer brawn to boot him anywhere he did not wish to go.
“Do not tell me you like living here.”
“Of course not. Like I said, I can’t afford anywhere else.”
“Where does that Jimmy live?”
“He lives with his mother and maintains the house and yard for her.”
The climbed the stairs, which creaked alarmingly beneath Pyotr’s feet. He wrinkled his nose at the revolting odors. Cecily didn’t blame him.
“Hey, blondie, you sellin’ it now?” the creepy neighbor next door asked as he emerged from his dilapidated doorway. He grabbed his crotch suggestively. “You want money or trade?”
Without saying a word, Pyotr swiveled on his heel and drove his fist into the man’s face. Cecily winced at the wet crunch of cartilage and man’s cry of pain. Pyotr followed that blow with a rapid second that sent the man to the filthy floor. He spat on his target, turned to Cecily, and growled, “Get your things. We’re leaving this der'mo otverstiye.”
She wasn’t sure what those last two words were, but from the way he spat them out, she knew they weren’t complimentary. Having never seen him so furious, she nodded and quickly unlocked her door. He followed her inside and took a defensive position. There’d be no sneaking out the door for her.
“I need a shower,” she said.
“Not here. Get your clothes.”
Her eyes widened at his rough tone and she wondered if he might use that formidable strength and brutality against her.
“Pyotr, I live here now.”
“No more. Is not safe.”
His accent thickened and he dropped words. If nothing else told her that his emotions ran high, that did. Yet, she did not comply.
“One minute or I take you out as you are.” His tone brooked no defiance.
“Pyotr.”
He growled.
“Pyotr, you can’t order me around like this.”
His fists clenched. “Thirty seconds.”
Feeling a trickle of fear, she muttered, “Fine.” She tore through the small apartment, grabbing a change of clothes for the next day, her comb, and toothbrush.
“Happy now?” she sneered as she dumped everything into a plastic shopping bag.
“No, but will do for now.”
And then shots rang out, the crack of bullets fired reverberating through the open window. It hit the cracked plaster wall with a lough thwack. Cecily flinched.
“Do you want to live here?” he demanded incredulously.
“No, I don’t want to live here. I was going to ask Javier for a raise, but you kind of sidetracked me, you big ape.” She balled her hand and struck. He caught her fist with his wide palm and stopped the blow before it could connect. “Why can’t you just let me go?” she snapped.
“Because you are mine and I am yours,” he answered simply. Then he added, “Try to strike me again and I’ll fuck you where we stand.”
Cecily could not help but glance down. Sure enough, the front of his pants strained across the huge bulge of his passion. She felt her own body heat as
her panties turned wet.
“Let’s go,” she said in a dull, tired voice.
He nodded, wrapped a hand around her waist, and led the way. He shielded her with his body as they passed drug users and dealers and whores and other people like herself who were simply poor. She contemplated for about two seconds testing his resolve by punching him again and discarded that stupid idea. Pyotr never made a promise he did not keep and the ground here was littered with used syringes, broken glass, trash, and other nasty things. Pyotr would make sure that her skin never touched the filth on the ground, but she didn’t want her clothing to do so either.
They walked a few blocks. Cecily’s feet screamed for relief. She stumbled over a crack in the concrete sidewalk.
“Do not move,” Pyotr ordered, the timbre of his voice making clear that he was still very angry.
Cecily stopped in her tracks and did no more than contemplate for a split second the option of bolting. But she was no runner, never had been. Pyotr would catch her before she’d taken three steps, she was sure. And her escape attempt would only enrage him further. She was sure he wouldn’t strike her, but he wouldn’t necessarily avoid acting in an illegal manner to ensure her obedience. As much as her hormones might cheer at the concept of being chained to his bed, she didn’t want to risk the actuality of that fate.
Pyotr pulled out his cell phone, quickly found a taxi service, and called for a pickup. As soon as the phone returned to his pocket, he wrapped his arm around Cecily and pulled her close against him.
“Pyotr, I’m dirty and sweaty,” she protested.
“Don’t care.”
She sighed in defeat and refused to admit that she liked being held close like that. She missed the way his bulk made her feel dainty and protected.
They waited in silence until the cab pulled up. The car window rolled down and, from the safety of his seat, the nervous driver called out, “Did you call for a cab?”
“Da,” Pyotr replied with a sharp nod.
“Door’s unlocked. Hop in.”
Pyotr opened the door to the back seat and gave Cecily a little push. She climbed in and her feet ached when she sat. Pyotr slid onto the sat next to her. Again, he wrapped his arm around her and held her close.
