Stone Cold Knockout

by Lavender Parker

  She wanted him to let her in.

  Then her roaming fingers found a small, circular, raised scar on his shoulder. Her brow furrowed as she sat up to get a better look. The scar was hidden under a tattoo of a lion, but it was there. She pushed her hair out of her face and leaned close. Sure enough, it was what she thought.

  “You've been shot?” she said, eyes wide. An old gunshot wound. How the fuck had she not noticed before? She ran her hand between his shoulder and the mattress, looking for an exit wound. She didn't find one and he didn't answer. “Who shot you?” she asked, hearing an undercurrent of hysteria in her voice.

  “I do not know.” He folded his arms under his head and sighed, like the subject bored him. But Gennifer couldn't let it go that easily, as much as she might have wanted to.

  “Why did they shoot you?”

  “I was trying to steal a car.” He shrugged, his eyes guarded. “It was the '90s, shit was crazy in Saint Petersburg.”

  “Shit was crazy,” she mimicked him, not knowing what else to say. His blasé attitude pissed her off, but she realized he didn't understand her reaction.

  “Does it scare you?” he asked, giving a slow blink.

  “No.” She gave a derisive snort. “I grew up in the South Bronx. Gunshots were a part of everyday life.” She felt her heartbeats speeding up, her skin flushing. She wet her lips, anxious energy firing through her. She knew her anxiety had nothing to do with him, but he probably thought she was nuts.

  She felt sick suddenly and her head began to pound. She climbed off of him. Mikhail didn't move next to her, seeming to sense that she needed space. She stood and grabbed the sheet, wrapping it around herself. She felt the confession bursting to be let out. Her deepest, darkest secret. The worst day of her life. She never had any intention of talking about it with anyone ever again, but here she was, next to the one person in the world she didn't want to look weak in front of, the words rising in her throat like bile.

  Gennifer turned her back on him and walked into the next room. The vodka beckoned from the counter and she uncorked the bottle and poured a bit into a glass.

  “I do not understand what is happening,” he said from behind her. She lifted the glass to her lips, but didn't drink.

  “Nothing is happening,” she said, setting the glass back on the counter. She turned around to face him, Elvis's voice ringing in her ears. Mikhail leaned against the doorjamb, as relaxed as she was tense. “Can you turn that off?” She ran her hands through her hair, unconsciously searching for the spot at the base of her scalp. It tingled and itched. Mikhail strolled over to the record player, and with a needle scratch, the music stopped.

  “Explain.” He turned back to her.

  “Come have a drink with me,” Gennifer said, knowing he wouldn't refuse the vodka. Sure enough, he took her up on her offer, and suddenly, he was too close. She bit her tongue, holding out the glass to him. He took it, but set it back on the counter, his serious gaze trapping her. He was trying to figure her out, she realized. Whether or not he would succeed was up to her. She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

  “Say what you want to say,” he said, his voice low. She almost laughed. She'd had to basically fight him earlier for any personal information and he expected her to dump her life story on him?

  “I think you're right. The vodka is growing on me,” she said, downing the glass in one gulp.

  “You are scared,” he said.

  “I'm not scared,” Gennifer said, feeling a scowl tighten her face.

  “You do not have to be,” he said. “I was not a good criminal. I quit when I figured that out. I am not a danger to you.”

  “Oh, you are dangerous,” she said, shaking her head and laughing mirthlessly.

  “Gennifer,” he said, dropping his hands to her hips and pulling her toward him. “What is it you want to say?”

  “There's nothing to say.”

  “I answered your questions—”

  “Barely!” she exclaimed.

  “I answered your questions,” he repeated. “Now answer mine.” Gennifer shrugged, forcing her mouth into a thin line. He didn't want to know. Nobody really wanted to know her sob story.

  “Drink your vodka,” she said, stepping out of his grasp and turned her back on him. She wandered back over to the records, thumbing through them. “How did it feel when you got shot?” she asked.

  “I do not remember the pain but I remember the blood.” he said, and she heard the clink of the glass on the counter as he set it back down. “My brother took me to hospital and they fix me up. Good as new.”

  “Then you learned to box and lived happily ever after,” Gennifer said, drumming her fingers on the spines of the records. He was silent behind her, and she couldn't resist the urge to glance back over her shoulder at him. He was staring at her, as stubborn as she was. He wouldn't let it go. He honestly wanted to know. It warmed her a little to think that he cared. She liked Mikhail, she realized. She liked him a lot. She didn't want to ruin whatever it was they had, but the story was itching to come out. She crossed her arms over her chest and took a deep breath, steeling her spine against the awful words she was about to say.

  “When I was twelve, my father shot my mother and then he shot me.” she said, slowly and shakily, so that he could understand. She didn't want to have to repeat herself. Mikhail hid his surprise well, barely blinking. “The bullet entered here.” She ran her hand up the back of her head again and again, tracing the familiar bump where her own gunshot scar was. She traced her finger down to the small matching scar under her chin. “Part of it exited here. There's still a fragment. It was lodged near my spine, so they didn't take it out.” She found the sharp piece, in the soft tissue against the left side of her jaw. She pressed her finger against it. “It's moved, you can feel it.”

  “Solnyshka,” he murmured, but she shook her head, silencing him. She didn't want to hear the pity in his voice.

  “Mama died instantly. When I woke up, bits of her brain...were in my hair,” she continued, taking a deep breath before fingering through the records again. She picked one out and stared down at the cover, not registering what it said. “Then my father killed himself. He saw that I was alive and he did it anyway. He pulled the trigger, right in front of me.” She finally got the last of it out, all of the horrible incident that, for so long, she'd been trying to pretend never happened. Her parents had died violent deaths, and she was supposed to die along with them. But she'd lived, lived with the all the guilt and hate and anger and denial. And now, after having such a good time with Mikhail, she had ruined it all.

  The facade of carefree normalcy was gone forever.

  “Now I know why you are so angry,” he said, his voice close behind her. She jumped as he snaked his arms around her waist and pulled her back against his chest.

  “I'm not angry.” Gennifer heard the dead tone of her voice, a product of years of repressing her emotions, but at least she hadn't cried. She was mortified enough as it was.

  “You are angry. I see it when you fight.”'

  “Do you feel sorry for me?” she asked, staring at a spot on the white wall.

  “The world is a cruel place. Sometimes you are lucky, sometimes you are not. Sometimes you are both.”

  “How can you be lucky and unlucky?”

  “You did not die, but you are orphan. Lucky and unlucky.”

  Gennifer turned in his arms and stared up at him. She expected awkward silences, pitying looks, and obligatory condolences when she spoke about her childhood. But Mikhail offered none of those. She supposed he'd had a hard life as well. He knew what it was like to pick yourself up and go on. Maybe he knew what it was like to have to say goodbye to a part of himself, too. He dragged his gaze from her lips to her eyes and she saw understanding in his face. How strange. She wasn't used to it. Her chest relaxed a bit and she felt like she could breathe a little easier.

  “Remember when I said we never talk?” she said, running a shaky hand through her
curly mess of hair. She had long since sweated out her smooth, straightened strands. “I think we've done enough talking for awhile.”

  “I do not mind.” He kissed her nose, then her cheek, his lips soft in contrast to his hard eyes. “When it is you doing the talking.” She smiled, her throat still thick but loosening up. She took a deep breath, running a knuckle under her eye. She must look a hot mess; her makeup was probably all over her face by now.

  “I will get you my shirt to sleep in. Then I will hold you and make you feel better,” he said, so earnest he earned another smile from her. Too bad she was mortified, otherwise she might have been charmed enough to stay.

  “I'm going to go.” Gennifer tied her hair back in a knot, avoiding his eyes. She looked around on the floor for her dress instead. She spied it near the edge of the wool carpet. “I can still catch the train.” She'd left her thong in the bedroom, but she had a fresh pair in her bag, so no biggie. She tried to step around him, but he caught her around the waist and spun her around, pressing her back against the wall. She didn't struggle against him, realizing as soon as soon as their bodies touched that she was craving his warmth and comfort more than anything. Their bodies seemed to melt together, and just like that, she was falling again.

  “No,” he said, simply. “Stay.”

  Chapter 11

  “That is a lot of beets.” Gennifer said, sitting cross-legged on the floor, in one of Mikhail's long white tank tops. He chuckled at her as she picked through the venegret salad.

  “Beets, cabbage and herring,” he said. “Extremely nutritious.”

  “Yum.” She took a bite, having the good sense not to wince at the flavor. Takeout containers from his restaurant surrounded them. She'd wagged her finger at him, when he showed her the food.

  “I ordered everything so you could try everything,” he'd said, and she smiled. The argument at the restaurant had long been forgotten and they attacked the food like they hadn't eaten in weeks. He had a feeling that Russian food was never going to be high on her list of favorites, but he liked watching her eat. He liked that her face, now scrubbed clean of makeup, was bemused and calm. The bombshell she'd dropped on him was not forgotten, however. It hung between them like a rain cloud, threatening to drown them at any minute.

  “You must learn Russian recipes so you can cook for me,” he said, with a straight face. She narrowed her eyes at him then laughed.

  “I need to show you what real food is,” she took another bite. “Maria makes the most amazing tamales. And I can fry up some plantains like it's no one's business.”

  “I want to see you in my kitchen. I do not care what you make.” He smiled wryly.

  “You are hilarious.” She pointed at the container of mushroom pirozhki. “You run a restaurant, right? You are probably a better cook than I am. Hand me those.”

  “My brother Vadim is the chef.” He passed her the container. “I am merely the investor.”

  “Thanks.” She nibbled at one of the dumplings. “You said you made good investments.”

  “That is right.”

  “So, your brother Vadim lives here in New York? And Igor lives in Russia?” She avoided his eye, picking at the food. She was prying and she knew it. He didn't answer her, just downed a gulp of vodka. “Did you grow up in Saint Petersburg?” After awhile, he spoke, treading carefully.

  “We grew up outside of the city. After my father died, my mother could not control three boys. We messed around, got into trouble. Then I discovered boxing at eighteen. The discipline of the sport saved me,” he said.

  “Is Igor better than you?” She smiled mischievously at him. “Is that why you don't get along?”

  “No, he is not better than me.” He shook his head. “I do not like talking about him.” She shrugged and chewed a bite slowly, no more questions escaping her lips. He hated lying to her, especially after she had opened herself to him so completely. But it could not be helped. They ate in silence for a moment, as the King serenaded them. The longer Elvis crooned, the harder Gennifer rolled her eyes.

  “Ugh!” she cried out after a moment. “I'm turning this off.”

  “Do not touch it,” he said, dropping his voice low and dangerous. She cocked her eyebrow, taking his words as a challenge like he knew she would. She jumped up, heading for the record player. And he followed her, careful to sidestep the food. He got her around the waist and she screamed, her hair flying in his face. She wriggled against him, her tits practically bursting out of the loose tank top he'd given her to wear. He slammed her down on the couch and followed her down, bracing himself so he didn't drop his full weight on her. She squirmed under him until he was comfortably situated between her legs. Viva Las Vegas began playing as they stared at each other, breathing heavy. He could feel her heart beating against his chest.

  “You have terrible taste in music,” she said.

  “You have terrible taste in food,” he replied. “We are even.” She laughed and rubbed her cheek against his, an intimate gesture that got his cock hard and his balls tight. She wrapped her arms around his neck, the laughter fading from her eyes. His stomach dropped, almost dreading what she was going to say. He knew that something between them had changed, but he didn't want to ruin what they had, whatever it was. She had bared her soul to him, but he was not ready to return the favor. He knew eventually she would ask him to do just that, and he had no fucking idea how to avoid it and still keep her.

  “Mikhail,” she whispered.

  “What, solnyshka?”

  “How do you say 'kiss me' in Russian?”

  “Potseluy menya,” he said. She repeated his words, whispering against his skin. He jerked against her, the Russian words on her lips turning him on. “Your accent is awful,” he said, his voice strained.

  “We'll have to work on it,” she replied, lust clouding her eyes. He nodded, then stripped her naked and fucked her, slow and soft. He took care of her, prolonging her pleasure as long as possible, and when she cried out, he took it all. Much later, side by side on the couch, she slept and he watched her. Her dark eyelashes rested against her cheek. He ran his palm up her hip, down the curve of her waist, and up her ribcage. Her head rested on his arm, her chin tilted just enough that he could see the small scar there. He found it with his fingertip. It did not look like much, but the wound could have easily been fatal. His Gennifer was lucky, whether she thought so or not. He pressed a kiss to her chin, wishing he could take away all of her pain. But the pain was what made his Gennifer into the woman she was. The woman who had slowly slipped under his skin and into his soul. If he wasn't careful, he knew he was going to fall in love with her.

  What a foreign concept.

  Later, when he finally fell into a fitful sleep, he found himself back in his old gym in St. Petersburg. The battered ring loomed big in the middle of the gray cement room. It looked bigger than he remembered. The vast building was empty and cold, but he soon realized he was not alone. He saw Gennifer, lying in the ring flat on her back, in a pool of blood. He pulled himself up on the ropes, screaming her name, but no sound came out of his mouth. When he finally reached her, he dropped to his knees beside her. One of her eye sockets was an empty hole, deep and dark. Her other eye stared up at him, unseeing and blank, the life gone. He shook her, trying to wake her, but she wouldn't come back to him. When he looked down at his hands there was her eyeball, crushed in his palm, the veins long and stringy.

  He woke up drenched in sweat, shaking. Gennifer still slept beside him on the couch, her beautiful face untouched and serene. He pulled her into his arms, yanking the wool throw blanket off the back of the couch and covering them with it. He buried his face in her neck, holding her tight until his heartbeat returned to normal.

  ***

  “Are you scared?”

  “No,” Mikhail said, his face to the window.

  “Right. Russian never scared,” Gennifer said, in her best impression of his strong accent.

  “Never,” he deadpanned, his jaw workin
g as he chewed his gum. She rolled her eyes as they zipped up the West-Side Highway toward Big J's brownstone in Washington Heights. The wind whipped her hair around on the perfect sunny summer afternoon and she couldn't resist a beaming smile. It was hard to be tough on such a beautiful day. It was hard to be tough when Mikhail's hand was on her thigh and his fingers were roaming. It was hard to be tough when she was heading to her favorite place in the world, to see her favorite people in the world, and to eat her favorite food in the world.

  The only thing worth worrying over was the fact that Mikhail was going to meet her family for the first time.

  Well, he'd met most of them already. But not as her... well, whatever he was. Not her boyfriend, surely. But something close.

  Something close, she mused, as she glanced over at him. It was strange to see him in clothes other than sweats and workout gear, but it was undeniable that the man knew how to dress. In designer jeans, a tailored shirt and expensive leather boots, he looked every inch a fashion-conscious European. And he smelled good too, his light cologne just the right mix of spicy and manly. She almost laughed to herself when she thought about what Maria was going to say when he walked in. She had no doubt her mamacita would go gaga over him. Maria loved a well-dressed man. She reached over and stroked his smooth, freshly shaved cheek, not able to resist. He caught her hand and pressed her knuckles to his lips, so smoothly it sent a little shiver of longing through her.

  Definitely something close to a boyfriend.

  She took the exit at 178th street, screeching to a stop in the bumper to bumper traffic as soon as she left the highway. Bumping Reggaeton music all around her let her know she was home. The streets were full of her people, the old ones still decked out in church finery and the younger ones in their stylish street clothes.