by J. A. Rock
“Me too.” Patrick shifted. Placed a hand on Ilia’s forehead again. Ilia flinched, then leaned into the touch.
“Everything I’ve done is horrible. I can’t do what he says. I can’t fucking kill my father. And I don’t want to hurt you anymore. I want to die, but I don’t want it to hurt. He’s gonna keep h-hurting me. He mi-might kill me, but it’ll be slow.” He gulped several more times, but couldn’t get rid of the feeling that he was choking. “And you. He hurts you, and I…I…it’s my f-fault, all of this.”
“Shhh,” Patrick said. “This is his fault. And I won’t let him keep hurting you. Or me.”
Ilia almost laughed. What was skinny, shy Patrick going to do to stop Nick? But he appreciated the sentiment anyway.
“I need your help, though,” Patrick said. “Okay?”
Ilia stilled. Together. They’d die together, then.
Nick would win. The question was how quickly. If Ilia stayed on Nick’s side, maybe he’d live a while longer. Maybe death wouldn’t hurt so much.
But on Patrick’s side…
He’d lose. And he would suffer. And he’d watch Patrick suffer too.
But at least he wouldn’t die a coward, warped into something he’d never wanted to be. And there was something enthralling about Patrick’s quiet determination. About the way he really seemed to believe they could do this.
If he sided with Patrick, at least Mikhail wouldn’t be ashamed of him.
Ilia nodded. “Okay.”
Patrick gave him a soft, sad smile. Massaged Ilia’s temple. “Good.”
“Couldn’t be a victim,” Ilia tried to explain again. “Have to—become something else. Can’t cry. Can’t care. Have to be stronger.”
Patrick’s touch remained gentle, steady. Ilia drew his first full breath since waking, and sighed it out.
“And in doing that,” Patrick murmured, “don’t you think you’re more his victim than if you cried? If you begged him to let you go? If you destroy what, uh, what makes you human…he wins. Right?”
“I don’t know!” Tears slid down Ilia’s face again. “’M not human.”
“Stop,” Patrick said firmly. “Whatever he’s done to you, you’re not gone, okay? You’re not lost.”
“Was bad even before this. Fucking awful person.”
“Mm. Did you ever kill anyone?”
“No! I swear.” I watched Nick kill. Didn’t stop him. “But I was s-so selfish.”
Patrick pushed his fingers through Ilia’s hair. “You’re okay. We’re okay. And we’re going to get out of here.”
Such a foolish thought, but Ilia wanted to believe it.
“You think you can stand?” Patrick asked. “Want to go to the bathroom and get cleaned up?”
Ilia felt a sick with shame as he became aware again of the damp sheet underneath him. But he nodded.
Patrick peeled back the covers and helped Ilia up. Didn’t comment on the mess, just pulled the top sheet over it and led Ilia to the door.
Nick was at the kitchen table and called as they made their way to the bathroom, “What’re you doing?”
“Helping Ilia to the bathroom,” Patrick replied calmly. “Then I’ll make dinner.”
Nick didn’t say anything. Ilia wondered how the fuck Patrick did it. Talked to Nick like that, told him how it was going to be, when only a few hours before Nick had threatened to smash all of Patrick’s joints with a hammer.
Patrick was braver than he looked.
Maybe siding with him wasn’t a lost cause after all.
II
Ilia barely tasted dinner, though Nick certainly seemed to enjoy it. Patrick had made some kind of a pasta thing. Ilia picked at it and tried not to look at Nick.
Difficult, when he could feel Nick’s gaze on him constantly.
“You two are getting along better,” Nick remarked, reaching for his glass of water. He took a sip. Water dribbled down his chin and onto his plate.
Neither Ilia nor Patrick responded.
Patrick had somehow managed to change the sheets on the bed. It was freshly made when Ilia had returned to the bedroom after his shower. He’d smelled garlic and onions cooking in the kitchen, and for a second, it had been as if Mikhail was in the apartment. Ilia might have wrapped the towel around his waist and gone out to the kitchen. Kissed Mikhail by the stove and rubbed against him until the towel dropped to the floor and he stood there naked in the heat.
I’m sorry, he promised Mikhail now. I’ll do better. I’m ready to be strong. In the right way.
No answer except the quickened beating of Ilia’s heart.
Nick pointed a forkful of food at Patrick, then stuck the fork in his mouth and scraped the food slowly off it. Chewed for a moment. “Wasn’t it nice of your friend Ilia to come to your rescue, when he thought you were—” Nick swallowed. “—in trouble?”
Patrick nodded at Nick’s plate. “Do you like it?”
Nick stared at him, forehead creasing. Lips turned down, a small muscle working in his jaw. He speared another forkful. “Yeah, I like it.”
“My mother’s recipe,” Patrick said.
Dinner continued.
III
“Patrick,” Nick said. “You know Ilia has to be punished.”
Patrick made a noncommittal noise.
Ilia was in bed. He’d been trying to doze, but had snapped awake when he’d sensed Nick in the doorway.
“His behavior cannot stand. I need someone I can trust to kill Louis Porter. Ilie—” Nick looked at Ilia. “I did trust you. You were getting stronger. But now…”
Ilia tensed. Don’t panic.
Two of us. One of him.
“Patrick, I will ask you to decide on Ilia’s punishment. I will return in ten minutes. I trust you will make it good, but just in case you have a mind to go easy on him, if I find your idea unsatisfactory, I will come up with one of my own. For both of you.”
“All right,” Patrick said.
“And please, keep in mind that Ilia must be physically sound enough to carry out his mission. So no damage that will last longer than a few days.”
“I understand,” Patrick said. Ilia could hear the trace of fear in his voice, but Patrick kept his expression stoic.
“Ten minutes.” Nick left the bedroom.
“Do what you need to do,” Ilia made himself say, once Nick was gone. “Don’t worry about…. Just make it good.”
“Shut up a minute.” Patrick glanced around the room. Came to sit on the edge of Ilia’s bed. “I have an idea,” he whispered. “But I need you to go along with it.”
“What is it?”
Patrick shook his head. “I…Jesus Christ.” He rubbed his face. “I think your reaction needs to be, uh…real. I’m sorry. Fuck.”
“It’s okay.” Ilia forced his voice steady. “I can take it.”
Looking at Patrick, he almost believed he could.
IV
Patrick entered the bedroom again holding the plant, which he set on the floor. Nick arrived right behind him. “This had better be good,” he said.
V
When Patrick tore the first flower from its stem, Ilia felt nothing. But it was like a movie character’s delayed reaction to being shot—looking down, seeing the slow spread of blood, looking back up in shock and horror before collapsing.
Patrick didn’t just tear the flowers off, he mangled them. Stomped on them. Ripped the petals. Ground each pulpy mess into the carpet. Shredded the leaves. Told Ilia that Mikhail was dead. That it was time Ilia fucking accepted it. That Mikhail would have been ashamed of what a disobedient fucking whore Ilia was.
Nick laughed, and even clapped at one point.
The fucking worst part was that Ilia’s tears were real. He couldn’t hold back his pleas for Patrick to stop. He really did feel shamed by Patrick’s words.
When Patrick was done, there was almost nothing left of the Brugmansia. He gathered up the whole mess and left the bedroom. Ilia could hear him go down the hall to the bedroom. A
small splash.
Patrick returned.
“What did you do with his flowers?” Nick asked.
“I put them in the toilet.” Patrick looked at Ilia. “Don’t flush them. I’m gonna take a shit on them later.”
“Oh, Patrick,” Nick said softly. He was grinning. “You’re very cruel.”
Patrick shrugged. “He’s not gonna be loyal to you while he’s still clinging to the memory of your brother.”
Ilia wept into his hands, ashamed of his weakness, but also remembering Patrick’s words. If he stamped out everything human in himself, then Nick won.
Maybe Ilia’s tears were a good thing.
But what if Patrick had meant the things he’d said? What if the hatred in his expression when he’d looked at Ilia had been real?
Nick and Patrick slept out in the living room, and Ilia stayed in the bedroom alone, trying not to feel like he really had lost his last link to Mikhail.
VI
Sometime in the night, Ilia heard someone go to the bathroom. Patrick—the footsteps were soft. Patrick was in there a long time. Finally the toilet flushed, and Ilia heard him go back to the living room.
VII
A smear of something around the sink drain. Something shiny. Ilia slicked his finger through it and brought it to his nose. Sniffed carefully. Hair gel. Ilia had bought it months ago when he was playing with hairstyles, but he’d never liked it. It made his hair too stiff. Mikhail hadn’t liked it either. He’d liked Ilia’s hair to be soft.
Ilia got down onto his knees and opened the cabinet under the sink. Found the tub of hair gel and unscrewed it.
The gel was gone.
The tub was full of crushed Brugmansia petals and leaves.
Patrick.
Ilia’s heart pounded.
He screwed the lid back on and slid the tub back where he’d found it.
Made sure he washed the rest of the gel down the sink so that Nick wouldn’t see it.
VIII
Most of Nick’s errands now didn’t involve bloodshed. Just a lot of talking. Few of Mikhail’s men seemed to like Nick. Ilia had heard a couple of people give variations on Doku’s warning that Nick was being reckless, drawing unwanted attention to the business.
Ilia took some satisfaction in that.
You’re not Mikhail, you asshole. You’ve got no fucking idea what you’re doing.
Basayev took Nick to task for having Ilia at a “family” meeting at Basayev’s large, oak paneled house. “You do not just get to decide to let someone else into this family, Junior.” Basayev was an older man, gray hair, eyes warped into dark tildes by a jutting brow above and heavy bags below. “His inclusion is something we must all agree on. I will not talk in front of him.”
Ilia could see the way being called “Junior” nearly made Nick spit. But Basayev seemed to command a good deal of power. All Nick said was, “He was Mikhail’s. I’m grooming him to help us. He’s going to kill Louis Porter.”
That set Basayev off on a five minute rant about the dubious wisdom of killing a cop. Ilia knew better than to hope Basayev would talk Nick out of it. If anything, Basayev’s resistance would make Nick more determined to carry out the hit.
Finally a voice interrupted. “I support Nikolay in this.”
Everyone turned, including Ilia.
Kysna had risen from his seat.
Basayev glared from under his heavy brow.
“I think Nikolay is right,” Kysna went on. “Mikhail was not just one of us—he was our leader. We are cowards and fools if we do not administer justice for his death.”
“We are fools if we pursue justice, in this case!” Basayev roared. “Mikhail’s killer being who he is, we cannot risk the safety of our entire circle in order to go after Captain Porter.” He turned his glare on Nick. “If our new leader is incapable of showing prudence—and I think many here agree with me that he is—we must look for new leadership.”
Nick was nearly on his feet when Kysna began shouting at Basayev in Chechen. The two snarled and howled—like wolves—men from both sides joining in until all Ilia could hear was a steady roar. Then someone pulled a gun on Kysna, and Ilia squeezed his eyes shut, expecting to hear the blast any second. He laughed.
Loudly.
The men stopped shouting
Nick grabbed Ilia’s arm and squeezed until Ilia moaned and sank to his knees. But he kept laughing.
Kysna looked back at Basayev and snapped something. Basayev snapped back. Then Kysna and two other men stormed out.
Basayev turned to Nick. “Get your toy out of here, Kadyrov,” Basayev said, tension beneath the forced calm in his voice. “He is a distraction.”
Nick stared at Basayev for a moment then jerked Ilia quickly toward him, so that Ilia’s ear was next to his lips. He hissed something, a foreign blur that Ilia couldn’t process, until suddenly it hit him: the Chechen phrase Nick’s father had used. The one Nick had known meant he was in trouble.
He snickered all the same, pressing his lips together in a halfhearted effort to be quiet.
A bleakness settled around him as Nick gave Basayev a cold nod goodbye and yanked Ilia to the door.
“You will not have the family’s support,” Basayev called. “Not for this.”
Nick muttered something in Chechen and continued to haul Ilia by the arm and the back of the shirt out the door, to where Mayrsolt was waiting with the car.
IX
“What am I doing wrong, Ilia?” Nick asked in a low voice. He sat on the bed, knees wide apart, hands dangling in the space between his hairy legs. Big hands, the same as Mikhail’s.
“What do you mean?” Ilia tried not to look past him to where Patrick lay resting on his stomach, his eyes closed. Patrick was naked. Pale skin. Freckles across his shoulders. A mole on the back of his right thigh, just under the cheek of his ass. Light hair on his legs, tinted faintly red.
“I thought you were a man, but you are not. I thought this one would be good. He is not.”
“I am a man,” Ilia said, jutting out his chin.
He needed to get out of this apartment. He needed Nick to drive him to his dad’s house in the middle of the night. Needed to get inside there, with his gun. Needed to say, “Dad, wake up, please. Help me.”
Nick snorted. “You are soft. A soft little boy.”
“Fuck you,” Ilia said.
“You are all growl, no bite. You are supposed to be on my side, Ilia, like you were on his. And you run in here to protect your little friend from me, then cry when he kills your flowers? I think he is a bigger man than you. I think that maybe you are just a little bitch.” Nick curled his fingers into loose fists. “Perhaps I had you both wrong this whole time.”
“No.” Ilia couldn’t have Nick changing his mind now. He needed to prove himself, or he’d never be able to leave the apartment. “I can be strong. I’m going to do what you want. I’m going to kill him.”
Couldn’t say the words.
My father.
“Are you?” Nick smiled slightly. He straightened and gestured to the floor.
Ilia sank to his knees in front of him. A penitent. A supplicant. “I am. I am going to kill him.”
Nick reached out and touched his temple. Pressed his finger against it, his other hand holding Ilia’s head still. Pressed until it hurt. “Here?” He shifted his finger to the center of Ilia’s forehead. “Or here? Where will you make your kill shot, bitch?”
“My name is Ilia.” Ilia closed his eyes as Nick’s finger slid down his nose. He opened his mouth and caught the finger between his lips. Sucked on it gently.
“Huh.” Nick pulled his hand away. “Maybe you have balls after all. Is your dick hard?”
Ilia nodded.
Nick took his cigarettes off the bed and lit one. He glanced over his shoulder at Patrick. “When I’m gone during the day, when I’m running the business, do you two fuck?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I...” Ilia didn’t
know how to answer that.
“Because you’re not a man,” Nick said. “Because you’re a bitch, just like him. A better bitch, even. All you know how to do is be fucked. It’s all you want.”
“I want revenge.” Ilia’s throat hurt.
“Liar.” Nick took a drag. “You don’t have the courage.”
“I do!” Ilia’s voice cracked.
“Shhh.” Nick leaned forward and stroked his cheek. Slapped him gently. “You’ll still get your chance, bitch. But I have another job for you first.”
“What job?” Ilia whispered.
Nick stood. Stubbed the cigarette out on the wall. Scratched his balls. “I want you to teach Patrick how to be a good little whore. How to take a man’s cock without crying about it.”
“How...?” Ilia wet his dry lips with his tongue. “How do I do that?”
Nick gestured at the bed. “You lead by example, whore.”
X
What Ilia had told Nick was true—Ilia and Patrick didn’t fuck when he was gone. They banged on the walls and the floor. They systematically tried combination after combination on the keypads by the doors. There were coded locks on the balcony doors now too. Ilia and Patrick had watched the guy install them. Nick had been there too, so neither Ilia or Patrick had dared speak. And the guy didn’t seem terribly concerned about why Nick wanted locks on every fucking door in the place.
Sometimes they talked. Ilia filled Patrick in on what he knew of the Kadyrovs. Of Mikhail’s business and Nick’s takeover. Really, he and Patrick hadn’t been left alone together much. Patrick had been here for a week, by Ilia’s estimation. Two of those days, Nick had taken Ilia with him on errands. Each time they returned, Ilia was afraid Patrick would try to do something stupid, like attack Nick as he walked through the door. But usually Patrick was sitting in front of the TV, watching the news. The second day, Nick and Ilia had come in to find Patrick watching a story about his own disappearance.
