It has taken me a while to recognize that the heat generated by one text from Daisy is pleasure rather than apprehension. That my art is one-dimensional is unfortunate, but perhaps moroseness will be the signature of a Nikolai Andrushko work.
No, Nick Anders.
I am now Nick Anders, not the child ubitsya who was trained by the warrior of the Petrovich Bratva nor the killer who hired out to eliminate threats and avenge wrongs. I no longer view life down the scope of my rifle, identifying target after target.
I am Nick Anders, engaged lover of Daisy Miller, and aspiring artist. According to the university brochures, at the age of twenty-five, I am a nontraditional student. What it means, however, is that I care more about my classes than most of the other students. From my observation, college courses are merely the time one spends between drinking and doing drugs and having sex with strangers.
The art students find me attractive, yet Daisy’s friends—her classmates—are frightened of me and by extension of her. We have had no parties and no friends have visited, and I can see by the pained light of Daisy’s eyes that she tries to hide from me that this is problematic.
I part her blouse, unbuttoning the fastenings swiftly.
“No,” I whisper reverently against her soft and delicate skin. The pulse at her neck flutters wildly. I press a kiss there as well. “You are not strange or weird. Maybe different because you find joy in the things that others overlook, but never odd. And if others would judge you, then they are not fit to walk in the dust left by your shoes or drink your piss.”
She chokes at my crudity and pushes me off. “I don’t think anyone should have to drink my piss, Nick.”
Shrugging, I rub my thumbs over the planes of her collarbones. Every part of Daisy’s body is beautiful to me from the bumps on her knuckles to her dimpled thighs. I want to drown in the lushness of her body. “To some it would be a reward.”
“That’s never going to happen,” she warns with a laugh.
“Then let me drink from your cunt and I will be satisfied.”
Daisy groans. “Nick, what am I going to do with you?”
“Allow me to love you. That is all I ask.” I am begging but unashamedly, for there is nothing that exists in my world that is more important than to serve her.
“I do.” She sighs and draws me to her. “Always.”
I pick her up and carry her to the bedroom. Together we remove her blouse and pants along with my clothes until we are flesh to flesh. We lie facing each other on the bed, and I trace her generous curves with my hand. Later tonight, when she is sated and her eyes are slumberous from her orgasm, I will sketch her and try to capture her essence. I am never successful, for she is otherworldly in her beauty—at least in my eyes, and mine are the only ones that matter.
She came to me an innocent and much of it still remains despite the fact that I have ravished her repeatedly. She is knowledgeable in all the right areas, I conclude.
“Tell me, kotehok, what is this weirdness you speak of.”
Her hands are mapping the muscles and sinew of my chest. My body was as much a weapon as my gun or knife, so it is hard. We are a study of contrasts—my angular planes against her bountiful curves. It is as it should be. I still hone my body with running and martial arts because Daisy finds so much delight in my hardness. And while our lives are not in constant danger, I want to be able to protect her from any harm.
“I can’t seem to make friends with my classmates. I’m older than some but not that much older. And I look different. It’s not just my clothes, but there’s something about me that must set them off.” She exhales heavily and rolls onto her back.
I try not to notice that the exhale pushes her tits up or that her movement causes an enticing jiggle in her form. My cock notes these actions, however, and readies itself for a bout of play. Tucking it away would probably bring more attention to my inappropriate erection. I shift slightly so it is not pushing its insistent wet head into her hip. She does need something more from me than my penis, although I do not know what I can give to her.
If the threat were external, I could easily exterminate it. Those girls who giggle behind their hands could be dust in seconds. Yet, I know that is not the response Daisy needs or wants.
“You are different,” I admit. “So am I. We will never be the carefree youths we see about the campus. The dark hand of loss and suffering have shaped us into creatures who cannot be ordinary, as much as you may long for that. However, your irrepressible joy in life feeds me in a way that bread and water cannot. And Regan too responded to you in a like manner. I think these girls need only to know you better. To know you is to love you.”
Her head turns and the smile is chasing away the clouds of discontentment. That small signal of approval makes the blood surge through me like a tidal wave.
“You are completely biased, you know that right? I think sex has brainwashed you.”
“If that is true, then I welcome it. I would never want to be right headed if my world view did not have you at its center. Come kotenok, let me love you as a man should love his woman.”
With feline grace, she stretches provocatively against the sheets. Her nude frame is a decadent vision in the low light of our room and the black as sin sheets. “If it will make you feel better, I submit to your attentions.”
“If we were in Russia, you would call me Kolya,” I murmur against her breast. Her dusky nipple hardens under my breath even before I can wet her skin with my tongue and mouth. Anticipation of the pleasure I will bring to her is already igniting a fire deep within.
“Kolya,” she repeats huskily. “Make love to me.”
“I thought you would never ask.”
My tongue laps a lazy path from one peak to the other, working each taut bud of skin into a hard point. She arches beneath me, pushing the lush flesh deeper into my mouth. I oblige her unspoken command and suck harder, the sides of my cheeks hollowing out as I devour her sensitive skin.
She is as edible as any bakery treat. Her body trembles and her legs shift restlessly on the sheets as my mouth travels lower into her wispy curls and then between her legs.
Her nectar coats my tongue on the first pass, and each successive lap against her sex produces more and more honey. Against the smooth cotton, my cock pulses hot and hard but I ignore him for bringing her to ecstasy—aiding her in finding new plateaus of pleasure—is its own heady reward.
I part her lips with my fingers, exposing more of her cunt to my hungry tongue. The surface is swollen with desire and slick with my saliva and her wetness. I trace the folds with the tip of my blunt forefinger and then spread her open to thrust my tongue inside.
Her fingers dig into my head as she writhes under my ministrations.
“Right there, Nick, kiss me right there.”
I listen and obey.
I slide two fingers inside her wet, hot depths and latch onto her clitoris. Sucking on the aroused pink bundle of nerves, I fuck her relentlessly with my fingers until she’s crying out her desperate need for release.
With one hand firmly inside her cunt, I plant both feet on the floor and tug her to the end of the bed. In one swift motion, I trade my fingers for my aching cock. Her hands flutter toward me but I cannot bear to be touched.
I’m on the edge of insanity, and one single finger of hers on my body will set me off. I grab her wrists and shackle them together, pressing them into the mattress above her head.
“With my body I love you,” I hiss through clenched teeth. I grab her hip with my fingers, using it as leverage against my fearsome thrusts. “With my flesh, I worship you.”
“Take me, then,” she whimpers, as breathless as I am.
The hot channel of her sex is tight around my cock. The answers to all the questions in life are here in the plush, firm grip of her tissues. I shake with the need to release my seed inside her, over her, around her until everywhere we look she is marked by my come. I want to spill inside her until it drips down her legs a
nd coats her thighs.
Dipping down, I take her mouth in mine and savagely drive into her giving body, savoring the tight heat of her as I withdraw to my tip, only to plunge until my balls smack against her skin.
In a fever, I beat my body against hers until I am blind with lust and delirious with pleasure. The pool of my sperm is ready to detonate, awaiting the signal from her body.
I continue to fuck her, mindlessly, incessantly, with the power of every muscle in my body. Beneath me the telltale tremors of her impending climax only spur me to thrust faster and harder. We are a blur of motion and feeling.
She breaks from my shackles and writhes her hips against me as she reaches and strains for her own orgasm. She meets my demands with wordless ones of her own as the earthquake we’ve been building shakes the foundations and leaves us a ruined, beautiful mess.
***
My art history class is housed in a decrepit old building that smells like stale cigarette smoke and mildewed paper. It is the smell of learning and discernment—light years away from the stink of gunpowder, blood, and fear. We are studying Picasso and his ambivalence toward women and his hate toward rigid societal structure. He never found his Daisy, I have concluded, and spent too much time seeking the answers to his happiness in the bottom of a brown bottle. But who can deny the genius? Perhaps there are those who are not meant to be happy so that the expression of their torment can inspire generations that follow.
I sit in the back, near the door. Not because I am avoiding attention, although that is part of it, but primarily because I cannot rid myself of instinct. Instinct will always have me sit near an exit, facing the door, or away from those that I perceive as threats.
There are no threats in art history, only students and a rather pudgy professor who dresses in turtlenecks and tweed. Like the stale smells, I find the clichéd attire of the professor comforting. Everything is as it should be.
Around me there are a sea of open seats. The students’ hindbrains tell them I am a dangerous creature and that I should be avoided. Only a few have gone against instinct and spoken to me—curiosity winning out over fear. But my blank expression and terse responses have driven them away as I intended. Only now the isolation reminds me of Daisy’s fears. In many ways, I am failing her.
After class I attempt to correct this. There are two young ladies who smiled at me when the semester began. They are fresh things, rosy cheeked and with multihued hair. Art girls enjoy hair colors not found in nature. That is weird. I shall tell this to Daisy tonight.
As I approach I can hear them discussing a weekend party at a house known by Greek letters, and a plan quickly formulates. Daisy wants friends and wants to fit in. One of them, the shorter one who wears clunky boots and torn leg coverings, says she plans to hit it like the right hand of an angry god.
I wonder what that means and resolve to ask Daisy. Although she may not know. Perhaps Daniel? Daniel is a former assassin who has retired at the age of twenty-seven to his family ranch in Texas. He is very knowledgeable about idiosyncratic behavior of American girls.
“He does remind me of Chris Hemsworth,” the taller girl replies. She wears a long, puffy jacket that covers her from head to foot. I wonder where she purchased it. Daisy does not like wearing the fur I bought her. She says other students would disapprove because it is not appropriate to kill animals and then wear their skins. I say nothing about the yards of leather that adorn the students that walk by us daily, and accept this as a truth I will not ever fully comprehend.
“Let’s hope his package is godlike or all my efforts will be wasted,” responds the short one.
Ah, it is a sexual reference. She wishes to have vigorous sex with a man who looks like a Norse god. Hopefully she will not strike any part of his package with the force of a god, let alone an angry one. A clearing of the throat effectively gains their attention, and I offer a tentative smile, the one that makes Daisy sigh.
The two turn to me and blink rapidly as if I’ve shined a bright light in their eyes. I hold my smile uncertainly for another moment and then release my muscles. “Ladies.”
They exchange looks with each other in confused wonder, and then the taller one tilts her head and responds, “Hi, there. I thought you didn’t talk to mere mortals.”
“I, ah, um . . .” What would Daniel say here? Unfortunately I cannot text him for advice in the middle of a conversation. I answer weakly, “I am but a mortal myself.”
The tall one arches her brow and quietly says, “You don’t look like a mere mortal.”
Her lingering perusal takes in my bulky sweater and jeans. Most of my marks are hidden but for a few black lines at the front of my neck. She is not put off by them and neither is her short friend. Instead, she flips her hair over her shoulders and opens her stance so that I am welcomed into their circle.
“I am Nick Anders.” I offer my hand.
“Laila Kristiansen.” She shakes it firmly. “This is Terese Erle. Are you an art major?”
“Yes,” I nod enthusiastically. “I study art. This class is interesting. Before I did not make the connection between political activism and art although perhaps it is so obvious that I missed, how do you say . . . the forest for the trees?”
“You aren’t from around here, are you? A foreign student?” Laila asks.
Caught off guard, I slip. “Nyet. I mean, no. I am from here. I live here now.”
“No.” She hurries to reassure me. “I didn’t mean it like it was a bad thing. Your accent is pretty cool.”
I do not like discussing my past, so I change the subject. “I hear you were talking about a party. Do you enjoy those?”
“Sure, who doesn’t?” Terese interjects. “Do you want to come? I’m sure we could get you in.”
“Oh no. I do not need to intrude upon your plans, but I wanted to extend an invitation to you. I am having a party and would desire you to come, yes?”
They both visibly brighten at this, their faces light up, and their mouths curve into eager smiles.
“Sure, when and where?” Laila asks.
Quickly I consider the options. Our home is out of the question. It is bad enough that Daisy wants us to have tenants. At least those I can research so thoroughly I know when their baby teeth fell out. And no one has met my stringent requirements. A public place would be much safer. My mind quickly considers and then discards multiple options. The Village Bean is a coffee shop and the atmosphere is too subdued to host a party. Restaurants in general seem an unlikely source. Twenty meters from the apartment building is a ramshackle two story bar. Daisy and I shared a drink there one night as we explored our neighborhood. At the time, there were other students—or at least people who appeared to be students—drinking and carousing. That place. We will pay them money and they will host our party. “There is a bar on 4th Street called MacEathe’s Irish Pub. It will be held there. Next Saturday.”
“Oh but . . .” Terese trails off.
“What is it?” I have made another error but I do not know what it is.
“Is it an open bar? Because my beer budget can’t handle the prices at that place.”
“Yes, of course,” I respond immediately although I have no idea what an open bar is. I add this to my mental list of things to ask Daniel. “It is open bar, open food. All of it is open.”
“To an open bar?” Laila asks. “What? Are you loaded?”
Eager to gain their acquiescence, I nod. “Yes. Bring all your friends to my open bar.”
They exchange another glance, which conveys a message I cannot decipher. Laila says, “You’re cute. A little weird, but cute. We’ll be there and we’ll bring some friends.”
I am jubilant, and this time my smile is not unpracticed. I cannot wait to return home and share the good news with my Daisy. I do not notice Laila stumbling backward into Terese’s arms although I do hear her murmur another thing I will need to ask Daniel about.
“I call dibs,” she says to her friend.
“Shit, hon
ey, we better get there early,” Terese replies.
Chapter 3
Daisy
“A party?” I ask Nick that night as we do the dishes. I’m confused—he’s never mentioned wanting to throw a party. I run the scrubber over a pan, rinse it, and then put it in the drying rack for Nick to towel off. We are doing the dishes by hand. The dishwasher in the apartment isn’t working. Nick tried to fix it, lost his temper, and jerked the wiring out of the wall, cussing in Russian the entire time. So we do the dishes manually. I don’t mind it, because we do them together.
As long as we do it together, I don’t care what we do.
“Da, a party,” Nick says. “It is open. Open food, open bar. It must be so.”
I give him a strange look. “Really? Isn’t that expensive?” I don’t know a ton about bars, but my meager experiences with Regan tell me that drinks at a club tend to be pricier than they are at the grocery store.
He shrugs. “It is how it must be. Many will come. We will impress them and make friends.”
I melt a little at that. “Does this party have something to do with our conversation the other night?”
“We have many conversations,” he says, being cagey. There’s a hint of a smile on his firm mouth, and I know he’s proud of himself at the moment. That just confirms my suspicions that yes, this has everything to do with that conversation despite his pretending.
I flick a handful of bubbles on him. “You know what I mean, silly. About not being able to make friends! Is that why we are having a party?”
He just grins at me, boyishly pleased with himself.
I am the luckiest girl in the world to have a man like Nick. “You are wonderful, you know that?”
“Everything I do is to make you smile, kotehok,” he tells me, leaning in and brushing a kiss over my mouth. “That is worth every pleasure, every pain to me.”
So dramatic. I giggle at his words. “And is this party a pleasure or a pain?”
“I think it will be both. Pleasure at seeing you making friends, and pain because I will have to pretend like I care about what others are saying.”
Last Hit: Reloaded Page 2
