by Amarie Avant
“What happened to all those personal training sessions?” I pause, my left fist clenching his shirt, and now his legs are doing a two-step before me. “You not gonna save yourself? Fight me, dude. I’m just a few inches taller than you. Fight me!”
He tries to speak, blood splashes from his mouth. “I’m sorry….”
“Fuck you and your apologies.” I let Matthew go. His feet clop like a horse, noodle legs hardly able to sustain him. I hit him with a right, then a left elbow that sends him back in the other direction, and finish him off with another right.
“Ne smotret’! Ne Smotret, moy rebenok—Don’t look, my child,” My mother shouted. Men walked past, they spat at her, and called her the names that were strapped around her neck.
“Shluyukha—Whore!”
“Piz’da—Cunt!”
My eyes were glued to her pale white face. I hadn’t seen her since she ran off on Sasha and me. And so I stared at her, my face dead from any sort of emotion. My father stood next to me, a freshly rolled cigarette in his hand.
“She left you, Vassili.”
“And you beat her, and look at these people. They laugh at a Resnov! Who laughs at a Resnov, huh?” I argued with him, not a single hair on my chin, and I shouted at my father.
“I didn’t beat that bitch,” he puffed air in my face. “She’s no Resnov. Just the first woman to have a child for me.”
“Let her down, now!” I shouted. The people along the street laughed, his men cackled as I pushed at my father. I was a skinny motherfucker, and yet my mind didn’t make the connection that I couldn’t put him down. That I couldn’t kill my father.
I started toward her, and before I could place a hand on the straps binding her to the street light, Anatoly grabbed my shoulder and pushed me to the ground.
“I said, she’s no fucking Resnov.”
“But she’s my mother.”
“Vassili, what happened to ‘fuck her?’ She left you, didn’t she?”
My ears burned in shame. Yeah, I said it. A bruised ego rots the mind, makes you forget. “Prosto idi— just go,” My mother said, her face was too carved and disfigured to smile, but I felt it. She wasn’t mad at me. I’d forgotten about her first attempt to get away with Sasha and I, a few years back.
I reach out to hit Anatoly. He clasps my hand, then tossed me to the ground. Pain slams through me as he kicks my ribs. Then his team jumps in, kicking me in the back.
“You hit your father over this cunt?” Anatoly finishes his statement with another kick. I roll into a tiny ball, with the sound of my mother screaming for them to stop.
A siren is screaming. Had to have been for a while, because my eardrums ring as the top of my head is being pushed down, like protocol requires when being tossed in the back of a squad car.
“What the fuck are you doing to my kazen!” I can hear Yuri shout from behind me.
With the handcuffs behind my back, I’m cranking my neck much like Matthew did a few minutes ago. Through the rearview mirror, Yuri can be seen resisting arrest. It takes four cops to get him down to the ground as he argues that Mr. Overstreet, who’s on the asphalt nearby, and isn’t even attempting to get up, is the person at fault.
Zariah
Earlier in the evening…
After work, I fight traffic to Taryn’s house, since she offered to watch Natasha today while Vassili is in Atlanta. We do not believe in childcare while our daughter is unable to fully articulate her feelings and opinions about the person in the position to care for her. Taryn’s father is in government and with an African model for a mother, she has it made. Natasha’s godmother spends her days shopping, and is a godsend in times like these.
I stop at the gates where a hut houses a security detail for the governor, her father, who my friend still technically lives with. Aware of my car, the guard opens the gates while waving me through.
I consider stopping at the mansion of a home Taryn’s father lives in before heading to the pool house that she moved into years ago. Well, hopefully, she and Yuri marry one day, so after years of hoeing, he can make an honest woman out of her.
The front doors of the mansion open, and I veer to the left in order to get around a humongous cement fountain. It’s Taryn’s mother, who rarely is ever home. The model is at least half a foot taller than her husband. They make an odd pair. His tiny eyes peer straight through you. She’s ultra slim like Taryn, and her looks blow her husband away.
“Hi, Mrs. Takahashi.” I start to get out of the car.
“Hello, Zariah.” She grins. “Taryn is in the house with Natasha. Come on in.”
Ms. Takahashi offers one of those ‘loose’ hugs where it seems she doesn’t want to ruin her Italian silk dress or smudge her perfectly set makeup, that makes a person seem to shrink within themselves. No matter how much I think I slay when waking up and spending extensive amounts of time dressing in the morning, looking at Ms. Takahashi reminds me to hold my head much higher, and to work these stilettos.
“How is your mother? Your father?”
How is my father? Hell, somebody tell me. Damn, Mrs. Takahashi and I haven’t crossed paths in years. When I was younger, realizing that my father had a crush on her was a shock to me. I mean, dad and I share the same rich dark skin. I love the skin I live in. But my mother is as light as they come, and the women who came after! You can toss cooking grease on them and kick them out of a safari in Africa; there’ll be no frying. I didn’t think Maxwell could look at someone of our color, and Ms. Takahashi has us beat with beautiful jet-black skin. But there was this one time where Ms. Takahashi wore a silk dress, much like she is wearing now, and her tits played a game every time she strutted from hip to hip. It made me see fire when my mother didn’t backhand his ass across the room like he use to do with her—for some trivial reason.
“My mom is well, happy,” I smile.
“And your dad? I’m never on the same continent for more than a week or two. I miss those barbecues.”
“Tsk, my father is operating an entire police station while I do me.” I place my hand on my hip as Ms. Takahashi stops.
“Hmmm, Maxwell ran the police station on Grand Avenue before becoming Chief. So, does what you’re saying have something to do with that delectable man you married? I owe you a gift.”
I wave a hand. She owes Taryn a sweet sixteen gift and more. But damn it, Mrs. Takahashi is like one of those good friends where no matter how much time passes, when you come together, she can read you like ‘Baby’s first A-B-C Book.’ “Yup, my father believes that I settled...” Fell and am slumming it, rock bottom.
Her lips set into a line for a moment. “Fathers want the best for their daughters. I defied mine and married a Jap—shhh, can’t say that too loudly, but those were the words my father said, when I did not return home to marry the man of his choosing. There’s nothing like a father’s love. At times, it’s overwhelming.”
My eyebrows rise. That’s the understatement of the century.
Mrs. Takahashi waves her slender manicured fingers. “Maxwell will get over himself. Now, come in. We have had so much fun with Natasha.”
We pass a foyer. The black-and-white checkered tile is dotted with just as many vibrant pink designer bags with highlighter yellow tissue sticking out of them. “Goodness,” I reply as she tells me to watch my step.
I can hear my daughter’s happy banter. “Daddddaaaa, Daddaaa, mommmma, Fry!”
“She can eat,” Mrs. Takahashi says as we enter their grand kitchen.
Taryn is zapping a frozen corn dog in the microwave, while Natasha sits on a highchair. “Girl, this baby wants French fries. I ate the first corn dog because she kept turning those fat cheeks to me.”
“That’s how she rolls. Can I trouble you for a few Cheetos or cheerios?” I grin. “Vassili did his best to get Natasha interested in his raw fruit smoothies, but she acted a plum fool one day because someone I know bought her McDonald’s. Now, she’s a junk food eating monster.”
“Look at
me like that, if you want, Zar.” Taryn bites her lip. “I’ll continue to blame McDonald’s on my cuddles.”
“Your cuddles?” Mrs. Takahashi asks, while heading toward the door to the wine cellar.
“His name is Yuri Resnov.” I squeeze in. “And I think your daughter is in love.” At least, I hoped. There were too many occasions when Taryn and I were in high school where I had to remember more than one boyfriend name from one date night to the next.
“Oh, another Resnov. Hold that thought.” Mrs. Takahashi opens the door and disappears down the stairs.
“So, are you in love?” I corner Taryn as she grabs another tiny, plastic plate for Natasha. My hand on my hip doesn’t intimidate her one second as she skirts past me, opens the door to the refrigerator, which looks like the rest of the walnut wood shelves. Taryn grabs condiments out before pulling the hotdog from the microwave.
“How many times will you ask me that?” she finally inquires.
“Until you tell the truth.”
“Yuri isn’t the type of man to fall in love with, Zariah,” she murmurs while placing her index finger over the breading of the hotdog to make sure it isn’t too hot.
“How can you say that? You see what Vassili and I have, and you encouraged me to run after my man two weeks ago, in Brazil! Taryn, you and Yuri are magnetic.”
Mrs. Takahashi comes from the cellar with a bottle. “Pinot Noir. And I’ve seen what Zariah has with her husband. It’s is pure hotness, needs to be on the cover of a magazine. Can that be said about my daughter and ‘Mr. Cuddles?’”
“Mom,” Taryn huffs while placing the plate in front of Natasha, who promptly pushes it away. “Please, sweetie pie, eat it,” she coaxes, holding up the corndog. My child playfully paws it away. Had it been me, Natasha would have slapped the damn thing across the room.
Taryn’s mother and I wait for her response. She’s always been overly confident when finagling a few men at a time. Bragging about who is wrapped around her finger and just how captivating men comes naturally to her, yet she opens the refrigerator, retrieves a string cheese for Natasha, and then makes a beeline to another cabinet to get three wine glasses out.
“What’s wrong, Taryn?” I ask.
“Yes, if you care enough to give the man a nickname, Cuddles, then you must like him. Although, I can’t say that I’ll ever be attracted to someone who's…” her mother pauses. “Cuddly as in a lot of muscle?”
My head tilts somewhat. The governor is pleasantly plump. She has to be attracted to her husband.
“Mom, you don’t understand. Heck, when this heifa says Resnov, that doesn’t even ring a bell, does it?” She offers a pathetic laugh, while heading to a table, with plush, studded chairs.
“No, can’t say that it does.” Ms. Takahashi uncorks the bottle as I sit down.
“Their family has been known to dabble in … mafia stuff,” I speak up, taking my drink and downing a good, long sip.
“Zariah, they are the Russian mafia. They are the fucking bratva!” Taryn takes her drink and sips.
Mrs. Takahashi shrugs. “When I was younger, I fooled around with a Kenyan drug lord. Might not have been a good thing to do in retrospect, but dangerous sex is…daring, passionate.”
“Vassili isn’t with that.” I stumble into the conversation. Why did I speak up? Her mother is glamorizing a lifestyle that I don’t condone. So, I sit confidently in my beliefs.
Taryn glances at me.
“Well,” I start, “is there something I should know?”
“No, Zar. Yuri says that his father has slowly cut down on assignments. Malich no longer controls the San Pedro port. But your husband is the son of,” she makes an elaborate gesture. “Girl, your husband is in it for life, no matter how much he busies himself with MMA.”
I huff. “You really believe that?”
“I do.”
“So then why do you continue to fuck with Yuri?” Oops, I forgot that her mother was sitting here. She doesn’t say a word, just waits for a response as well.
We receive a lethargic shrug. Taryn downs the rest of her wine. “I can’t stop. Yuri treats me like a queen. His cock is monstrous.” She holds up her hands.
“Ohhhh,” Mrs. Takahashi claps her hands.
“And when you feel—cock aside—that the life is too much what will you do? How could you string him along?” I inquire, almost in lawyer mode. Removing my feelings from the equation, I glance her directly in the eye.
“Yuri would never hurt me. When we connect, the world stops, and he isn’t participating in any illegal activities. Shit, I got that from you, Zariah. It’s a job and a half for him to assist Vassili in securing matches, Karo merchandise, and everything that goes along with the MMA world. But there will come a day when Yuri and I can’t be together. And you ask if I love him. Nope, I can’t do that to myself.”
I finish off my drink, the smooth taste supports my desire not to make a comparison. Damn, Vassili tells me that I overthink things. And the dynamics of my relationship with him are the same for Yuri and Taryn. Heck, she just implicated that I’m in a worse predicament. I watch the dark crimson liquid fill up into my glass again, while ruminating over the time I assumed Vassili was Malich’s son. I wished to God he wasn’t. The joke was on me. I fell in love with danger.
“Okay, Taryn, I can’t fathom how easy it is for you to play with your own heart in that manner, but if you don’t love him, then you don’t love him.”
“Stop being so closed minded, damn,” Taryn says. “My parents are in an open relationship, and they dole out their time to whomever they please. We’re good at not allowing our heart to become involved. Don’t judge me, Zar.”
“Humph, my only endeavor is keeping you from breaking your own damn heart, Taryn, no Honorable Judge Resnov here. You’re right about one thing, though, Vassili would kill me if I considered adding another man to the equation, and I would only be obliged to do the same if the tables were turned. We are jealous people.”
“You’re like your father,” Mrs. Takahashi says. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
I all but scoff. Like hell can I be compared to my father. Instead of acknowledging and redirecting Taryn or her mother, I tell them something I am certain of. “My heart isn’t set up to be played, so I married Vassili through good times and bad times.”
“The two of you are too young and in love to know a thing about bad times, not yet.” The model shakes her head.
I beg to differ. This past year has been hell. “Well, I may not have the ability to predict the future. Regardless of the cards stacked against us, I’ll be damned if I spoke vows into the universe about my love for Vassili in vain. Shotgun Vegas-style wedding or not, I’ll snatch him up myself if need be.”
Taryn starts to chuckle. “Heifa, you need to be in somebody’s gotdamn courtroom, with all of that arguing. Are you pregnant?”
My glass perches along my lip. Am I? “No, I can’t be pregnant.”
“You two aren’t screwing?” Mrs. Takahashi asks, and damn it if I don’t sputter on my wine. My mother and I have always had a good relationship. What made having a father in the police force such a good thing is that when he didn’t want to be bothered, mom and I hit the road on the weekends. And my older brother, Martin, inundated himself in high school, so he was only there when we needed. But it was nothing like this level of openness. They wait on bated breath.
“We are definitely screwing,” I respond giving a giddy little chuckle myself. I should’ve declined the second glass of Pinot Noir, since I can hardly drink my husband’s family’s liquor. Thinking about him, I calculate that it’s going on 8PM in Atlanta right now. So, I text him a quick reminder about his late flight tonight…
Vassili
“Can I have my phone call, now?” I ask the guard as he places me into the community cell. The place is crowded, but the closest people standing near me are a young man with too much eyeshadow, another dude who smells like he bathed in rum, and my cousin. The proce
ssing took a few hours, and each time I asked, those mudaks acted like I spoke the words in a foreign language.
The guard locks the gate without so much as offering me a glance and heads toward the security door.
“Who? Vassili, who the fuck will you call?” Yuri asks from behind me.
I let go of the bars and turn around with a snarl. For a man who has known the backseat of many police cruisers, the cops had to force him into one of the many cruisers surrounding the local gym. Shit, this motherfucker is the reason the cops treated us with extra force.
Either the death glare in my eye doesn’t penetrate or Yuri goes postal when cooped up in small places, because he doesn’t shut the fuck up. He continues to taunt. “Who, Vassili, huh? Who the fuck are we gonna call? My dad wants to be out of the game. He can’t make demands without collateral. Igor is sick as usual. This mission isn’t for you know who.” He mutters my father’s name beneath his breath, as if I ever been in a predicament that Anatoly fixed. There’ll never come a day. He finishes with, “You gonna call Zariah, so she can chew you a new one? Ha! And we sure as hell aren’t in our area to make demands.”
I rub the back of my neck and take a seat on the cement slab. “We’ll be out soon.”
He stands in front of me, still flapping his jaws with, “Our return flight leaves at 11PM, Vassili.”
“You, get the fuck outta here with all that arguing,” I roar. “If I say we’re leaving soon, we are. I just need to make a call.”
Air swooshes past my nose as Yuri slaps a hand toward my face. Although deadly with a gun, my cousin is no fighter. It’s funny how, despite being older than me, Yuri can turn into the pesky little brother I never knew I wanted until hanging out—and bumping heads—with him. I toss a stiff finger at him. “Do it again, you’ll be on a gurney just like that motherfucker we just left.”
