by Anna Zaires
His smile takes on a dark edge. “Yes, that’s probably wise, ptichka. Ignorance is bliss and all that.”
I gather the scraps of my courage. “What are you going to do to me?”
“What do you think I’m going to do?” He tilts his head, the smile darkening another fraction. “Punish you? Hurt you?”
My heart drums in my throat. “Are you?”
He looks at me for a few long moments, his smile dimming, then shakes his head. “No, Sara.” There is a strangely weary note in his voice. “Not today.”
Pushing away from the table, he begins gathering the dishes, and I sag in my chair, relieved yet drained of all hope.
If he’s not lying about his men—and I have no reason to think he is—I’m even more trapped than I thought.
27
Peter
* * *
It shouldn’t hurt, knowing that she wants to get rid of me. It shouldn’t feel like blades of fire slicing across my chest. Any person in Sara’s situation would fight back; it’s only logical and expected.
It shouldn’t hurt, but it does, and no matter what I tell myself as I lead Sara upstairs, the monster inside me snarls and howls, demanding that I do exactly as she feared and punish her for this transgression.
When we get to the bedroom, I don’t make her take her clothes off in front of me again; I’m too close to the edge to guarantee my self-control. I already tested it too much during dinner, playing along with her innocent, I didn’t just drug your wine routine. I knew what she did right away—the wine spill was too out of character for her—but I wanted to see how good of an actress she is, and so I continued to converse with her, to pretend I was clueless and gullible, an idiot about to fall for one of the oldest tricks in the book.
“You can take a shower,” I say, nodding toward the bathroom when she stops next to the bed, her gaze darting nervously from me to the bed and back. “I’ll be here when you return.”
Relief flashes across her face, and she disappears into the bathroom. I use the opportunity to go downstairs and take a quick rinse in one of the other bathrooms.
Though I showered after today’s job, I want to be extra clean for her.
She’s still showering when I return to the bedroom, so I carefully fold my clothes and leave them on the dresser before getting into bed. I gave myself a quick release with my hand earlier today, but my desire for Sara hasn’t abated, and I know I won’t be able to play this game much longer.
I’m going to take her and make her mine.
If not tonight, then very soon.
Sara’s shower is long, so long that I know she’s using it as a way to avoid me, but I don’t mind. I use the time to empty my mind and cool the residual anger burning inside me. By the time she finally emerges from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, I have the monster under control and can smile at her coolly.
“Come,” I say, patting the bed next to me. I’m trying like hell not to think about how slick and soft her pussy felt yesterday, but it’s impossible. I want to feel that silky wetness wrapped around my cock, want to hear her moan as I drive into her. I want to taste that plush mouth and see her hazel eyes go soft and unfocused as I bring her to her peak again and again.
I want her, and I can’t have her.
Not yet, at least.
She approaches uncertainly, as wary as a wild gazelle, and just as graceful. I want to grab her and drag her into bed, but I remain still, letting her come to me of her own accord. This way, I can pretend that she doesn’t hate me, that seeing me imprisoned or dead wouldn’t give her the greatest joy.
This way, I can imagine that someday, she may choose to be with me.
“Take off that towel and come here,” I order when she pauses half a meter away from the bed, but she doesn’t move, her hands clutching the towel in front of her chest.
“Are we going to sleep? Just sleep?” she asks in an unsteady voice, and I nod, though I’m painfully hard just from seeing her. If I could be sure that I would maintain control throughout, I’d take her tonight, or at least give her another orgasm, but the best I can do is hold her and force myself to go to sleep. Even that will be torture, but I’ll bear it. I won’t force her when she’s expecting me to hurt her; no matter how difficult it is, I won’t live up to her fears.
“Just sleep,” I promise, and hope she can’t hear the raging hunger in my voice. “We’re just going to sleep.”
She hesitates for another second, then steps up to the bed, dropping the wet towel on the floor as she slips under the blanket. All I see is a flash of naked skin, but it’s enough for lust to punch me in the gut. Bracing myself, I pull her against me and bite back a groan as her soft ass nestles against my groin, her skin damp and extra warm from the long shower. She has a beautiful ass, my little doctor, tight and shapely, and my dick throbs with the need to be inside her, to feel those smooth cheeks pressing against my balls as I pound into her, taking her again and again.
Closing my eyes, I inhale the sweet scent of her shampoo and concentrate on controlling my breathing. After a while, I feel the tension in her muscles easing, and I know she’s starting to relax, to believe I won’t assault her despite the hard cock she must feel pressing against her.
Slow and easy, I tell myself as I breathe in and out. Control and focus. Pain means nothing. Discomfort means nothing. It’s a mantra I taught myself during my time in Camp Larko, and it’s true. Pain, hunger, thirst, lust—it’s all chemistry and electrical impulses, a way for the brain to communicate with the body. Wanting Sara won’t kill me, any more than the six months I spent in solitary did when I was fourteen. The torture of unfulfilled desire is nothing compared to the hell of being locked in a room barely big enough to be called a cage, with no one to talk to and nothing to do. It’s nothing compared to the agony of a shiv slashing through your kidney, or a giant fist nearly knocking out your eye.
If I survived juvenile prison in Siberia, I’ll survive not having Sara.
For a little bit longer, at least.
28
Sara
* * *
“How about you, Sara?”
“Huh?” I look up from my plate to stare blankly at Marsha, who must’ve just asked me something.
Andy rolls her eyes. “She’s in la-la land again. Leave her alone, Marsha.”
“Sorry, I’m just distracted,” I say, pushing back a lock of hair that escaped from my ponytail. I’m pretty sure my hair is a crooked mess today, but I keep forgetting to get to a mirror to fix it. In general, all I can think about this morning is that when I go home tonight, he will be waiting for me there.
Peter Sokolov, the man I can’t escape.
“I asked if you want to join me and Tonya this Saturday,” Marsha says, looking more amused than annoyed. “Andy just said she’s in; she’ll hang out with her boyfriend some other time. How about you, Sara?”
“Oh, sorry, I can’t,” I say, pushing my plate away. I ran into the nurses in the cafeteria while grabbing a quick breakfast, and they talked me into joining them for a sit-down meal. “I promised my parents I’ll go see them.”
That last part is a lie, but I figure it’s better than explaining that I don’t want to put my friends on the radar of a certain Russian killer—or whoever he’ll have watching me.
“That’s too bad,” Marsha says. “Tonya’s going to get us back into that club. You seemed to like it there, I recall. Tonya says that cute bartender has been asking about you.”
I frown. “He has?”
“Yep,” Tonya confirms. “He said something weird, though. He thought he saw some guy with you, acting all proprietary, like he was your boyfriend or something. I told him he must’ve been mistaken, because you definitely left alone that night. Right? You don’t have a secret boyfriend stashed somewhere, do you?”
Ice trickles down my spine even as my face turns uncomfortably hot. “No, definitely not.”
“Really?” Marsha says, sounding fascinated. “Then why are you blushing
? And clutching that fork like you want to stab someone?”
I glance down at my hand and see that she’s right. I’m gripping the utensil so hard my knuckles have turned white. Forcing my fingers to relax, I give an awkward laugh and say, “Sorry. I was drunk that night, and I’m a little embarrassed about that. I think I must’ve danced with some random guy, and that’s what your bartender friend saw, Tonya.”
Andy frowns. “Is that random guy the reason you ran out of there like that? You looked almost… frightened.”
“What? No, I was just drunk.” I force another embarrassed laugh. “You know how it is when you think you’re going to puke at any moment? Well, that was me that night.”
“Okay,” Tonya says. “I’ll tell Rick—that’s the bartender—that you’re available. In case you ever join us at the club again, that is.”
“Oh, I…” My face heats up again. “No, that’s okay. I’m not really ready to date and—”
“No worries.” Tonya pats my hand, her slim fingers cool on my skin. “I won’t give him your number or anything. You can maintain your ‘princess in a tower’ mystique. Only makes them hotter, if you ask me.”
“What?” I gape at her. “What do you mean by that?”
“She means that you have the whole untouchable thing going on,” Andy says through a mouthful of eggs. “It’s hard to describe, but it’s like you give off this ice princess vibe, only not cold, you know? Kind of like if Jackie-O and Princess Diana decided to slum it by working among us regular folks, if that makes sense.”
“No, not really.” I frown at the red-headed girl. “You’re saying I come across as stuck-up?”
“No, not stuck-up, just different,” Marsha says. “Andy didn’t explain it well. You’re just… classy. Maybe it’s all that ballet you did when you were younger, but you look like someone taught you to curtsy and walk with a book balanced on your head. Like you know which fork to use at a formal dinner and how to make small talk with the ambassador of whatever.”
“What?” I burst out laughing. “That’s ridiculous. I mean, George and I had been to a few formal fundraisers, but that was his thing, not mine. If I had a choice, I’d live in yoga pants and sneakers; you know that, Marsha. For God’s sake, I listen to Britney Spears and dance to hip-hop and R&B.”
“I know, hon, but that’s just the way you look, not the way you are,” Marsha says, taking out a small mirror to reapply her red lipstick. Swiping on a coat with a practiced hand, she puts away the mirror and the lipstick and says, “It’s a good thing, trust me. Take me, for instance. I could try to class it up all I want, but guys take one look at me and decide I’m easy. Doesn’t matter what I wear or how I act; they just see my hair, tits, and ass, and figure I put out.”
“That’s because you do put out,” Tonya points out with a grin.
Marsha huffs and flicks back her blond waves. “Yeah, but that’s neither here nor there. My point is, she”—she jerks her thumb at me—“couldn’t look easy if she tried. Any guy looking at her knows—he just knows—he’s going to have to work for it. Like dinners with parents and ring on the finger kind of work.”
“That’s not true,” I object. “I slept with George long before we got married.”
Andy rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but how long were you dating before you slept with him?”
“A few months,” I say, frowning. “But I was just eighteen, and—”
“See? A few months,” Tonya says, elbowing Marsha. “And how long do you make them wait?”
Marsha chuckles. “At least a few hours.”
“Well, there you go,” Andy says. “And you wonder why those jerks never call you again. My mom always said, ‘The fastest way to lose a guy is to sleep with him.’ Sara’s got it right: act cool and distant, so when you so much as smile at a guy, he falls all over himself.”
“Oh, please.” I busy myself with the remnants of my breakfast. “It’s the twenty-first century. I think men know better than to—”
“Nope,” Marsha says cheerfully. “They don’t. If something comes easy, they don’t value it as much. I know that, and I’m okay with being a good-time girl. Most of the time, I don’t want those jerks to call me, and the couple of times that I do…” She sighs. “Well, it’s just not meant to be, I guess. In any case, life’s too short to waste it being something other than what you are. By the time you get to be my age, you figure that out.”
“Uh-huh, sure.” Tonya stuffs the last of her bagel into her mouth. “Tell us more, Oh Wise Old One.”
“Shut up,” Marsha grumbles, throwing a balled-up napkin at her. It hits Andy, who immediately retaliates with a napkin projectile of her own, and I duck, laughing, as the breakfast devolves into a full-on napkin fight.
It’s not until I’m walking out of the cafeteria, still chuckling over what happened, that I realize the nurses didn’t just lighten my mood and distract me from thoughts of Peter.
They also gave me an idea.
* * *
My on-call shift doesn’t end until late evening, but I still go to the clinic afterward. It’s open twenty-four hours, and they always need me. On my end, I want to delay going home for as long as I can. The idea brewing in my mind makes my stomach cramp, and the last thing I want is to face my stalker.
As usual, they’re glad to see me at the clinic. Despite the late hour, the waiting room is packed with women of all ages, many accompanied by crying children. In addition to providing OB-GYN services to low-income women, the clinic staff often treat their children for minor illnesses—something the patients, and nearby ER departments, greatly appreciate.
“Busy night?” I ask Lydia, the middle-aged receptionist, and she nods, looking harried. She’s one of the only two salaried staff members at the clinic; everyone else, including all the doctors and nurses, are volunteers like me. It makes for an unpredictable schedule but enables the clinic to provide pro bono care to the community while operating solely on donations.
“Here,” Lydia says, thrusting the sign-in sheet into my hand. “Start with the five names on the bottom.”
I take the sheet and go to the little room that functions as my office/exam room. Putting my things down, I wash my hands, splash some cold water on my face, and step out into the waiting room to call in the first patient.
My first three patients end up being easy—one needs birth control, another wants to get tested for STDs, a third needs a pregnancy confirmation—but the fourth one, a pretty seventeen-year-old named Monica Jackson, complains of prolonged period bleeding. When I examine her, I find vaginal tearing and other signs of sexual trauma, and when I ask her about it, she breaks down crying and admits that her stepfather assaulted her.
I calm her down, collect a rape kit, treat her injuries, and give her the phone number of a women’s shelter where she can stay if she feels unsafe at home. I also suggest she contact the police, but she’s adamant about not filing charges.
“My mother would kill me,” she says, her brown eyes red-rimmed and hopeless. “She says he’s a good provider, and we’re lucky to have him. He’s got priors, so if I say anything, he’ll get put away, and we’ll end up on the street again. I don’t give a fuck—I’d sooner turn tricks in an alley than live with that asshole—but my brother’s only five, and he’ll end up in a foster home. Right now, I take care of him when my mother can’t, and I don’t want him taken away from me.”
She starts crying again, and I squeeze her small hand, my heart aching at her plight. Though the paperwork Monica filled out says she’s seventeen, with her petite build and baby-round cheeks, she looks barely old enough to be in high school. I often see girls like her come through here, and it shatters me each time, knowing there’s only so much I can do to help. If she were on her own, it would be easy to extract her from this situation, but with the little brother in the mix, the best I can do is call Child Services, and that might lead to the very thing my patient dreads: having her brother in foster care without her.
“I’m
so sorry, Monica,” I say when she calms down. “I still think going to the police is the best option for you and your brother. Isn’t there anyone else you could turn to? A family friend? A relative, perhaps?”
The girl’s expression turns hollow. “No.” Jumping off the table, she pulls on her clothes. “Thanks for seeing me, Dr. Cobakis. Take care.”
She walks out of the room, and I stare after her, wanting to cry. The girl is in an impossible situation, and I can’t help her. I can never help girls like her. Except—
“Wait!” I grab my bag and run after her. “Monica, wait!”
“She already left,” Lydia says when I burst into the reception area. “What happened? Did she forget something?”
“Sort of.” I don’t bother explaining further. Rushing to the door, I step out and survey the dark, deserted street. Monica’s small, dark-haired figure is already at the end of the block, walking fast, so I run after her, desperate to do something at least this once.
“Monica, wait!”
She must hear me, because she stops and turns.
“Dr. Cobakis?” she says in surprise when I catch up to her.
I stop, panting from the exertion, and rummage inside my bag. “How much do you need to tide you over?” I ask breathlessly, pulling out my checkbook and a pen.
“What?” She gapes at me as though I’ve turned into an alien.
“If you go to the police and they take your stepfather away, how much will you and your mother need to not end up on the street?”
She blinks. “Our rent is twelve hundred a month, and my mother’s disability check covers about half of it. If we could last until this summer, I’d get a full-time job and pitch in, but—”
“Okay, hold on.” I prop the checkbook against the side of a building and write out a check for five thousand dollars. I planned to use that money to send my parents on an anniversary cruise this summer, but I’ll come up with a less costly gift.
