by Sophia Gray
“Maybe crackers,” I mumbled to myself as I slunk out of the bathroom with a fuzzy robe wrapped around me. It was periwinkle blue with birds on it. A gift from my dad, who was worried I’d end up in one of those dorms with the communal bathrooms down the hall on the same floor as crazy, lecherous boys.
It hadn’t turned out that way, but I was grateful for the robe all the same.
I headed into the kitchen intending on crackers, but I couldn’t find anything like that—I didn’t even have bread for toast right now—and made a mental note to go grocery shopping. The only thing in the fridge was a jar of half gone pickles, mustard, and what might have been bologna, but maybe not.
Shuddering, I closed the fridge, started the coffee pot, and pretended this was just like any other morning. Everything was fine. I wasn’t sick. Business as usual.
It would have been a lot more convincing if I still didn’t feel awful, but there wasn’t much to be done about it. So while the coffee was brewing, I went back into my bedroom, lifting the light drapes—just a sheet Shawn and I decorated with goofy-looking stars and what might have been a cow at the time—to the side and heading in. A sudden wave of nausea swept me and I had to stop. I breathed through my nose until it passed.
My closet looked like a shoebox, but that was about right given that the whole dirt-cheap studio apartment was like a miniature size of a real apartment. It almost made me feel like the Barbie dolls I used to play with as a kid. I was grateful it wasn’t all baby pink, at least.
I didn’t have a lot of clothes, so at least digging in that small closet wasn’t too difficult. I grabbed a pair of sweats that used to belong to Shawn and a tank top, because I wasn’t doing glamorous today. Monica, one of the girls I met out here when I moved, told me a thousand times you should always dress to impress; that way when you met the love of your life you’d look appealing and he wouldn’t just walk right past you. But I only half listened to Monica, and our definitions of “dressing to impress” were a little different anyway.
I grabbed a sweatshirt, too. Go Owls.
By the time the coffee was finished, I was dressed. I didn’t put on the sweatshirt, because I was still feverish and didn’t feel like sweating. I poured myself a cup of coffee—my stomach gurgled uncertainly at the smell of it, making me frown; I loved coffee—just as my phone went off.
I glanced at the caller ID: Shawn.
“Hello?” I said, leaning over the counter and feeling suddenly exhausted.
“Hey, what’s the matter? You sound…not awake. Are you okay?”
Shawn was like that. He just knew when something was up with me, like he could sense it or something. It was both sweet and a little unnerving sometimes.
We’d been friends since we were children, best friends actually, and when I moved out to the city to go to college, he followed. We’d been planning something along those lines anyway, but some part of me thought he wouldn’t really go, and some part of him thought I wouldn’t really go.
Either way, here we were.
“I think I’ve got the flu,” I groaned, feeling miserable. “You should probably steer clear of me. I’m a wreck.”
I could practically hear the frown in his voice as he answered. “The flu? Shit, you’d better stay home. Have you talked to Mrs. Sylvia? I’ll ask her for an extension; she’s a marshmallow when you play on her maternal side. Have you seen the doctor? ’Cause the flu can be—”
“Shawn.” I said his name just a little sharply, just to get him to stop rambling. He had a habit of getting really paranoid and worried over me, even when he didn’t need to. That was just part of it with us. “I’m fine. I just don’t feel too good. I’ve been throwing up.”
Normally, I wouldn’t really be comfortable telling a guy that. No girl wanted a guy to think she was doing gross things like puking up the contents of her stomach into the toilet, but I really didn’t care with Shawn. We told each other everything and I knew he wouldn’t judge me.
“Tell me that means you are now back in bed, resting,” he said, but it was with resignation, like he already knew the answer before I said anything.
I sighed. “You know I’ve got that exam!”
“I told you, I’ll get an extension for you. Mrs. Sylvia loves me.”
It was true; she did have a soft spot for Shawn. Which was utterly ridiculous in my book, since he didn’t even have class with her. He just liked to hang out with me and got special permission to attend class with me, too. Somehow, he was good at sweet-talking her like that even when she seemed to hate everyone else. It sucked, but it could be useful at times.
For a long moment, I considered it. An extension would be nice. I was feeling really gross and I wasn’t entirely certain I wouldn’t need to throw up again in the middle of class. Still, an extension also meant there was a stronger chance of me forgetting everything I’d just studied for yesterday—and for the last three days. A big part of me just wanted to get the damn thing over with already.
That was the part that won out in the end.
“I can’t put it off,” I finally told Shawn. “I just need it over. Done. It’s been stressing me out and, you know, I’ll bet that’s why I got sick in the first place.”
I heard a sigh through the phone. “Okay, okay. But I’m giving you a ride to school. And once your exam is over, it’s straight to bed with you. We’ll do popcorn and movies on the couch, cuddle up until you feel better.”
I winced a little at his suggestion, but only because he couldn’t see me. Sometimes he got all girly on me without meaning to. He was like the best guy in the world to hang out with, but sometimes he just wouldn’t go. He was a smotherer and I always thought it was a little weird.
Still. Movies and hanging out time while I was sick didn’t sound too bad. “I’m really sick,” I reminded him, but it was a feeble thing. Secretly, I wanted him to be stubborn and come over anyway, because I felt gross and I wanted him to tell me I was awesome. “I’m probably contagious, too.”
“Pfft. What’s a little contagion between friends?” he asked, and I laughed. “I’ll be over in fifteen. Wait for me, Madeline.”
I agreed and hung up the phone.
As promised, Shawn knocked on my apartment door fifteen minutes later. When I opened it, he stood there holding chai that looked like it was still steaming and a takeout bowl of something. Probably chicken noodle soup. I smiled gratefully at him and urged him in, closing the door behind me.
Once he was just two steps inside my tiny little apartment, he stopped and turned to look at me. He raised a single eyebrow. “Really?” he asked.
I frowned at him. “What? What’s wrong?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. I just want to know how it is that you can be sicker than a dog and still look like you walked out of some modeling photo shoot. Jeez, even after throwing up you look amazing.”
I laughed at him heartily, which I was sure was the desired effect. He always knew just what to say to make me feel better. I punched him lightly in the arm. “You’re such a good friend. I know I look like hell.”
He gave me a funny look, like maybe I’d hurt his feelings, but then he put the soup and tea down, and when he turned to look at me again the expression was gone. Probably just my imagination anyway. “I still think you should stay home,” he told me. “The exam will be there when you’re feeling better.”
I waved him off, taking up the tea. It was a chai latte, which was ten times better than just chai, and I took a long sip, grateful that it seemed to soothe my picky stomach that morning. “This is, like, the best thing ever.”
He smiled at me, almost tenderly, but quickly it turned into a grin. “Heaven in a cup, am I right?”
“Definitely. Drive me to class?”
He sighed, but nodded. “Duh. Why do you think I’m here?”
I got home maybe three or four hours later. I was feeling so much better than I had been that morning, the abrupt change making me think maybe it was only a stomach bug rather
than the flu. People didn’t get over the flu in three hours, right?
Since I was overall feeling so much better, I told Shawn we could pass on the movie night. He seemed disappointed, which was weird to me. Why would anyone want to spend their afternoon hanging out with a sick, puking person? I figured he was just bored or trying to avoid homework—he was majoring in physical education, which I thought was a waste of time and maybe just an excuse to be at college with me rather than any real desire on his part—so I waved off his hurt look.
It was totally exaggerated anyway, right?
I closed the door to my apartment and dropped my bag off on the floor beside the door. I’d worry about the heavy books inside it later. For a little bit, I just wanted to be grateful that I had completed my exam successfully and feel at least a little sure that I’d done well.
I went to the fridge first before realizing there was nothing in it.
Frowning, I debated takeout. I didn’t have a lot of free cash—I had financial aid since my dad’s farm had been doing so poorly and I worked part time at a little coffee shop down the street—but I could afford to eat out every once in a while. But I’d rather have something in the fridge for later.
Besides, nothing sounded good except really bad Chinese, and that wasn’t good for me. I was trying to avoid the freshman fifteen—which was more like the freshman forty, but since I wasn’t a freshman anymore it didn’t really count like that, though the same concept applied.
So instead, I decided I would grab the spare cash I kept hidden and run down to the store to buy groceries.
I should probably add tampons to the list, I added mentally as I went into the bathroom to check the mirror cabinet where I kept my little stash. As I was grabbing it out of the case that was supposed to be for dental floss, I accidentally knocked over the box of tampons. They scattered across the floor and I cursed as I knelt down to gather them up.
That was when I noticed it with a frown. There were a lot of them. Like, way more than there should have been. As I stuffed them back into the box, I started counting backwards. When did I buy them last? Usually I had to buy them every month, but I couldn’t remember buying them that month. Or last month.
My frown deepened and I ended up leaving them sitting in the box as I hurried over to the calendar over the sink.
The days for my period were marked with red circles, colored in whenever I started day one.
Except the last two months they weren’t colored in. In fact, I was coming up fast on what should have been my next period, and with a sinking realization, I understood that this was not good. This was definitely not good. A couple of years ago, I wouldn’t have freaked. I didn’t have sex very often—I’d only been with two guys, the last one was three years ago—so I didn’t think about it much, but now a glittering hot memory flashed through my head of that night club and the dancing and the guy who’d taken me home.
The sexy, gorgeous man who I sometimes still thought about even though it had been two months ago and I hadn’t heard from him again.
My shoulders slumped. Two months ago. No period. And now I was feeling sick in the morning. I grabbed my cash, ran to the corner store, bought Twinkies, Doritos, a six pack of cola, and several bags of unpopped popcorn, a pregnancy test, and a box of the good kind of chocolate. The sales lady gave me a pointed look, but didn’t say anything as she rang up my goods. I went home and before I’d even unpacked anything, I stuffed a whole Twinkie into my mouth, washed it down with the large soda, and went into the bathroom to pee on a stick.
It was the longest two and a half minutes of my life. Right until the two seconds it took me to register that there was a single pink line indicating positive.
Chapter 2
Nikolai
Two Months Earlier
I had little left of my Russian accent, though I clung lightly to what remained of my heritage. Mostly it was a name, a love of vodka, and ties to the family business here in the USA. I was good at my job, though it was hard to say whether or not being good at it counted as enjoyment. It wasn’t the sort of thing one was supposed to enjoy.
But still.
Most of the time people thought of mobsters as old school gangsters, complete with Tommy guns and pinstriped suits. That was mostly old hat at this juncture, but some things lingered with the times. Useful things. Like contract killers, men hired to take out “problems.” Men like me.
We met at an Italian bistro—not that it mattered since the food was all Americanized in the end, and no one cooked like my mother did anyway—Bella, Bella, and made it through the entire meal without talking a bit about business. Pasta, tossed salad, dinner rolls, and some sort of soup that was probably the closest thing to homemade cooking in the entire place. It was the only thing I finished, though I insisted on a to-go container just to make sure Mickey, who I thought was Italian until I learned that Mickey was actually just a nickname for Mikhail so as not to invoke any negative connotations to his name, didn’t get insulted by my lack of appetite. He’d have told me he wasn’t offended, but he would have been a liar, so I was going to take home two containers of processed crap just to make sure our business affairs stayed smooth.
When Mickey was finally finished, he dabbed at his double chin. There were three wise guys in town who were of any note. Mickey here, with his round frame and mushy gray beard that couldn’t decide if it was trying for salt and pepper or just going that dirty gray color. His eyes were a watery blue color that reminded me more of home than anything else, but were always shrewd, even when the rest of him was trying to be jovial and kind. Then there was Grigory, who was tall and thin and liked to fight with Mickey over having such a ridiculous nickname, even though they grew up together and it didn’t really bother him anymore. He’d say, “It’s not traditional, Denis, not even a little.” And finally, there was Zackary, who sounded like he should have been a huge, giggling fat man, but was actually just shaped like a box. A box with sparkling gray eyes and the promise that things would go badly if you pushed him into a corner.
All three of these men were the kind of people you wanted as friends, not enemies, but usually it was just better not to know them altogether. At least, it was better if you didn’t want to walk a fine line that was usually on the wrong side of the law.
As it stood, I did know them and the three of them always had some sort of job for me. Tonight, it just happened to be Mickey, and I wasn’t complaining. Mickey was a practical man, despite his show of excess and luxury. He understood the price of a thing and was willing to pay that price if it meant a good job done in the end.
That was what people were paying me for in the end: a good job. I was the best in the business and that came with a rather impressive price tag.
“He’s some kid,” Mickey finally began to explain to me, getting into the meat of the job. “Some kid who was just supposed to be a contractor. Good, wholesome kid. From some farm in the middle of fly-over-America, the places no one cares about. A corn-fed boy, you know?”
I nodded. These were the sorts of people you always had to be on the lookout for, though I didn’t bother pointing that out to Mickey. He hired this kid because he was cheap and seemed so honest, but in my experience, it was always the innocent, small town farm kids who moved to the big bad city you had to be wary of. They never understood what it took to make it in the city and it made them do funny, unpredictable things.
Like this homegrown kid had apparently done.
“So, we hired him to do a little work for us, right? Good, paying work. Just needed someone to come in a put up some new framework. Some structure. That old hovel isn’t working anymore. We need better. So, we hire him to put up a new business home for us and you know what he does?”
I knew for a fact that he was talking about a sort of unofficial headquarters for the mob, a place where they could hold meetings and discuss “delicate things” amongst themselves without any prying ears. And I also knew no one would call it a hovel except for Mickey. It wa
s bigger than the library in New York City and it was just as beautiful. But they had a rat problem recently, and I wasn’t talking about small rodents.
“He steals from us.”
And there it was. Why I was here.
There were three things you didn’t do where the mob was concerned. Go to the cops was number one, which I was pretty certain applied to any sort of criminal organization, period. Go to other mobs—the Italians or the Irish, for example—and give them your business. That was pretty straightforward, too. The mob was all about loyalty, and going against your own people didn’t get you in good with the other people anyway, so no one fucked with that one much either. But the last one was the one people had a hard time with. It was also the one that very quickly got you killed, regardless of who you knew.
Number three was stealing, and you never got away with it.
“Do you have a name for me?” I asked, my accent slightly thicker since I’d been spending the evening with Mickey, who took pride in sounding as Russian as possible. Mostly a show since I knew his English was near perfect, but he was from the Motherland, so it wasn’t exactly fake either.
