Fearless 2

by Amarie Avant

  I stand to my full height, chest puffed out, lips sneered. Yuri is just as menacing, in his coal gray suit and shiny shoes. The crowded cell is divided in half as the guys smell a fight coming on. We toe around each other, sizing each other up, as if this is our first fight.

  “I’m fucking tired of you calling the shots, Vassili,” he says.

  “Shut your cunt, do something, then!” I’ll allow him to toss the first punch. Then I’m gonna punch his face in!

  My cousin goes for a cross hook. Too bad there’s a faint glint in his eye which reads exactly what he’s intending to do before he strikes. My hand catches his fist, and then I smack it down.

  His stance is all wrong as he issues a sloppy uppercut. The hit is thwarted by my forearm. I laugh just as my cousin slides his shoe between my Nike’s, tripping me up.

  The readymade crowd cheers as Yuri’s heavy body lunges toward mine. I counter the takedown with a knee to his jewels. The cheers are followed by heckling. Fuck them, I wanted him to stop with the pussy monologue.

  “Fu—” Yuri stops breathing, grabbing at his balls.

  “See, I was just waiting for you to shut up, kazen.”

  He lowers himself, bullrushes me with his head spearing toward my abdomen. Like a wave, the tight-knit group of guys move to the opposite side of the cell. My hands gather into a tight fist above my head, and I pound against his spine as my own slams against the cement wall.

  “Fuck,” I gasp, hardly able to get the word out myself.

  Yuri starts pounding against my lungs. Shit, I’ve taught this fucker too much while he watches my practices and my matches. I reach beneath and grab his neck, spinning him around. When Yuri’s ass hits the ground, his eyes are wide with shock. I have him in a triangle choke hold, the one I promised to Karsoff for his mouth. Well, my cousin’s mouth is even more annoying. So, I continue to choke, and watch his face shake, his lips gloss with spittle and him gasping for air.

  CLANK. CLANK. CLANK.

  A baton grates along the bars. The noise aggravates my ears, so I let go of my cousin. He falls face first on the ground.

  “Hey, you boneheads, break it up or no calls,” the guard says.

  I hold my palms out, as innocent as they come.

  “Resnov,” he shouts, “Which one of you fucks is Resnov?”

  “Right here,” I nod, holding my side, as my cousin croaks.

  “Well, who wants to make their call first?” He glances between us, the pathetic pair that we are.

  “By all means,” Yuri wheezes out at me.

  The electronic bars slide open, and I determine who’s more than capable hands will get us out of the mess that I’ve made…

  Zariah

  Fog surrounds my brain, yet I feel like I’m clinging to something entirely too soft to be my husband’s frame. The scent fusing into my nostrils is faint although it sends another moan roaming along my throat. Vassili’s musk surrounds me. The thought hits me that the scent of him is a day old, and I rouse myself awake.

  “Vassili,” I grumble, pushing away his pillow. My eyes begin to adjust to early morning as I mope. “Why didn’t you wake me up when you got home last—”

  I sit up. His side of the bed is empty. The digital clock reads 4:10AM. Where the hell is my husband? I reach for my cell phone and the charger that I could’ve sworn was connected to it, but the cord slips between the bed and the nightstand. Damn, I didn’t plug my phone in all the way last night.

  I press the home button of the iPhone. It has no juice. My attempt is in vain. While sticking my hand between our custom-made bed post, I bump my temple on the edge of the nightstand.

  “Zar, wake up girl.” I can hear my husband’s usual response within my psyche. It’s too early for a macchiato, and he should be here.

  Leaning down, my fingertips feel for the charger, and I finally clasp it. Sitting back up, I connect it to my cell phone.

  The brightness of the white screen burns my retinas, and for a fraction of a second, the burgeoning bump on my temple no longer exists. I start listening to a stream of voicemails. There’s one from 9pm from an Atlanta area code. Since the number isn’t familiar, I skip it, and click on my mother’s message. What was she calling me for after 2am?

  “The boys missed their flight, honey, don’t worry.” Her indication not to ‘worry’ unsettles me.

  There’s a voicemail promptly after hers from Vassili’s phone number. I listen as he confirms the alibi my mom previously offered. “Uh, beautiful, we will just stay the night at your ma’s. We… couldn’t get back in enough time.”

  Hmmm, his thick Russian accent mixed with the ‘got my hand caught in the cookie jar’ tone further sets my intuition at work. I click on the oldest message from 10PM.

  “Sweetheart, I need you to call me at this number.” Vassili seems to be treading water. “Soon as you can, girl, call me.”

  Due to him not utilizing his cell phone to “call me,” I dial the strange number. When I hear a greeting about the ‘county jail’ my heart flops in my chest. What the hell is going on?

  I dial Vassili.

  The call transfers straight to voicemail. “Boy, call me when you get this,” I say through gritted teeth. “Are you in jail?” Damn it, I’m so rattled that I’m acting like my mother from circa 2010, when I was a senior in high school. She’d leave elaborate voicemails with questions and seemed hell bent on an answer. “Call me.” I get the words out again and mash the END call button.

  Next, I dial my mother’s number. It’s a little after 7am and I swear if she doesn’t answer, my fury will be unleashed.

  “Good morning, honey. What are you doing up so early?”

  The usual background soundtrack of pots and pans clanking around settles me for a moment. My mom is safe and at home. But what more can I expect, she’s a creature of habit. “Mom, where is Vassili? Is he there or is he in jail?’

  “He and Yuri spent the night. They missed their flight. I have more than enough room. You received my message, right?”

  My spidey senses are blazing. She disregarded my statement about jail. Nobody just lets something like ‘so how are you doing, did you just get out of jail?’ slip from the conversation. It’s something that you correct to clear your name. At least, I believe so. Instead of demanding answers, I inquire, “How did they miss their flight?”

  “Okay, Maxwell Tavion Washington Junior, what’s with the questions? You should be sound asleep. They’re still asleep. I’m making breakfast. If you’ve completed your interrogation and would like to talk to me or provide a message for him, I don’t mind...”

  “Mommy, I am going to ask you one more time,” I assert myself, in a respectable tone. “Did Vassili take a trip to the jailhouse, lose his phone there, get rob…” Wait, I can’t see my husband as a victim of a crime, let alone imagine a viable robbery scenario. “Was he in jail anytime last night?”

  The sounds of banging pots and pans continues. “Hmmm, let me think back.”

  “Momma!”

  “I bailed them out. It’s not like my alimony checks couldn’t cushion the blow, but Yuri transferred the money back into my account. It was nothing, honey, nothing at all.”

  I grumble and gripe for a moment. Damn it, my mother is covering for my husband’s antics. She bailed them out.

  Is Taryn right about Vassili’s undeniable connection to his family business?

  Did he and Yuri …

  What the heck have they been up to?

  “Oh god, did they…” My throat is constricted, which is a saving grace because Nancy Grace has nothing on me when it comes to taking names and asking questions. And damn it, I cannot have this conversation over the phone. I begin to hyperventilate. Can I have this conversation over the phone? It implies that my husband is part of a criminal organization. I press my head back against the bedframe, and sigh heavily.

  “Zariah, stop over thinking everything. Girl, I can hear your mind churning a thousand miles away. All is well.”

&nb
sp; I scoff. “My mother bailed my husband out of jail. This is some bullshit. Mom, forgive me for cussing with you.” I shake my head, considering the conversation that I had with Taryn and her mother yesterday evening. There was no such thing as censorship with regard to their mother-daughter relationship. “I just can’t believe this, dang.”

  “Honey, breathe.”

  “Oh, trust me, if I’m capable of communicating, then I’m more than proficient at breathing, no matter how much of a feat it is at the moment.” I grip the phone in my hand and grumble more. “You tell that man to call me when he wakes up. I have a bone to pick with him.”

  “Zariah—”

  “No, there’s a couch with his name on it if he wants to go gallivanting around ATL! Shit, he’s in the dog house. Love you, Mama.” I hurry to end the call as my own imagination begins to take me under.

  Through thick and thin… good or bad… I have to lead with my heart, and Vassili owns it. My breaths seize up at that thought. He’s my eternity, no matter what…

  ***

  Natasha is grumpy all day. I consult with Samuel after telling him that I need the day off. Damn it, but I just came back from vacation. There’s a man whose perception of my last name ‘Resnov’ needs correcting and here I am, calling off work.

  Samuel said he had friends in the department and would look into why Vassili and Yuri went to jail. Yes, I’m aware that the public database will allow me access to whatever shenanigans they’ve been up to. But hearing the story from the horse’s mouth is my aim. And then, with the assistance of Sammy, we will fix whatever foolishness those two have caused.

  When I arrive at LAX, I don’t resemble the respectable black girl my parents raised me for. I’m in yoga pants and a camisole, holding Natasha. She’s dressed to the nines—come to find out, all those pink designer bags in the foyer of the Takahashi mansion belonged to her. Taryn’s mother said she ‘just couldn’t help herself’ and I’d be damned if Natasha didn’t have more clothing to wear than possible before she grows out of them. So, we are a pair. She’s positioned on my hip, and I’m at the bottom of the escalator, frown set, waiting for Vassili to come down so I can smack him a good one.

  He always trends on Twitter and Facebook during a match, but today, he’s being slammed for fighting an unarmed man. That much I gathered from the Facebook newsfeeds on my cell phone. I told Samuel that his hands are registered, and he broke the bad news earlier. Vassili will have to return to Atlanta to speak with a judge next Tuesday. For fighting.

  I am livid. I am going to listen to his story, and then I am going to rip him apart for being so stupid. There is no amount of foolishness in the world that can cause a man to need to use his hands on another. Unless someone disrespects my mama, I handle my shit in a civilized manner.

  “Natasha, I’m going to talk to Daddy until he is sick and tired of my voice, yes, I am, cutie pie,” I tell her. She smiles at me, all because I mentioned her father’s name. Little traitor. “Daddy’s in trouble.”

  “Daddy,” she giggles.

  “Trouble.” I accentuate the word, through tensed lips, though it doesn’t resonate properly with our daughter. With the imaginary ‘angry black woman’ stamp on my forehead, people have steered clear of me. Yet in this crowded place, the anger resonating from my body pales as I feel him. Vassili is here. My gaze ascends the escalator, and there he is.

  The chocolatey waves of his mohawk caress ever so softly against his brutal dark eyes. He looks like the badass he was painted as. And he’s wearing the same jeans and shirt he wore when leaving yesterday morning. Our eyes connect as the escalator brings him closer to me. My lips twitch with how harshly they are set. He looks happy to see me. Keep your anger. He’s in trouble. Don’t give in, Zar, don’t do it!

  “Daddy!” Arms open wide, Natasha tries to lunge from my arms. In her glee of seeing her father, the danger goes over her head. I grip at Natasha’s knees in an attempt to save her. Vassili is at our side in seconds, scooping her up before she can fall.

  “Girl, you are not ready to jump yet.” His ropey, strong arms grip her tightly. She kisses his cheek as he tells her how much he missed her in Russian.

  Yuri is behind this beautiful pair that melts my heart. When I see him, my eyes narrow again. “Hello.” I eye the two cousins.

  Aware of the storm that’s brewing inside of me, Yuri nods subtly.

  “Zariah, girl, don’t look like that.” Vassili’s sexy voice tempts me to forgive him as he kisses Natasha’s cheek, and she settles her arms around his neck. He reaches out to kiss me as well—

  On the heels of my tennis shoes, I go, turning around without offering him a word.

  Fifteen minutes later, we have walked through the car garage, with Vassili attempting every other minute to rouse a ‘friendly’ conversation out of me.

  “You want me to drive?” he asks, once we’re a few yards away from my car.

  “Do you want to explain why you beat up Matthew Overstreet? I don’t know of him. Explain that to me—”

  “She doesn’t know?” Yuri grunts.

  Vassili gives him a look.

  “Oh, so you two are trading signals now.” It was a stiff finger into his face. “Yuri, talk to me, buddy. What kinda fun where the two of you having last night, that lead you to—”

  “Zariah,” Vassili’s voice booms against my chest cavity. His tone startles Natasha into a frown which brings an onset of tears. He kisses her cheek, mumbles something about ‘chalk chalk’ that makes her smile. “It was not like that. I will talk to you about it later. That’s a promise.”

  Yuri gives him a look.

  “You want to tell me, Yuri, go ahead.” I fold my arms.

  My husband passes our child like a bag of potatoes to his cousin. He gets in my face, “I’m not fucking talking to you right now. You gave me the cold shoulder, Zariah. Allow me to mention, there’d be hell to pay if the situation were reversed. You’d have a problem with me ignoring you, but I won’t dish the same shit you just served. We will have this chat later.” He grabs my arm firmly and escorts me to the passenger seat, while Yuri straps Natasha into her car seat before sitting on the opposite side of her.

  “What possessed you to fight the man, Vassili?” I ask once Vassili navigates the freeway for a time.

  “Girl, I just tried to have a conversation with you, you refused. Now, you will wait.”

  “Boy, you might have jeopardized your career. How am I the only one making logical sense? So, what the hell’s next, Vassili, since you just might have sent your ass to jail for fighting a civilian. You can’t fight a common citizen off the streets!”

  He gives me a stiff shoulder.

  “Will you follow in your father’s footsteps?” I argue. It was a low, way below the belt comment, but Vassili understands the type of woman I am. At least, I assumed he knew that I want better for him. When you love someone, disappointment is a hard pill to swallow.

  And I know he isn’t like his father, but Vassili has jeopardized his career and love… the MMA world... for fighting so I must be a bitch.

  Vassili

  “My father?” I spit the question while rubbing at the stubble along my jaw. I had less than three hours of sleep last night. When Zamora bailed us out, I once again reiterated my promise that I wouldn’t tell Zariah about her relationship with Overstreet. Now, I’m in a fucking predicament.

  And now, my wife just compared me to that piz’da? “You believe so little of me?”

  “I apologize.” Her shoulders rise and fall slowly. “Toss me a few facts, Vassili. Make me believe otherwise. So, we can get you out of this mess you’ve made.”

  “Uh, Zariah,” Yuri speaks up from the backseat. “We didn’t do shit. That douchebag provoked us.”

  “Did he now?” She scooches around in her seat, voice dangerously content. I almost tell my cousin not to speak. Anything he says is incriminating. My wife has this built-in lie detector test, and I’m still stuck on her fucking statement about my fat
her.

  Instead of letting Yuri taste his own foot, I throw the ball in her court. “You’d compare me to that motherfucker? You think I’m like my father?”

  “Don’t yell at me.” Her chin juts. “I’m trying to help you.”

  “Tell me, Zariah,” my hands tighten around the steering wheel in disgust, “How the fuck am I like my dad?”

  She’s silent for a moment.

  “Huh!” My bark sends her shoulders jolting. “First of all, you’re good at keeping secrets.”

  I grunt and turn toward the road. Fuck, she has me there. “What else?”

  “You’re acting like a heathen, fighting people. Can we just go back to an hour ago, chat this out, Vassili, please?”

  I shake my head. My father has people to kill people. And my wife is throwing elbows at me for a measly fight? “Girl, I’m a professional fighter, so come with it. Come harder. How the fuck am I like Anatoly?”

  She snaps, “You—”

  “You guys,” Yuri says. “The daughter that the two of you had together looks like she’s about to cry now. Can you knock it off for a while?”

  We’re back to silence.

  ***

  Later on, I spent hours getting Natasha to fall asleep. Every time I sang the Russian ABCs, which is usually her favorite, she’d fall into a fitful sleep, only to awaken.

  “You worried Daddy’s gonna leave?” I ask, rubbing her back. My daughter smiles up at me with her few teeth. Only one of her eyes closes, just a further reminder that getting out of the nursery, without her being in a deep slumber, might be the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

  “Should we start on our story? The one about the princess and her ogre of a father?” I ask. She gives a sleepy little coo. Since Natasha was eight months old, and fighting swollen, teething gums, I started on a super exaggerated story I made up just to hear her laughter. While I’m adding dragons to the story, I hear a doorbell ring. My stomach rumbles. Good. I heard Zariah making a call to Taiwan Chang's, one of our favorite takeout spots, when I’d given Natasha a bath.

  Thirty minutes later, I tiptoe to the door of the nursery. I consider washing the day off, but head downstairs instead. Zariah is in the den, seated in my leather chair. She’s got her legs folded under her, and those freshly showered dark brown thighs look creamy in just a pajama shirt. There’s a carton of chow mein in her hand. She’s eating it with chopsticks and offering me an angry stare. I head to the kitchen, pick up the brown paper bag from the island. It’s empty.