by Amarie Avant
“This big bad wolf?” I cock a brow.
He nods. “This place serves two purposes. I learn to communicate with quote-unquote victims, before I move along to DA.”
I can appreciate a man with confidence, but he just made our clients seem like nobody’s. “What better way to do it than with the ex-Chef Deputy District Attorney and working with a demographic that actually needs people to give a damn.”
“Precisely. Is that still your plan as well?” he inquires.
This is the perfect opportunity to insert myself. “No, my original plan would’ve caused me to burn out before I made enough money to give a damn. So my father once worked with yours? And apparently I know you?” I cross my legs, lean forward, and await his response. Usually it makes a man choke when I’m too forward.
“Damn, woman, you truly are an attorney. We either lie or bite. That hurt.” He offers a killer smile. “You don’t remember me, whatsoever?”
He asks questions for my questions. My lips set into a line. This is a man’s world, but baby, I play well. “Do you have a problem with my husband? Or just my last name in general?”
Tyrese rubs his clean-shaven face. I can’t stand a man whose face looks like a babies’ ass. “This conversation is headed exactly where I anticipated. Zariah, I’m just astounded by your choice in a husband.”
“Elaborate,” I grit out, unable to fathom why I’m having this idiotic conversation with a man who has no relevance in my marriage. But I’ll let him build his case? And then I’ll be the lawyer, hell, I’ll play judge, jury and executioner on his ass. I see my father through his gaze. So judgmental.
“You always wanted to get the bad guy when you were a kid, then you married him.”
Who the hell is this man and why does he believe he knows me?
Tyrese’s desk phone rings on key. The motherfucker has the last word as picks up the headset he offers a greeting into the receiver.
“Put whomever you’re speaking to on hold,” I order.
“Excuse me for a second.” Tyrese places a hand over the receiver. “We can finish this conversation later. How about lunch—”
“Now!” My index finger slams onto the mute button. “Let’s start with an apology because apparently, you’re learning to become apologetic while working with victims of spousal abuse and whatnot.” I huff. “Oh, and while we’re on the record, damn it, I apologize that you were forgettable when we were teens. I’m actually making that assessment based on how old you look, mid-twenties like myself. So, with that said, I’m going to be apologetic enough to forget you’re a misjudge of character. My marriage has nothing to do with you. If I were to become a defense attorney, believe that whomever I’m set to prosecute will receive the same service as the next man or woman and so on and so forth! While you came to the conclusion that I lost my fucking mind and married a hoodlum, I’ll go ahead and grant you that assessment. Cause Vassili will knock you down to size for continuing to flirt with me.”
“Zariah, I’m not trying to be a dick—”
“That concludes this conversation. Have a blessed day.” See, Tye Tribbett and the gospel choir have assisted me with starting off the day.
***
Danny has a humongous knife in her hand, and she slices and dices like she’s worked at a butcher shop. She’s a pale blonde, with a thin yoga body and I assumed that our lunch would consist of all veggies, as evidenced by her cutting more cucumbers and zucchini for the salad on the counter. But it’s almost 1pm, and I’m nursing an expensive glass of wine, with a name that I cannot pronounce, while sitting in a kitchen so large its comparable to my master suite becoming a walk-in closet. And the aroma in the oven is to die for.
“Almost ready?” I ask. “Girl, that lasagna has my stomach rumbling.
“Let’s see…” Danny peeks inside of the oven, mumbles in Russian and tosses her mittens onto the Italian marble countertop.
“Maybe I should’ve taken you to lunch instead?” She gives a wry smile while heading back to the chair across from me.
“No worries, here. I could lose a few pounds,” I say, comfortably seated in the plush chair. Ironically, I’m constructing the perfect tiny sausage and aged-cheese slices on a square cracker. These damn things are good.
“I really did learn to cook. Horace, too. Albeit, we always had the chef there to instruct us.” She chuckles. “Because of you I’m not frowning, and life is good, you know?”
I nod. “I really am happy for you.”
“My favorite line use to be Russian Men, pah!” She makes a face at that. “I can’t believe Horace swept me off my feet. I can’t believe we are a year into our marriage. It’s crazy.”
“It is crazy, in retrospect. How we were raised.” I shake my head in thought.
“Yes! You should be with some anal-retentive businessman. I should be with … someone not Russian.”
“Humph, I met the perfect guy as far as past expectations go.”
“Like your father?” she asks. I nod. When I nod, Danny scoffs. “Rigid beliefs. High expectations? Say it isn’t so!”
“Yes, we have a new attorney at Billingsley Legal. He knows me from back when I was a rigid teenager—well, that’s how I suspect he knows me based on his disappointment in my choice of husband.”
“What?” Danushka offers one of her signature frowns.
“Well, this asshole comes to me with this notion that I’ve lost touch with reality due to the man I married.”
“Oh goodness. I dated a football player once. My family expected him to be uneducated and…” she leans back in her chair. “And I didn’t care how the guy treated me as long as he…”
“Wasn’t Russian?” I finish her sentence, tasting the crisp smooth wine.
“Yup. This is why I love you, Zar. Not only do you finish my sentences. But we both married men we couldn’t fathom spending the rest of our lives with.”
“We stepped out on faith and it paid off.” I agree with her wholeheartedly. My soul is settled having a friend like Danushka who, unlike Taryn, fights for something good. In my past, I never saw myself with a knight in shining armor. I have my father to thank for that. There’d be no acting in a certain demeanor or even at the very least catering to my husband’s expectations. I never knew marriage was about unity until I met Vassili and we became a team. Working at Billingsley Legal helps with that as well.
***
Later on, Danny and I are stuffed. The recipe to the lasagna she made is in my leather purse as she walks me past a marble fountain to her front door.
“I really am considering the housewarming in Italy,” Danushka says. “We have yet to meet each other’s husbands, and vacation makes for a good double date, right?”
I nod my head in agreement. There were too many times in the past that either Vassili was out of town, promoting an upcoming match, or her husband was away on business. “We can always set aside everything for some ‘us’ time, and Italy sounds just like the place to do it.”
Vassili
Las Vegas, One Month Later…
I’ve read my Bible this morning to Natasha, yet anxiety tears through my soul. The faint thump of music through the cement walls in the background signifies that the second match is now beginning. I finish my prayer, kiss the cross around my neck and stand up.
Fight, Vassili. Get in fight mode. God has blessed you…
I’ve told myself a thousand times now isn’t the time to fixate on bullshit, but to focus on my capabilities. What I can control, but before I can mentally offer the same credo again, I ask, “No news on Danushka?”
“Not now, Vassili,” Vadim grumbles. “You’ve prayed, let’s warm up. Nestor.”
“I’m hot as fuck,” I tell him. I address my uncle, Malich, who’s sitting on the bench, with Yuri and Nestor, the lockers are behind them.
My arms swoosh out as I complete rapid punching combinations. I’m burning up inside, and I’m consumed with what the fuck my sister has been up to. Why email me?
> “Dyadya?” I nudge my chin to my uncle. Nestor settles back down.
“Not yet.” Malich says. My uncle isn’t much for traveling, and I can’t believe I’m ruining one of the select few times he attends my matches with talk of Danushka.
He gets up, walks over and places his hands on my shoulders. “You have a belt to get back, Vassili. The best thing Danushka has going for herself is getting into your head.”
Vadim takes over with, “Do you want Karsoff there as well? Fucking with your mind?”
I stare at them both, they already know the answer is ‘no.’ My little half-sister hasn’t reached out since dropping the bomb that she knew of Frank Gaspar’s death. Although there isn’t a stream of dead bodies everywhere I walk, her motivation has unleashed the beast in me. What is her reasoning?
“Nestor,” I cock my head to him. He jumps up. Time to spar.
***
I keep my head down. All the light is on me and it’s blinding. There’s a camera crew in front of me, tracking backward, as I head to the cage. The music is funneled into my ears with the buds that I’m wearing. Though I can’t see a foot before me, the muffled sound of screaming tells me that not a single seat in the place is empty.
“Karo…” The crowd’s chant pierces through the rap music I’m listening to.
I stop at the cutman, feeling like a caged tiger in my own skin as he applies Vaseline. Then I’m climbing up the stairs, and once into the octagon, I flip three times, and land on my side of the canvas. I miss being the favorite, the last man out, to assess my opponent as he stands here, stalking the cage. Now, here I am, the announcer is running stats for the German as he comes out.
It takes forever for the opening bells to ring, Karsoff steps forward to touch gloves, I gesture for him to get the fuck back to his side, so we can get started.
We crash into each other. Like those fucking punching boxer toys I wished for but never got in the past, we’re tossing bricks for fists when my left zeros straight for his nose, sending him stumbling backward. I press forward, taking the left jab, right jab to my chin with a sneer on my face. That mudak gets confident until my right hook strikes, sliding across his jaw. The one hit shakes Karsoff to the core, I continue hitting him every step of the way to the ground.
“Put the pressure on ‘em!” Nestor shouts from my corner.
This was too easy…
I grapple over him. Karsoff beings to turn over. Instead of protecting himself or fighting back, he grasps at the canvas as if he wants to get up and run. With this position, I loop my leg around him, and press my bicep around his neck, choking him back to me, into a triangle choke hold.
Karsoff reaches a hand around, punching my ear. The pounding causes my ear to ring. I let up, stand, shake my head. He's left in a vulnerable position. As I reach down, Karsoff’s leg swipes out. He issues a rapid succession of turtle kicks. I glare at this bitch, jumping to defend myself from his right foot.
I step back, my glare telling him to get up. I'm going to bring this cunt back down. So far, he’s tried to run and did a shitty job defending himself when I stood up. A few ‘boos’ break through the chanting crowd. I gesture for him to get up, because tonight, I feel like entertaining.
Karsoff rises. He’s back to his cocky self. This mudak was afraid of the takedown. Just as we go back to tossing punches the bell signals the end of the first round. I glare at my opponent one last time before moving toward my corner.
“You good?” Vadim asks.
“Good, Good.”
“Your knee—”
“I’m fucking good, Vadim. Knee, body. All of that. Good.” I snatch the water he hands over. “Spasibo,” I grunt out my thanks in Russian, toss the water back, pour a bit on my face, and then crunch the paper cup and flick it over my shoulder.
At the commentator table, two casters are chatting it up.
“The ferocity in which Karo came into the cage woke me up just now.”
“Me too. Almost forgot there were a few matches prior to this, and we aren’t even at the main event.”
“He’s looking better than he ever has in his entire career. And c’mon let’s face it. We can count on two fingers the time Karo didn’t rise to the occasion. He’s one of the toughest dudes in the circuit.”
“Karsoff looks more mature in the ring tonight as well, Johnny. After the first takedown, he came back smoothly. What he had going for him is matching Karo’s pace, and not flying off the handle.”
“Karsoff has made an excellent recovery, and he may be the current favorite, but I’m going against the grain. The moment Karsoff hit the canvass, he was a scared animal. If Karo can get another takedown, I predict vengeance will play out.”
That’s right, Johnny, I mumble to myself, I’m going to serve Karsoff the beatdown of his life.
The bell chimes. Time for round two. This time, when I take my opponent down, his ass won’t be getting back up.
Zariah
My heart lodges into my throat. Damn, I prayed that Karsoff would be a punk. Okay, maybe not “prayed in Jesus name” per se, but my fingers were crossed, and I wished with all my might. Vassili and Karsoff are going toe-to-toe, trading bomb for bomb like the first round was just a warmup. The announcers are shouting, and the people around me are screaming so loudly my eardrums rock.
Granted, I do my best to keep the confidence for Vassili’s sake. There may never come a day when I watch a match without squirming in my seat. Scratch that, his fight with Juggernaut last year, was over so swiftly that I didn’t even get the chance to become a ‘nervous nelly.’
Natasha is sitting in my lap, or more like standing there, jumping all over my legs. In her shimmery purple dress, with a matching ribbon in her curly hair, she makes for the perfect cheerleader for her father as Vassili does a cartwheel kick that lands on Karsoff’s ear. My husband is showing his ass now! All these signature moves that I eagerly learned put my mind in this invincible superhero mode. I snatch up some of our daughter’s energy.
“Kill ‘em, Karo!” I scream so loudly that Natasha glances back at me, her pupils dragging up and down my frame. This child of mine glares at me like: no she didn’t!
“Sorry, baby.” I chuckle, rubbing her ears. Is this child mine? This girl with her dramatic sense of humor?
“Give ‘er here,” Yuri says, seated to my left. The instant I hand Natasha over to him, I’m out of my chair screaming and performing gymnastics moves. I can’t do a third round—damn, I’m not doing much. But I can’t stomach one.
“Kill, Kill!” The vocal cords in my throat strain. Jesus, give my baby some David versus Goliath strength! A shot and drop ‘em!
There are seconds left. My eyes dart from the two of them, going brick for brick. Finally, a missile of a right-hand lands against Karsoff’s nose and a mean uppercut drops him.
He bounces up.
“Stay down, motherfucker!” I growl.
From my peripheral Yuri glances at me much like he did when I went into labor in Kentucky. Vassili stands there as Karsoff seems to forget where they are. He just popped up like a jack-in-the-box. Now, his legs are buckling like a newborn calf. Karsoff stumbles into the cage, his fingers grip onto the wiring. Vassili slams a looping right hook into the side of Karsoff’s head.
I swear, for a split second, the fighter recollected exactly where he was and what he was doing because his hands finally clenched into fists as he hit the canvass.
Vassili goes in for the kill. He slaughters Karsoff with follow-up strikes and lets his fists rain down on him. Luckily, his enemy turtles up, and the referee tosses himself into the mix.
Vassili backs up and allows Karsoff to be rescued. My husband pounds a fist against his chest. It’s barbaric, and I love every moment of it.
After a long cheer, the referee stands next to Vassili as the fight stats are announced. While Karsoff is receiving a whiff of one of those nasty sensor things that wake him with a disgusted jolt, the referee grips Vassili’s fist and holds it up.<
br />
My husband is declared the winner.
Then the commentator steps up, with microphone in hand. “This is two fights in a row now, you’ve come in and been very dominant. Karo, what’s been the difference?”
My husband’s muscular frame is drenched in sweat. “I’m just thankful to be here. God keeps my hands up. With faith, there’s only one way I’m going.”
“You made a fadeaway overhand that caught Karsoff’s temple early on. Then you gave the fans more entertainment and Karsoff a chance to redeem himself. This is one of the most entertaining matches of the season…”
***
“Aw, baby.” My lips caress a kiss on Vassili’s eyebrow which has seven stitches. He just returned to the hotel room with Yuri. I expected them to go out and celebrate. That was the plan if Natasha dozed off. The alternative is painting the town as a family.
I glance him over. He’s wearing Nike flip-flops. I can’t recall a day when his left big toe ever survived a fight. The damn thing is always broken. When I start to hug him, he grimaces.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I cringe. And then I reprimand him with, “Why don’t you ever say you’re hurt?”
I shake my head at him. I realize Yuri is watching us with longing in his eyes, and I try to be less lovey dovey, but Vassili pulls me into a bear hug with gritted teeth.
“Just one rib.”
“Boy, why don’t you ever say anything? I don’t have x-ray vision.” I softly press against his chest. “And I hate when you hurt.”
He caresses my cheek. “If my wife wants a hug, fuck it, that’s what she gets.”
“Humph! Broken ribs and all?”
“One rib, girl.”
He lets me go and heads to the bedroom, where a Disney movie is playing loudly on the Pay Per View channel. Natasha loves to sing to the music.
“I’ll be back after a quick shower.”
“Okay,” I smile and then address Yuri. “I’m sure Natasha will fall asleep in the stroller soon. You guys can just go hit the club.”
