Fearless: a Sports Romance

by Avant, Amarie

  Concern for Ronisha is at the forefront of my mind as I attempt to persuade her. “Mom, what if I just attend UCLA for the first semester…”

  “Girl, no you will not! Your father applied to his alma mater without your knowledge. Besides, those good intentions of yours will only stunt your growth. Sweetheart, you aren’t Ronisha’s mother. You can't continue to look out for her to the detriment of yourself. Spelman is your dream.”

  Vassili

  “Vassili, you crazy?” Yuri grumbles, one hand on the wheel of his SUV while on the way to my uncle, Malich’s, estate. The choppy gray Venice Beach water has disappeared from sight as he navigates Neilson Way and then turns on Ocean Park Boulevard.

  He’s right, I’m crazy. I don’t deserve to breathe the same air as her. I’m cut from a bad cloth, and she’s pure goodness. Something told me that deep down underneath the anger she felt for Ronisha was innocence. I’m playing with my phone. I just found out her full name is Zariah Washington. I like it. And she’s eighteen to my twenty-one. Her birthday just passed this March. Good, I don't fuck jailbait, but I’d be lying through my teeth if I claimed that I wouldn’t wait. In retrospect, I waited very long for Zariah anyway.

  “This bitch’s pop is the chief of police and you want to carry out a hit for her? Malich would be elated about your first, but for a bitch…that bitch? Washington isn't on…”

  Yuri’s voice trails off since I stopped looking at her graduation photo and shoot him a glare. It’s not even necessary for me to tell him to stop disrespecting her and calling Zariah out of her name.

  He treads lightly, eyes squinting somewhat as he gathers his train of thought. “Uh, Washington isn’t on payroll, Vassili. And you’ve already told Malich that you aren’t interested in the family business. This is bullshit.” He shakes his head again. “Think about your pop, Vassili, think!”

  I'm the oldest of a football team’s worth of siblings. My father, Anatoly, is old school in his ways. The throne is passed to the oldest, and I have the birthright. Anatoly preferred one of my other younger brothers to come to the U.S. in order to watch his kid brother, Malich, who is the West Coast connect. Anatoly wanted me by his side, preparing me to rule our own country one day. But fuck it, my father is so paranoid. And the sadistic bastard lost me when I was twelve. Anatoly agreeing to my terms of living in California would somehow soften me enough to return to the Resnov syndicate. I’d put two slugs into my father’s forehead before I’d returned to the family way. Damn, just thinking about how much I hate my father reminds me of Zariah’s words.

  “Sergio and other boys like sweet, naïve girls like her if you know what I mean.”

  Sweet, naïve girls are easy to manipulate. My hands claw into fists as I concentrate on the fact that defending Ronisha isn’t even a drop in the bucket to what I should’ve done to my father for her.

  But regarding my uncle, Malich, I respect him. So far he hasn’t crossed my father, his pockets are just as heavy as Anatoly allows. Although Malich isn't set in his ways. Old ways that mean business is first. Malich is a fan of MMA because their father, my grandfather, was a boxer and won a title. He held the title for years before heading the Resnov mob family. He had a hand at both while my father only believes in one or the other.

  A few years ago, my father learned about my interest in MMA as if the motherfucker thought I forgave him for being a snake in the grass. He’s in my ear about the octagon all the way from Russia. He believes that if I had stayed in Russia, I would’ve assisted with the production of illegal import Russian vodka, illegal arts, and guns dealing. But that shit isn't me. And anything Anatoly has a hand in, I want no part of.

  “Vassili, you’re playing with fire.” Yuri’s tone is laced with caution while he stops at the wrought iron gates before his father’s mansion.

  “I know, Yuri. Now, find Sergio with the prayer hands on his bicep. I want him in Malich’s basement by dark.”

  ###

  My boots step over piss, water, and vomit, eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room. Sergio’s arms are tied above his head to a beam along the ceiling. One of Malich’s goons thought that water torture would be a good starter as his stomach is bloated. There are weights strapped to his dangling feet, stretching his body further. The guys did just enough to break his spirit, leaving the big motherfucker in tears.

  I take a drag from my cigarette and release smoke through my nose. “I’ve been told you enjoy hitting women. Big piz’da like you can’t find someone your own size to fight?”

  “Please! Please!”

  He starts to beg God, yet my heart hardens further. I rub a hand over the side of my neck where conveniently, there’s a tattoo of an eye inside a triangle. It’s a symbol of God's omniscience, His ability to see everything. Yet, I don’t feel convicted.

  He speaks Italian. He’s praying to the Almighty God. I know every word because Anatoly made learning the language a requirement when I was a child. Every bit of his training was to prepare me for the syndicate. Though I’ll probably never get the chance to one up an Italian who speaks ill of me, unaware or negotiate an arms deal off of a port in Sicily.

  “Listen.” I clasp my hand against the back of his neck, bringing his tear swollen gaze to mine. Time to cut in before he compels to the Holy Spirit again. “I believe in God too. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll pray for your soul later. But tonight you either go…” My cigarette points up and then down. “I can’t see further than your death, but your death is inevitable.”

  I tune out his cries, burning the cigarette into his chest. Shit, I have my own prayers too; like bargaining with God that if nothing happens with Zariah tonight, I won’t continue to pursue her. I hold my hands out so they can be weighted down with gloves. I glance at my knuckles, recalling how swollen and bloody they were the first time I had to fight. In an instant, I’m transported back to Russia. What a fucking dynasty the Resnovs are. The men are revered. There’s no space for females.

  Anatoly believes that women serve two purposes: to be on their backs or knees and to be servants to clean or for sex. My sister, his own blood, meant nothing to him. She was like Ronisha. She was dealt a bad hand. Stuck in a story that only would end in tragedy. The Resnov name never protected a female who wasn’t respected by a male counterpart. So, the first time I ever fought was for Sasha.

  Zariah

  This evening I’ve washed away the grim of the hospital. The salted tears on my cheeks have been cleansed with expensive French soap. Hot torrents of water bring images of Vassili Resnov’s hard body before my eyes. Damn, I breathe heavily, wondering how God made him so fine. Why? Why make a murdering criminal look like the epitome of sex? All rugged hard angles, muscles stacked for days, thick neck. In a daze, I place the loofah down, grab the liquid soap, and pour the thick, creaminess in my hands, gulping down thoughts of his hot, never-ending cum.

  I hesitantly rub the soap into my skin, rubbing over my achy nipples and large breasts as the lips of my pussy swell and tremble. Damn, my eyelids flutter shut as I touch myself. It feels good, I almost whimper in thought of how much more enticing it would be for his rough hands to graze over my silky dark skin. I can still hear his voice in my ears. I reach lower, gliding the soap along my flat stomach; lower and lower still with an insatiable desire.

  And then my fingertips skim past silky curls causing my heart to drum in my ears over the sound of rain; I chicken out by slathering my curvy hip. Damn, I was already clean before and I have not been touched there…not in a romantic sexual way. Not yet.

  With a huff, I turn off the water spouts. “Zariah, stop being an idiot. He is a Resnov.” Sheesh, when I say the name aloud, an eerie chill claims my bones. Hot foggy steam surrounds me, but the name, Resnov, is just that sobering

  “You have obligations, Zar.” I usually talk to myself whenever I’m overwhelmed or there is a report due in Dr. Frankston’s class. Obtaining a classical high school diploma from Pressley Prep was hard enough, but Dr. Frankston always went harder o
n me. My black teachers always seemed to push their students harder, but he took the damn cake for expectations.

  Tonight, I do have obligations. And not that crazy statement Vassili said, about us spending the night together. Though he made no stipulations, he doesn’t know where I live and I really don’t expect to see him ever again. This evening, my father has decided to do what he knows best. Entertainment.

  I've donned a champagne mini dress and equally expensive stilettos. I take a deep huff in the floor-to-ceiling mirror by my queen size canopy bed. I could go for a pair of sneakers and sweats. I’d rather be by Ronisha’s side at this moment, but my father can be callus. He sprung this last-minute dinner on me without so much as a warning.

  My thick hair has been straightened and styled into a bun. There’s just enough makeup on my face to plant me into the middle of high society this evening. Just enough to overlook the sadness in my eyes. I hold my chin higher,

  “I crossed paths with a Resnov, bold enough to show him my father’s business card and survived.” I chuckle to myself. Damn, my thoughts are a broken record, considering the time I spent in his presence earlier and survived.

  My father’s business card has come in handy on a few occasions. Even though I attend Pressley Preparatory Academy, I’m still a black chick. The majority of my white friends snort premium cocaine and steal their parents’ aged whiskey to drink, and drive in the BMW convertibles they were gifted with on their sixteenth birthdays. But let me be in Ronisha’s neck of the woods. Mind you, her friends prefer kickbacks and weed, which is nothing as extreme. Maxwell Washington’s name is a saving grace.

  I step out of my room and at the extravagant staircase, I hear voices. Shit, it’s Phillip Everly V, my ex-boyfriend. Just my luck, I grumble inwardly while descending the staircase.

  His clear blue eyes brighten when I step into the dining room. In Tom Ford digs, he arises from his seat as does his district attorney father, Phillip Everly IV, his trophy mother, who always seems to be younger and waxier by the second, and my dad.

  Where is the rest of the party? Or am I the token sacrifice? My father has offered me on the platter before, and sneaky-ass Phil has always made for the token boyfriend. The maid hasn’t set the rest of the vast dining table for the remainder of my father’s friends and political associates. I realize I’m to be led to the slaughter. Dad never gave me more attention than the day I started dating Phil. Let Maxwell tell it, we were perfect. Shit, we were until I pulled the pleasantly soft wool from my eyes. And these days, the attention is only offered to remind me how much Phil loves me and how we make an impeccable couple.

  “Zariah…” Mr. Everly smells of amber and my father’s most prized brandy as he hugs me. “You look as gorgeous as ever.”

  “Thank you, sir.” My grin is plastic as I pull away from his embrace. I hug my father, as well. Mr. Everly only receives so much love because he wrote an impeccable letter of recommendation for my college admission, but I offer a cordial nod to Phil and his mother before sitting. Yeah, sucker, no hug for you.

  “When are you leaving for Spelman College?” Mr. Everly inquires. “We must have a toast.”

  “An HBCU,” my dad almost spits the words, which causes Mrs. Everly’s eyebrows to merge together. She isn’t aware of the acronyms for Historically Black College and University.” I force my eyelashes not to flutter.

  “I think it’s a grand idea. One of the administrative assistants on my team attended Spelman,” Mr. Everly cuts in. His attempt to side with me about attending a black college falls short, as he realizes the distaste of mentioning administrative assistants, because my pupils dilate with anger with thoughts of how my dad had ruined my mother over a damn administrative assistant. Maxwell doesn’t catch the note of embarrassment his friend gets from bringing up the taboo subject of administrative assistants, who evidently use their knees more than their education. The DA cleans up his own blunder by saying, “Spelman is filled with morals and rich in history.”

  “Only wish I could follow you,” Phil jokes.

  “Ha,” I fake laugh. I broke up with him months ago after finding out he was more like our fellow students at the Preparatory school. Most of the rich guys are, but he’d been deceptively charming. It took a while for me to figure out just how addicted to coke he is.

  The dinner is uneventful besides my father’s attempt to interest me in attending Harvard University with Phillip. He’d gone behind my back and had one of his assistants at work apply for that university as well as his alma mater.

  “No thanks, Dad.” Ever the smartass, I elaborate, “I read a recent article Bound by History: Harvard, Slavery and Arc—”

  BOOM. Maxwell slams his fist down onto the table. “We will not discuss slavery over veal, Zariah.” He chuckles tersely. “That is vastly inappropriate.”

  “Is it?” I arch an eyebrow.

  “She’s just like her mother,” my dad says condescendingly. He chuckles again before sipping his sniffer of bourbon.

  Biting my bottom lip, I stare at the shiny gold charger and china plates before me. The company laughs half heartily at my father’s comparison of me to my mother. I can just about see her embarrassed face in the reflection of the plate. When my parents were married, Dad had this awful way about him. Let my mom say something contrary to his beliefs, and Maxwell would redirect my mother in a heart attack. I have yet to be reprimanded to the same level that my father did with my mom. Most of the time, my dad is with his girlfriend on the weekends and prior to my graduation last week, I was too busy studying or partying away the end of high school.

  Now, my mouth tenses. Dad is just like Sergio. I’m sure Vassili is just. Like. My. Dad.

  Where did my courage come from as I wreaked havoc in Vadim’s Gym? Oh, I had just spoken with Ronisha’s doctor. The sun hadn’t even risen in the sky this morning when the doctor had provided the rundown: reset nose, fractured collarbone, broken jaw…

  I snapped.

  Usually, I am too reserved for an argument unless it’s preparing myself for the courtroom. But, today is not the screw with Zariah Washington day.

  “Dad, may I be excused from the table?”

  I’m already rising when he says no. The anger momentarily reared in his eyes, and I see him backhanding my mother across the room. My father has never so much as spanked me; not even a smack on the back of the hand. He beat the shit out of my older brother, Martin, though at the time, Martin decided that there'd be no beating our mom like she was a little-ass kid.

  My head cocks to the side in response to his denial. Since their divorce, I've tried him, and he’d caved. It was either that or I follow my mom and Martin to Atlanta. I had stayed in order to complete the last two years at Pressley Prep.

  Dad smiles and backs off. “Teenagers…”

  There's a round of faux laughter as I continue out of the room. I hear footsteps behind me and turn around. Phil is rounding the corner. His blond hair combed over perfectly, everything about him is a beautiful illusion.

  “Just eat dinner, okay?” I sigh. Shit, I can’t look into his eyes without seeing powder dusted beneath his nose.

  His blue eyes are filled with concern. “Babe…”

  My gaze is emotionless. “We’ve been over for months, Phil.”

  With that, I shuffle up the stairs and slam the door behind me. I’m never falling in love! I’d be a fucking idiot to. I kick one shoe in one direction, my foot instantly chilled by the marble floor. Cussing as I go, I kick the other shoe at the same time I pull the dress over my head.

  It doesn’t thud. Not against the wall or the floor. My senses prick as my dress falls to the floor next to me. Then my arms wrap around my large chest as I stand about as naked as I’ve ever been in front of the opposite sex.

  “Vassili,” I whisper, alternating from covering my breasts to the tiny triangle of silk hair shielding my innocence.

  He moves out of the shadows, placing my left stiletto onto the dresser. A long-sleeve thermal strains a
gainst his broad chest and biceps so thick. He drags a hand through his hair that was lazily laying on his forehead like a rooster. “I came to collect my payment.”

  “Did you mu…mu… has it been done?” Damn, I can’t even say the word. Murder. Ice. Kill. And the guy’s boxing name is Killer Karo. Vassili Karo Resnov, Killer Karo, has almost 57K likes on Facebook. I found that out after leaving Vadim’s Gym.

  “Yes, Zariah, it has been done.”

  I start for my silk robe at the foot if the bed.

  He blocks my path, planting himself in front of my queen size canopy.

  “I can’t even dress?” I snap. “I’m cold.”

  “Of course. What kind of monster would I be to leave you freezing?” He gestures toward the bed, not offering an ounce of assistance, but I’m not foolish enough to walk past him. “I enjoyed the little ritual you went through after showering. Cocoa butter, perfume against your wrists and then the pulse at your neck.” He steps closer to me and breaths me in. His breath tickles my neck. He clasps his hands around my wrists before bringing them to his nose for another inhale. Did he feel that spark?

  My throat is heavy, and it’s a feat just to murmur, “You’ve been here this entire time?”

  “You were in the shower and you stopped.” He licks his lips. “I could do that for you, though.”

  My mouth is pooled with lust. I glance away from his dark gaze before gulping it all down. “No. You were here, in my room this entire time.” My voice freezes over with each word. “Are you aware that the damn district attorney is downstairs?”

  “That mudak, Phillip Everly, can stay downstairs all he’d like. I’m here for you.” His voice is playful, yet the hard look on his face sends another tremor of fear sparking down my spine and landing between my thighs. Vassili’s tone hardens as he reminds, “You shook my hand, Miss Washington.”