“Suffering.”
“Why?”
“Because I am a bitch sometimes and I don't care. Connie, I have run, jump, danced, wiggled everything but this belly off! I swear I won't make it.”
“Girl, you’re almost to the home front,” she murmurs. “What happened to being extra hot and horny?”
“Tsk, got that covered, too.” I tilt my head back and laugh. “The moment my husband arrives home, he has to get past all of this tummy and ass to survive. And then he has to hear me arguing about not being able to breathe. Natasha is karate chopping my ribs, I swear we are having a son. We’ve had a 3D ultrasound completed. However, I am not convinced that this is,” I point to my belly, “Natasha.”
After a few moments of laughing, Connie says, “Do you know what your problem is?”
I arch an eyebrow.
“You're spoiled. Uncle Samuel says there is no such thing as being spoiled but damn it, you are! Your dad spoiled you. Then you married a hot man—no a fighter, with big money and I'm sure something else even bigger in his pants.”
We both giggle at that.
“Zariah?” A familiar voice perks my ears.
“Dad?” I glance across the floral plants, separating Yogurtland from the mall.
His gaze sweeps down to my belly in such shock. Connie arises. “I have a mediation meeting. I'll see you at the baby shower this weekend.”
My father comes around, slipping past children, strollers and other patrons who're in the line for frozen yogurt.
I haven't seen him in months. Not since the fiasco with Phil. Either he was going on a two-week Canadian cruise with Beatrice or I simply avoided him. The last chat we had, he did try it. Just as Vassili had said. He's tried to blame my husband for everything. And Samuel advised me about that dumb-ass cop stopping Vassili for no reason.
“My baby is having a baby,” he mumbles. His eyes are glossed. This is the closest I've ever seen him come to tears. For all the tears my mother has shed in the past, leave it to me to cause him heartache.
I stand and offer him a hug.
“Are you having a boy or a girl?” he asks as we let go.
“A girl or so we’ve been told. Her name is Natasha.”
“That Russian?”
I nod.
“Well, can you just keep me in touch if anything ever—”
“C’mon, let’s refrain from the negativity, Daddy, damn. Keep in touch? We've both been busy.”
“I haven't been busy.”
“Canada for Thanksgiving. Beatrice’s family for Christmas? Not a note for Valentine’s Day when you once claimed I was your very first Valentine as a child.” I settle down and eat. Food keeps me grounded.
“Sheesh, Zariah, every day you’re becoming more and more like your mother,” he hisses.
I spear the spoon into the frozen yogurt. “Funny, Mom says I become more like you. I asked her about a month ago, out of annoyance and hormones. She said that it was because you’re a strategist, thinking prior to moving chess pieces. She apologized if it offended me for making such a statement.” I shrug. “But I'm confident your comparison of me to my mom is not one from positivity. So how do I remind you of Mom? She got hit and got back up!” I feel my anger rising, and Vassili’s cussing rubbing off on me. “Because she strove and strove to keep quiet, not muddle the water so her children could grow up in a stable home. How weak of her to take beating after beating. Somehow, I believe verbal abuse is worse, though. Some of my previous clients, you could see their demeanor shrinking by the second. Feel free to jump in, enlighten me.”
“Zariah,” he seethes. “There are children around.”
“I have never disrespected Beatrice. Although, that bitch is stupid, when I mentioned the two of you, I wasn't taking my mother’s side.”
“Zariah, I asked—”
“I was merely stating facts. You were busy. I was in the courtroom or at the gym or one of Vassili’s matches, supporting him because this is how marriage is, uplifting each other. About a month back Samuel and Vassili, they're cool now, got together and told me when I had to go on maternity leave. I expected to work until I popped. But they agreed to last week, I’ve been out of the office for a week.” That might be some of my problem, growing bored. “So up until now, I've had a hectic schedule. Now I'm telling the painters that the teddy bears we wanted on the walls are a little too scary, asking them to repaint. That started a very comical argument. Side note, I never knew that a man and wife could argue and laugh and still love.” By now I don't even see my father before me. Visions blurred with tears, “I…”
Somewhere along the lines, I must've lost consciousness.
Sometime later, my first line of vision is Vassili. That strong jaw, his fighter nose and the most sinful dark eyes. The vision clears more and I see that he's in a sauna suit that's been duct taped at the wrist and to his shoes. He also has on a hoodie beneath the suit. The wide-legged stance he has chosen sets my heart on fire.
Before I can ask him what happened, an EMT steps into the way.
“Your blood pressure was through the roof.”
I start to speak. But there's something over my mouth. Forcing cool air into my nostrils. I pull at the mask.
“Let's just get you breathing.” She smiles, readjusting the air mask.
“Let me talk to you,” I hear Vassili say. His tone is lethal.
“My daughter and I were having a simple…” Maxwell’s voice drowns out.
It's all pressure against my chest as I try to sit up. My head kisses the pillow with ease.
###
Later this evening, Vassili corners me in the bedroom, prepared to have a debate when I’d rather him touch my body. He sits in the chair across from the bed, wide-legged, elbows on his knees, and head in hands. I rub cocoa butter into my skin. The tension he exudes rolls over my shoulder as my hands glide along my thighs. I glance at my feet, then the lotion, and then to him. His glower tells me I have to wait.
“Connie told me that you were fine when she left you at Yogurtland. You, tell me what happened?” He says through gritted teeth.
I hold out the lotion. He shakes his head. Damn, I huff. “My dad ran into me at the mall, as you know. I tried to have a simple conversation with him, but he got under my skin.”
Vassili’s hand glides along my calf, he lifts my leg up and plants it on his knee. Then gestures for the cocoa butter. His tone has lost its edge. “How?”
“In retrospect, I snapped. I got on him because of how he treats you and–”
Massaging the lotion into my foot, Vassili says, “Baby, forget about me. I can’t have you putting our child in harm’s way. Maxwell can't touch what we've built.”
“I know, Vassili. But you didn’t let me finish, I was going to add that I argued with him about my childhood.” I pause, glancing toward the ground.
“Talk.”
“You’ve had a hard life as a kid. In the beginning, I assumed you had the world handed to you or…”
“Or I strong-armed that shit?” he cracks a smile.
“Exactly,” I grin. “The Resnov name implies that any asset is at your disposal willing or not. Remember when I told you about my dad hitting my mom?”
“Yes. And because he's your dad and you love him, he’s still breathing.”
“Any who, after I learned more about you, Sasha, the awful things Anatoly has done to your mother, well I … I've just tried to keep in my emotions about my dad, the things I've seen while I was raised.”
“Why?”
“Because you had a worse life,” I shrug. “I don't know. My mom always told me I tried to compensate for Ronisha’s life. With us, I just worry about Natasha. I know without a doubt that you’ll be a good dad, because you're strong.”
He clasps my face in his hands. “And you will be a good, good mother, Zariah.”
When Vassili zeros in on the hot tears on my cheeks, kissing each one, I cry harder.
“We are fearless people, Zariah. Ro
nisha had a fucked up life. Sasha did. No life is perfect. Our experiences make us stronger.”
“Okay,” I murmur.
“Now, I've got something to tell you, Zariah.”
He rubs a thumb over his eyebrow. “I don't want you to come to Kentucky when I fight Cordova. I'd pull out if you’d prefer since it’s near Natasha’s birth, but—”
“But we have bills and you'll take a loss.”
“Fuck a loss. Can’t bring a baby into the world with debt.”
I pout, my swollen face feels extra fat as I do. “Since we've been together I haven't missed a fight.”
“You hate when I fight, though.”
Ain't that the truth. “What if I go into premature labor?”
“You won't.”
“If I did?”
“I’d race the sun to get to you, Zariah. There's no way you'll have Natasha all alone. I will be there.”
Zariah
Louisville, Kentucky
There’s not a single seat left at The Kentucky ‘Yum!’ Center. A slinky champagne colored maxi delicately hugs my swollen stomach and breasts, and fills out my remaining curves. I’d applied makeup while the hotel air conditioner blasted at a temperature that rivaled the crisp coldness of Moscow.
I contemplate on Connie’s words about how spoiled I am. She was spot on. Vassili rented a large luxury tour bus in order for me to attend this event. During the long ride, Vassili and I watched countless videos of his opponent Jose Cordova’s previous matches. Now, I’m wishing Vassili had followed through with his request for me to stay in Los Angeles. I almost smile smugly considering my head game, but another contraction breaks my concentration.
Yuri is seated next to me. Thick jaws puffed out, like he might blow a gasket.
“How many undercards left?” I grit out the words, speaking up over the sound of fans cheering for the current favorite in the cage.
He chokes on his bottle of beer. “Dva!”
“Two! Did you just say two?” So far I've been confident in learning up to twenty in Russian to teach to Natasha, but I must be—
“Yes. Should I go,” he’s already offered to tell Vassili how I’m feeling.
“No!” I grab his arm, before he can arise and feel another contraction. Damn, they’re getting closer.
“Please, Zariah. My kazen is gonna murder me.”
I sink back into the comfortable seat so close to the cage. My tensed frame loosening by the moment. “I'm okay. Now.”
Yuri glances at me in confusion. “What is this a fucking exorcism?”
“It's called a contraction and it has passed. I can't go to the hospital until the contractions occur closer together, which won’t happen anytime soon.”
He settles back in his seat grumbling in Russian.
I practice the breathing exercises from the Lamaze class Vassili and I attended. Reminding myself not to grit my teeth and relax, while telling Yuri to count each contraction and the time frame that they occur.
Music blares through the speaker. One more fight before Vassili’s and I silently beg God, like a sinner wearing Saturday night’s club attire to church.
As Linkin Park tears through the speaker’s a while later, I search through the crowd for the entrance of where Vassili and his crew will enter. A calmness slithers over my bones. Sensing her father, Natasha simmers down in my belly. I begin to wonder if I was having another case of Braxton Hicks, when Vassili rips the Killer Karo shirt from his sexy chest, exposing a wealth of glorious tattoos and muscles. After his gloves are checked and he’s Vaseline’d up, Vassili summersaults onto the canvass.
Every ounce of my energy is used to cheer him on. Vassili hurry up and beat his ass! I meditate on that while squirming in the chair.
The announcer hypes up the crowd when another searing pain courses through my tummy.
“Fuck, Fuck!” I hear over the shouting.
The screaming isn’t from me. Yuri is yelping! His hand is balled into a fist, as I tear the flesh in his forearm. Teeth gritted, I ride out the pain while executing all of my energy on him. He lunges from the chair as Cordova has Vassili pinned to the cage.
“Wait, I’m sorry,” I call out, but he’s arguing with security, fumbling with the backstage pass on his chest, and then gesturing for Nestor in my husband’s corner.
They exchange words. Yuri points at me. Then Vadim is in the mix. My husband’s cousin returns, frown on his face. “We go to doctor now!”
"What about Vassili?”
“They will tell him during first seat.”
“No!” I stand, all the strength has burned from my legs. I almost fall into him. “I won’t have this baby anytime soon. You go tell them to let him finish.”
Yuri breaths deeply, helping me steady myself.
Since he hasn’t responded, I continue to argue, “You can take me to the hospital now, but don’t have them stop the match. If Cordova ends up with Vassili’s belt—”
“Okay, okay!” He holds out his palms. “I’ll text Nestor now. We go, Zariah.”
With one arm supporting me, Yuri pulls out his phone. The sunlight is funneling into the dark arena from ahead of us.
The first round is being called. If I were in my right mind, I’d say that Cordova led this one. We make it toward the concession area. The perimeter isn’t teeming with hungry fans like it was when we arrived. There are a few people in line for Dipping Dots when warmth trickles down my leg.
“Oh fuck, kazen, you-you…you will have this baby soon,” His eyes widen in horror. He mumbles about Vassili really killing him now while shouting for help.
Vassili
“Karo, Karo, Karo!” the crowd screams my name. Like I’ve done since we first reconnected, I search for Zariah’s spot. My muscles ache and an ice bath is flashing before my eyes. Where is she? I swear I’ve found their exact spot. My fat-ass cousin should be beside Zariah; there’s no missing him. Arms raised, shouting my victory at the top of my lungs, I glare at their empty spaces.
“Hey, were the fuck is she?” I shout down to my corner.
“Bol’nitsa, Bol’nitsa,” Vadim mouths hospital and I’ve jumped from the top of the cage to the canvas. Internally, my teeth grit to the pain.
The announcer shoves a camera into my face. I speak first, “I’ve gotta get to the hospital.”
“You were a little worse for wear this time, Karo—”
“No! My wife is in labor.” I’m already scoping out how to get off this stage and through the massive crowd.
“Oh congratulations,” he turns off the microphone, but pushes something into his ear. I’m already scrambling toward the octagon door.
“Karo,” the announcer speaks up, I glance back. “Exit through the south entrance. We have a police escort for you.”
“Thanks,” I nod and shout over to my crew. “Nestor, did you bring your chopper?”
“Fuck yeah!” He nods. In his personal time, Nestor restores old motorcycles. He added the modifications to my Harley. And when we’re traveling, at times he prefers to ride his motorcycles.
As Nestor navigates the beginning of the crowd with me, I shout, “Give me your keys and shoes.”
“What? They have an escort.”
“Those cruisers won’t be able to get past all the traffic. I need to get to Zariah now!”
He fumbles and tosses the keys toward me as I hurry along, shouting about the parking location of the chopper. Instead of bombarding me for pictures and autographs, the fans are now chatting, “Go, Go, Go!”
That mudak Cordova almost bested me today. With every muscle scorching, and on the heaviest legs, I hurry through the exit as the double doors are held open for me.
“Karo!” Two police in uniform call out to me. “We have a cruiser, Karo.”
“I have a chopper.”
They nod, knowing the parking lot is jam packed.
About twenty minutes later, I notice Nestor’s chopper. In a sea of other stock or custom motorcycles, The Black Widow shines.
Touches of red and webbing are accented throughout.
“Shit,” I growl, pushing my left leg over. I almost tapped out in submission, and now my tendons are screaming. Yet, it’s much easier navigating the exit ways with this. So I concentrate on my promise to be there for Zariah, and not the meat grinder beating I just survived. I shift gears while picking up speed to about 35 mph to jump a sidewalk, and then my right foot presses the concrete
Mouth tensed, I twist around a tight curve.
Soon as I rev this bitch up, to accelerate on the street, the aches in my bones amplify due to the volcanic heat of June.
Loud whirling sounds cause my frown to set harder. Fucking cops. Instead of signaling me to slow down, a cruiser and a motorcycle speed up in front of me. Both driver’s eagerly wave their arm.
Soon I see a crowd of people, and a blue cross sign. We pull over in front of Emergency entrance.
With not a minute to spare, I’m off the bike.
“Congratulations, Karo,” I hear as I rush through the sliding glass doors.
“My wife is in labor,” I try to scale down my loud, urgent voice. The nurse glances at my appearance, then my hands which are still weighted down. “Zariah Resnov, please tell me she didn’t give birth yet.”
“Um,” she glances at the rooster, “Mrs. Resnov’s in room—”
“Hurry,” Yuri shouts, from down the hall. “I’m traumatized!”
I rush down, hearing a doctor order for Zariah to push. Silently I thank God, and the next second I cuss Yuri for not stopping the match.
“Zariah threatened…”
I pop him in the mouth. “Shut the fuck up.”
“I'll go get you a pair of clothing, because that's what a manager would do, but don't hit me again, Vassili.” He mumbles stomping off.
My entire demeanor softens, cooling to the brink as I enter the room.
“You made it,” Zariah’s eyes are wet. Her beautiful brown skin is aglow with perspiration.
“And you are?” The doctor offers a peculiar look, who is sitting on a rolling stool between the stirrup contraption holding Zariah’s feet. There’s another two nurses at her sides.
Fearless: a Sports Romance Page 23
