by Sara Hubbard
“I know. Neither am I.”
“No. You’re not.”
“You got lunch?” I ask him.
He leans back and opens his desk drawer. Then he pulls out a sandwich in a baggie.
I laugh at him. “Hang on.” I go out to the car and put away my gym bag. I’m not taking the orange lunch bag in, but I pull out the Tupperware and the juice box. The juice makes me smile. I’ve been getting one from Yara since I was a boy. I head back into the gym and climb the stairs. Wide-eyed and grinning, Niko accepts my lunch. And I sit with him while he eats it.
We talk strategy. I tell him about Emanuel. “He’s got a weak left.”
He nods. “Good. You’re strong on both.”
“And he forgets to block. Not a bad thing if he’s dominating the fight, but it could be a problem for him if he’s not. And with me? He won’t be dominating.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“I’m not. I know what I’m capable of and what I’m not.”
Niko finishes up his lunch and taps his round belly. He’s a big man, at least six-two and he used to be so fit. Man, he could run circles around me, and he did. Now, he’s older and doesn’t eat or exercise the way he used to. Sooner or later age catches up to you. It will for me, too.
“Your brother started training here a few days ago.”
I raise my brows. “Did he now?”
He shrugs.
“You didn’t mention it before.”
“I’m old. I forget.”
I grin at him. “How does he look?”
“Unpracticed. He asked me to train him.”
“Are you going to?”
He pushes his lips out and makes a face. “No, he’s weak-minded. He lacks restraint. And I don’t like him.”
I grin wider. “You’re not alone.”
After heaving a sigh, I start to stand. I can’t stay here all day, though I’d like to. This place has also been a refuge for me. It’s always been difficult for me to talk easy with people. My uncle was that person for me when I moved here. He was the father figure my own father never was. He had a conscience, and he was fair. After he died, I lost that strong voice. I eventually found it again in Niko.
“Keep an eye on him,” I say.
“You know I will.”
I leave the gym and get some lunch with Yuri. We go to a food truck and grab some burritos. It fills me up for the rest of the afternoon while I go through the books at my dad’s strip club. I miss supper and end up driving out of town to deal with supplier issues for the guns we move. While I don’t often deal with suppliers, I get involved when people fail to meet expectations. Unfortunately, the men I’m meeting tonight are a day late with delivery.
When the situation is dealt with, I walk back to my car with Yuri at my side. I hold a knife in my hand with blood dripping from it. Sometimes people need motivation. Pain is a good motivator. I open the trunk of my car and grab a rag. I always have some in the car, just in case. I wrap up the knife and put it in a baggie, something I always have on hand also.
“You want me to get rid of that?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Nah. I like this knife. Little bit of bleach, and she’s good as new.” I tap out a text to my father. Shipment will be here tomorrow. My father sends me a smiley face. There is something very menacing about a sociopath sending a smiley face. I shove the phone in my back pocket.
When I get home, it’s after one in the morning. Where did the time go? I go to the kitchen and grab something from the fridge. I don’t even bother to heat it up. Yara is long gone, but as always, the house is clean, the fridge is full, and she’s left me a note about some errands I asked her to do today. I’m really not sure what I would do without her.
The house is still and quiet, and it’s welcome after today. I want to take a shower and crawl into bed. Tomorrow, I’ll get up and do everything all over again. Always the same. Never changing. I look up at the ceiling, thinking of Luna. She’s the only difference in my life for two years. I told her I’d let her go in six months, but was it true? I pour a drink of vodka over some ice and start for the stairs. I’d like to think I’ll let her go, but the likelihood of it? Well, it’s slim.
I pass her door and stop. She’s likely sleeping. I take another step to my room and stop again. Sigh. Then I turn and go to her room. Slowly, I turn the handle and step inside. She sleeps on her side, her hands together and tucked under her bruised and swollen face. It’s changed colours since I last saw her, but the swelling might be worse. I take a drink of my vodka and make a face as I swallow the burn.
She makes quiet noises, her eyes flutter. Then she cries. In her sleep. I take a deep breath and watch her. And I feel…I don’t know. Helpless? I take another drink and I crouch. My face is near hers. She doesn’t wake. Soon, the tears stop. Some stay on her cheeks and dry while others darken the fabric of the sheets by her hands.
I drain my drink. I want to touch her, want to feel her against me. She affects me. Just looking at her twists my insides into knots. This is what my mother warned me about. Wanting a woman who has no value. She has no value to me at all. In fact, she has the power to ruin me and people I’m close to. But I want her, more than I ever have. Would it help if she gave herself to me? If I had one more night with her? To get her out of my system once and for all.
She shifts and a curl slides over her face. Carefully, I brush it away, and she smiles. I think she’s awake and playing with me, but then her lids flutter again and she quietly puffs air through her parted lips.
I’m in trouble. I know it. I should kill her. This second. I’d get over it eventually. Maybe. But then I’d never see her again, and that thought actually causes me physical pain.
“Fuck,” I whisper. I stand, leave her room, and get in the shower. With my eyes closed and one arm leaning against the tile, I grab myself and chase a release that doesn’t come.
Chapter 9
Luna: Life passed so quickly before. There was never enough time in the day. I would work, work, and then work some more. Maybe I would find some time to go out with coworkers or spend some time with mom, but for the most part, I never stopped moving. Now? Seconds tick by on the clock and each one is like an eternity. It’s been days since I had that conversation in the kitchen with Maxim, and I haven’t seen him since. While I’m not complaining, it both surprises and confuses me.
Being here makes no sense to me. Especially if he’s going to ignore me. Is this about a debt? Or something more? I still hate him for keeping me here and for what happened to my father while he looked on and did nothing. Yet, I still remember how I felt about him two years ago. How full I felt when he was near. How safe. That’s almost laughable now, but still, I keep shifting between these emotions, unable to separate the two. It’s maddening, and I know I’ll only feel more conflicted the longer I’m close to him and under the same roof.
He wants me to stay for six whole months?
I laugh and shake my head. How the hell am I supposed to do that? I never dealt with my feelings for him when I ended our relationship because it was easier to push them away and ignore them. After all, I didn’t leave him because I wanted to. I left because I had to. Because I knew who he was, and I didn’t care. That scared me more than anything, because when I looked in the mirror, I saw my mother. A woman infatuated with a terribly flawed man who was destined to break her heart.
Now I have to deal with both my anger and my desire for him.
I hug myself as I sit in the chair by the window and release a weary sigh. For days I haven’t left my room. I know I need to be around him to earn his trust, but I can’t make myself. Sooner or later, I’ll have to give in. But not today. Maybe not tomorrow either.
A quiet thud sounds from outside of the room. It’s probably Yara. She comes in and out of the room throughout the day. Sometimes she’ll barge in and talk to me in Russian. Sometimes I think she forgets I can’t speak a word of it. Nor can I understand it. She’ll putter around the room, maybe v
acuum or wipe down the windows, or go into the bathroom and scrub the tiles or the toilet. She’s always talking, sometimes to me, sometimes to herself. And she’s always smiling. I pretend to be indifferent to her presence, but I’ll admit I look forward to it. I’m not used to being alone. The quiet makes me uneasy. Funny because I thought I wanted quiet, and now there is just too damn much of it.
A knock on the door draws my attention. It’s light and slow. I'm sure it’s Yara. I don’t invite her in because I know I don’t need to. She’ll come in, regardless. The door opens and behind it is Yara, smiling again. “Good. You’re up.”
“Why is that good?”
“You can make yourself useful.”
“Excuse me?”
“No more feeling sorry for yourself. You need to make the best of your situation. You can either sit here miserable or you can keep yourself busy. Which do you choose?”
“You have no idea what I’ve been through.” I glare at her, reminded of my father’s lifeless body. Of the choice my father made. The girl he killed. And the life that was stolen from me. No, she has no idea.
“Is sitting here helping?” she asks me.
I lower my legs to the floor and fold my arms over my chest.
“No response?”
“I don’t like you very much right now,” I tell her.
She chuckles at me. “On Wednesdays, I strip all the beds and wash them. I also do all the laundry, and I dust. It’s a lot for an old woman like me. Maxim said you’re kind and might like to help.”
“Maxim said I'm kind?” I say with a raised brow.
“He did.”
From an intensive care nurse to free laborer.
“Up you get,” she says. “We have to start soon. I have to run an errand later, so I need to leave early.”
Though I shake my head, I rise to my feet. “Where is Maxim? Is he away?”
“He works long hours. He’s a very hard worker,” she says. Her accent is so thick that sometimes I have to focus hard on her words to understand.
“Imagine if he used his work ethic for something good,” I say.
She frowns at me. “Miss Luna, you’re so hard on him.”
I open my mouth to tell her exactly what he’s done, but I snap my mouth shut. She likely already knows. And even if she doesn’t, she must know who and what he is. She has to know he’s a criminal. But it’s not lost on me that I cared for him—too much—and I knew who he was, too.
“Fine,” I say. “What do you want me to do?”
“Let’s start with collecting your laundry. Dirty clothes?”
I hold my hands out and then let my arms fall to my sides. “These are all I have.” I’ve been in the same clothes for days, and I was not about to ask him for anything—not even underwear.
She clucks her tongue. “Oh, dear. That won’t do. I’ll add that to my list.” Her shoes squeak as she ambles into the bathroom. She collects some used towels and face cloths and waves at me to follow her as she leaves my room. “We’ll do Mr. Maxim’s room first. I’ll grab the sheets and laundry. You can start dusting.”
Maxim’s room? When we dated, he never invited me to his home, and he never introduced me to a single one of his friends. Because he shared so little, everything about him was one big mystery. I half wondered if he kept me from his life because he was somehow ashamed of me. Or maybe it was because he never felt the same as I did. For him, it might have all been about the sex. So, when faced with the opportunity to see his room, I’ll admit I’m curious.
“How long has he lived here?” I ask her.
“Oh, about a year and a bit. Mr. Maxim said he wanted a place that felt like home.”
I stop in the hallway, struck by what she says. “That’s what he said?”
She turns. “Yes. I think he was hoping to find peace here.”
“Did he say that, too?” My stomach flip-flops as I’m pulled into a memory of a conversation we had long ago.
“Yes, I think he did.”
* * *
Lying in bed, face to face in the dark, while he gently stroked my arm with a single one of his long fingers, he asked me, “If you could have one thing in this world, what would it be?”
I smiled at him as I imagined the one thing that I’d craved since I was a child. “A home.” I wanted a place away from my job and my family. One that would give me peace and quiet. My father caused me so much stress, and so did my job. I’d just lost another patient earlier that day, a boy who’d just turned seventeen.
“A home?” he said, and I think he was genuinely surprised by my answer.
“I moved around a lot as a kid. I lived in a lot of different places, but none of them I called home. I’d love to find something by a lake. Away from neighbors. Maybe a cabin or something just away from everything and everyone. And a big kitchen so I can actually learn to cook.”
He grinned at me then. “That sounds nice.”
“What about you?” I asked him softly. I touched my hand to his cheek, and he turned his head to press a soft kiss into my palm. He gave me butterflies every time he kissed me, but this kiss was different. In that moment, when I imagined that home, I imagined him inside of it. And it scared me to death, especially when he replied in the sincerest of tones, “How could I think about what I’m missing when I'm staring at you, Angel?”
* * *
“Miss Luna?”
“What?”
“Is something wrong? Are you ill again?” Yara asks me.
I shake my head. “No, I’m fine.”
She opens the door to his room and hands me a dust rag. “Just get all the surfaces. The closet, too. I’ll get the sheets.”
Maxim’s room is a pale shade of gray. His bed is a king, and it’s high enough off the ground I think I’d have to jump to climb onto it. It’s coordinated with similar colors and expensive, wooden pieces. The four posts of the bed reach for the ceiling and are intricately carved. In my own room at home, I have pictures of me and my parents and the dog I once had as a child but had to give away. This looks like a show room. Like no one actually lives here.
Off to the left is a large walk-in closet, and beside it is an en suite with a large white clawfoot tub. I stroll around, absorbing it. He doesn’t even have his toiletries on the countertop. Everything is put away. Nothing, not a damn thing, left out.
“Are you sure he lives here?” I say, more to myself than to Yara.
She hears me from the bedroom and comes in. “He’s very tidy.”
“Tidy? Where’s all his things?”
I open a drawer, and then another. Even his drawers are organized and neat. Not one thing looks out of place. I don’t know how he can live like this. This borders on obsessive. Okay, no, it’s obsessive.
“His father is the same. Everything has a place. Everything must be put away.”
“You worked for his father, too?” I say, my face scrunched up because I can’t help it.
She doesn’t miss it. In fact, she makes a similar face. “Yes. For a time.”
“That must’ve been fun.”
She offers a forced smile. “Well, I got to help raise Maxim, so…it wasn’t so bad.”
“How old was he? When you first met him, I mean.”
“I believe he was seven.”
Maxim as a boy. I can’t even imagine it. “What was he like?”
She shrugs, and then like a flower slowing blooming, her whole face lights up. “Quiet. Thoughtful.”
“Thoughtful?”
“Yes. He was never like other boys his age. He was like an old man in a little boy’s body. He didn’t move, speak, or act without carefully considering everything first. And he didn’t play like other boys did. I always found that sad.”
“You love him.”
She blinks and then looks away. “Come.” She waves over her shoulder for me to follow her as she scurries into the walk-in closet. She stops at a set of drawers. The top drawer is about waist-high. On top of it is one lone framed picture
. She grabs it and, smiling, holds it out to me.
I take it, studying the image of a young woman with dark, flowing hair and dark, expressive eyes sitting in a chair. On her lap, a young boy in a school uniform is cuddled against her with his face turned to the camera. In one hand he holds a toy car, and in the other, he holds the woman’s hand.
“This is you and Maxim?” I point to the image.
She nods.
“He doesn’t keep many photos.”
She shakes her head. “No. His family’s house is full of them. They’re on the walls in all of the rooms except the kitchen and the bathrooms. It’s like they’re on display to show a happy family. This one?” She points to it. “It’s here because it matters. Not for display. But for him.”
I hand it back to her, a little conflicted about what she’s saying to me. I still want to hate him because of who he is underneath his handsome, cool exterior. But I recognize his father is evil, and I think about what that must have been like for that quiet little boy to bear witness to his father’s crimes for his entire life. He can’t help how he was raised, but there are no excuses now he’s older. His choices are his own.
“He does terrible things,” I say. Her blindness bothers me in more ways than one. It reminds me of my mother, but also of the brief time I willingly spent with him. I don’t like looking in that mirror. I want her to see him as I do now, and I want her to be as equally conflicted.
She bristles as she puts the photo back in the same position it was before and at the same angle.
“I know nothing about terrible things, and I don’t want to. I judge him for how he treats me. He’s always been good to me.”
“He kidnapped me.”
“I know nothing about that either,” she says with her head up and blank expression on her face.
“I was handcuffed to the bed. He won’t let me leave this house.”
She makes a face. “Then he has a good reason.”
“It’s okay to kidnap someone if you have a good reason?”
