The Hacker

by Renee Rose

  His words enter me, swirling and spiraling up my center core, received like broken fragments of his withheld love. A few more pieces I will cling to and save for later, for those moments when I try to rearrange and fit them together, trying to make it real. Make it whole.

  I love you, Dima.

  Those are the words in my head that I want to say, but I hold them back.

  He’s already said I’m not for him, and he can’t be for me.

  Is it possible to love someone who can’t be for you?

  Yes! my tattered heart screams. It may not be logical, but it’s true. I’ve always felt something for Dima, just as he’s always felt something for me.

  There’s a rightness when I’m with him. A sense that I know him, even though I don’t. And even after all his rejections, I’m still here, taking whatever he’s willing to give, waiting for the moment when he’s ready to give more.

  “Natasha.” He dips his head and nuzzles into my neck, all the while moving in a steady rhythm inside me. “You are summer rain and the sun that shines afterward.” He nips my ear. “You are everything kind and pure in my world. And I’ve been jaded for such a long time.”

  He kisses along my collarbone. “I would help you with my fingers, but they’re covered in mud,” he murmurs like he’s telling me a secret he doesn’t want the trees to hear.

  I laugh. “I’ll come if you go harder.”

  Dima’s eyes warm. His smile is soft and indulgent. “My biggest surprise with you,” he says, releasing my wrists and bracing his hands on the ground beside my head to thrust deeper.

  “What?”

  “That you like it rough. I never would have guessed.”

  “Me neither,” I admit, my eyes already rolling back in my head as he increases the intensity of his strokes, slamming in harder and deeper, but still at a slow, measured pace.

  The pressure in me grows, building and coiling tighter until Dima murmurs, “Are you close?”

  I nod, my gaze locked on his. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t look away. He pins me with that beautiful blue stare and drills into me, faster, harder, until need makes his movements jerky, his mouth open.

  “Natasha!” he gasps.

  “I’m coming!” My muscles tighten around his thick member, and he thrusts even harder and faster, pumping to his finish while I come and come beneath him.

  When it’s over, when I open my eyes—I don’t know when I closed them—I find he’s still staring down at me with that same crazy intensity.

  “Dima.”

  I don’t know why it feels like our first time.

  It feels like my first time, ever.

  Maybe because sex has never felt so intimate and shared. It wasn’t beautiful or romantic or hot. I didn’t have sexy lingerie on. He didn’t show me his expert moves.

  We broke apart in the mud, and then we put each other back together, one thrust at a time, until we were nearly whole again. Whole, but rearranged, as if some of my broken parts were glued to his and his to mine.

  He lowers his head slowly and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Let’s get you out of the mud.” His voice is kindness and whispers. He slips out of me and straightens the panties and boxer shorts. “Come here, rodnaya.” He tugs me off the ground and up into his arms, and for a moment, he just holds me.

  Sunshine filters through the pine trees, lighting up the water droplets and making the forest sparkle.

  He kisses the top of my head, loops an arm around me, and steers me back into the cabin.

  There’s a sadness to him—like he’d been holding all that anger in place between us before, and now that it’s fallen away, he mourns something.

  Or someone.

  Maybe he regrets breaking his promise to her.

  Has he chosen me? Or was this another one of his mistakes?

  I can’t bring myself to ask. It feels too nice to have his arm protectively around me. To have him whispering sweet things to me. To ride the post-orgasmic bliss as far as it will take us.

  He takes my hand when we get inside and leads me to my bathroom upstairs where he peels my soaked t-shirt from my body, then crouches down to lower my panties and his boxers, tugging them off my ankles.

  I stand there, soaking up his attention, letting it seep into all the cracks and crevices he split open these past few days.

  He turns on the water in the shower and helps me in, then strips out of his clothes and joins me. Dirt, pine needles, and tiny leaves turn the water at my feet into mud soup. Dima’s smile is soft as he helps clean the dirt from my forehead and my hair. He picks up the bar of soap and runs his hands over me. It’s sensual but not sexual. He has a semi, but I don’t think he’s seducing me.

  It’s more like… he’s asking forgiveness.

  Making it up to me.

  There’s an ease between us. Like neither of us want anything from the other; we’re just content to be together. To exist in the same energy. To commune, I guess.

  I shampoo my hair while he soaps his body. We change places, so he can rinse.

  “Are you okay?” he asks softly when he opens his eyes and finds me watching.

  I was admiring how beautiful he is, in awe to find myself feeling so close to him. I nod.

  “There’s a frozen pizza I could put in the oven for dinner.”

  I smile. It’s so comfortable and familiar. So ordinary. Like we’re long-time live-in lovers instead of neighbors with no benefits. A captive and her captor. “That sounds nice.”

  “You finished?” he asks, hand on the water nozzle. When I nod, he turns off the shower and pulls open the curtain. He grabs the closest towel and hands it to me, like a gentleman.

  I wrap it around myself and stare at the filthy clothes on the floor. “Looks like I’m back to wearing the damn dress.”

  “My torture,” he murmurs, as he dries his body in swift, efficient movements. His admission sends fluffy cotton candy clouds of pleasure floating through me. Except I still sense the sadness in him. Weariness. Defeat. Or am I misinterpreting contrition? He wraps the towel around his waist and picks up the heap of our muddy clothes. “I’ll get these washed and turn the oven on.”

  I stare after him, trying not to spin out on domestic chore porn.

  Things have changed between us, yes. But as sweet as Dima’s being, I don’t think he’s happy about the change.

  He’s just not angry anymore.

  13

  Dima

  I go down the stairs and turn on the oven, then lean my ass against the counter and stare at the wall. What am I doing?

  What in the hell am I doing?

  I can’t do this with Natasha.

  And yet… I had no choice. Hanging her out to dry would’ve been unconscionable. I’ve already been crueler to her than I can face.

  Seeing her broken and knowing I was the one who broke her? That gutted me.

  I’ll have to live with that shit until the day I die.

  So yeah, I don’t see any other way around this. I need to put her back together. Try to heal the wounds I’ve inflicted before I set her free.

  The guilt over the way I’ve treated Natasha mingles with the guilt I feel over breaking my vow to Alyona.

  I’m still yours, I promise her. I’ll always be yours.

  Strange how, despite my gnawing guilt, the bond with Alyona feels stronger than usual. Maybe it’s because my memories of her have come so near the surface. Being intimate with someone again brings it all back. What it was like the first time. How we learned each other’s bodies. How I would’ve died if it meant she could’ve lived out her youth.

  I don’t compare Natasha—they are totally different people. I’m a totally different person with her than I was with Alyona.

  I don’t want them to blur together for me. Not at all. It’s important to me that I preserve every memory of Alyona.

  The oven beeps, and I realize I haven’t moved since I turned it on.

  I pull the frozen pizza from the freezer, unbox it and thr
ow it on the rack, set my phone timer for 16 minutes, and then I take our dirty clothes to the washing machine and throw them in on the shortest cycle possible. Having the two of us running around here naked is not going to work for me.

  When I pop my head into the master bedroom, I find Nikolai awake.

  “I’m hungry,” he says.

  “Good. I’ll heat up some soup.”

  He groans. “I smell pizza.”

  I wince. “Sorry, the doctor said only soups or soft foods for now.” We had a telecall with Taylor this morning to check in. “You want a laptop in here, so you can watch movies or something?”

  “Da.”

  I go and get him the laptop, and as I set it up, he says, “You should keep her.”

  My fingers stall over the keys. Alyona’s ring catches the light, winking at me. “I can’t.”

  “You can. It’s allowed, Dima. Whatever rule you made for yourself at seventeen can be changed. Just like Ravil changes bratva rules. The ones that used to mean death if we broke them.”

  “Don’t,” I say firmly, something shuddering and cracking inside me. “Leave it alone.” I don’t look at him like I have to keep my pain in, keep it to myself.

  “It’s allowed,” Nikolai repeats, but his voice carries no fight.

  I leave him with the laptop and walk away, my body suddenly feeling a million years old.

  Natasha comes downstairs, her fresh-faced beauty even more excruciating because she’s dressed in a towel.

  She steps into the kitchen, fidgeting with the ends of the terrycloth above her left breast. “May I help with anything?”

  “Nyet, amerikanka. See if you can find a movie on the television.” I speak gently, but I desperately need some distance between us.

  She curls up on the L-shaped leather sofa and pulls a plush blanket around her, which alleviates some of my tension. I slide the pizza out and cut a small piece for Nikolai, bringing it to him first. Then I pile the rest on one plate for Natasha and I to share. I bring a roll of paper towels into the living room and sit down beside her to share.

  “What are you in the mood for?” She spins through Netflix as fast as I would, sliding over the shows.

  “You pick,” I tell her. At the penthouse, I might throw down with Sasha, making a big fuss over not watching chick-flicks, but that’s all for play. Right now, I just want Natasha to be soothed. So whatever she wants to watch is fine with me.

  She turns those big green eyes on me for a moment, then scrolls even faster. “Um… I can’t.” She bites her lip, looking adorable. “I don’t know what you like.”

  “Don’t pick for me, pick for you.” I gesture at her with a slice of pizza. It tastes as cardboardy as the box it was in.

  She’s obviously still troubled by my answer because a crease appears between her brows as she scrolls down. She picks comedies, then slides through them. “Easy A?”

  “Never seen it.”

  She hits play, and we eat and watch in silence.

  Of course, it’s a movie about sex. With an adorable redhead as the heroine.

  And I’m sitting beside Natasha, who is naked under that blanket.

  But at least I’m not suffering from that blinding need to claim her like I was before. I’m not gnashing my teeth, ready to lash out because I can barely control myself. Something about taking her out there in the mud—the honesty behind it, maybe—loosened that noose. I admitted I wanted her, and I took her.

  It was wrong, but it was also right.

  And now I need to clean up the mess I made.

  When the movie ends, I hit pause on the credits. “Natasha…”

  She turns, her lovely face open and inquisitive. She has no makeup here, but she looks no different—her beauty is a natural one that doesn’t require much enhancement.

  She’s close enough that I can smell the scent of her shampoo, feel the heat of her body beside mine.

  I twitch the blanket farther up her bare shoulder. “You’re okay?”

  She studies me. “I’m okay. Are you?”

  I shake my head. “Not really, no.” I pick up her hand and hold it, staring down at her slender, pale fingers. The short, clean nails which had been polished in pale ballet pink, but are now half-chipped off. “I won’t call it a mistake. Only making you cry—that was unforgivable.” I close my eyes and shake my head.

  Her fingers close around mine. I readjust, untangling our fingers and holding her hand in both mine, stroking down each of her digits and giving it a little twist on the end, like she does when she’s massaging me.

  One corner of her mouth tips up as she must recognize her own move. “That feels good,” she says softly.

  I keep working. “These hands are so small for how much pressure you put through them. I can’t believe how hard you can dig with them.”

  The smile appears at both corners now. “Sometimes I use my elbow.”

  I raise my brows, surprised. “Ah? I didn’t know. Huh.” I pick up her other hand and give it the same treatment. “I care about you,” I admit. “And I’m obviously very attracted to you. But…”

  “You can’t have a relationship,” she finishes for me. I see a flicker of hurt before she hides it, and it makes me want to do everything in my power to fix it.

  Except I can’t.

  “Right. I don’t want to hurt you—I mean, I know I already have—but I don’t want to hurt you more.”

  “It’s okay,” she says softly. Her eyes tear up, but she blinks it back. “Can we, um, can we be friends?”

  I wrap her hand up in both of mine and squeeze. “We are friends,” I promise. “I know I haven’t been a good one, but I’ve always considered you a friend.”

  Her nod is earnest. There’s a tremble in her lips, but she hides it by tugging the blanket up over her chin.

  “So no more sex. I’m going to be the girl and say it’s too confusing for me.”

  She gives a watery laugh. “No more sex.” She slumps back against the couch, her head dropping to the fluffy cushion. “This sucks.”

  Understatement. And all my fault.

  “I agree. I’m sorry.” I reach out and stroke my hand over the back of her head.

  “Is a cuddle out of bounds?”

  “A… cuddle?” A rusty laugh comes from my throat as my chest squeezes. “You need a little sugar?”

  She nods, leaning into me as I lift my arm to loop around her. She rests her head against my shoulder and molds to my side, sweetness and summer and angel wings wrapped into one.

  I find another movie and turn it on, propping my feet on the coffee table. Her legs tangle over the top of mine, and her breath evens.

  When I’m sure she’s asleep, I stroke her face and kiss the top of her head. And then I don’t move a muscle, even when I remember the laundry in the washer. Not when I decide I have to pee and should really check on Nikolai.

  I don’t move because Natasha needed this cuddle, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to wake her up and take it away.

  Natasha

  I jerk awake with a gasp.

  No, that wasn’t my gasp. I lift my head in the dim light to peer at Dima. We’re still on the sofa, our bodies intertwined. I must’ve fallen asleep during the last movie, which is obviously over now because the television is off.

  “Izvinyayus',” Dima mutters an apology, and I realize it was a sharp movement from him that woke me.

  “Did you have a bad dream?”

  “Da.” He hasn’t switched to English yet. I understand Russian perfectly. I can speak it perfectly, too, once I’m in the mode, but I prefer English. After Pamela’s in-school rejection, I made a choice. Dima was right, I Americanized myself completely.

  I press my hand over his heart, not surprised when I find it racing. “What was it?”

  “You and Nikolai and A—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “Just… people I care about dying. Because of me.”

  “What happened to Nikolai wasn’t your fault,” I tell him, pulling away to s
it up straighter.

  His gaze drops to my left breast, which has come out from the blanket. A muscle jumps in his jaw, and he scoots away from me.

  “No, it was Alex’s fault, and I will make him pay.”

  He’s back to being grumpy-Dima, and it all becomes perfectly clear now. His anger toward me was a redirection of his own guilt. He’s suffering over this—he told me that outside in that puddle.

  It’s not the first time he’s nearly died because of me.

  “What if it all just… was? What if it’s nobody’s fault—just a series of events?”

  Dima scoffs.

  “I mean, we assign meaning to things. Death is bad. Birth is good. But is that really true? If no one ever died, the planet wouldn’t survive. Leaving Russia was bad, trying to integrate into school was bad, but was it really? I don’t regret who I am today. What if there was no right or wrong. No good or bad. No one to blame.”

  Dima scrubs his hand over his face.

  “I’m sorry Nikolai’s suffering, but… I’m not sorry I had this time here with you—even the bad parts.” I shrug. “It is what it is.”

  Dima meets my gaze and holds it. “You’re wise for your age.”

  “I just want you to be free,” I whisper hoarsely, and we both know I’m talking about more than his guilt over Nikolai.

  Before he can shut me down, I stand, pulling the blanket up to my armpits. The towel I was originally wearing tangles around my legs and falls. “Spokoynoy nochi.” I say good night as I walk away.

  “Spokoynoy nochi.” His answer is soft and full of regret.

  14

  Dima

  “I just checked on Nikolai, and he’s fine. Bingeing Netflix. Want to go for a walk?” Natasha leans a hip against the office door frame, looking like sunshine itself. Yesterday Ravil sent Adrian here with clothes and necessities for both of us and more groceries, so at least she’s not driving me insane in that tiny t-shirt and my boxers.

  Not that the halter top and short-shorts are any better.

  I had Adrian bring her expensive gourmet chocolate bars, too, which made her look at me in a way that seared my insides.