by Nicole Fox
“I’m not living my life in misery!” I protest. I don’t mean to slam my wineglass down, just place it, but the coffee table makes a loud banging noise. “I’m following my dreams. I don’t need a man to do that, the last time I checked. And especially not a dirty Russian!”
“That’s your dad talking,” Molly says, sounding disgusted. “That’s not you.”
I wince, because she’s right. I didn’t mean that. “Whatever,” I grumble, clumsily pouring more wine. It spills over the edge of the glass, onto the table. “I don’t have to justify myself to you. I can’t believe you’re giving me relationship advice, Molly. Jesus.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Molly hisses.
I roll my eyes at her. “You’re the Tinder Queen. Online dating addict, a new guy every week. It’s a little much, isn’t it?”
This is the moment where, if we weren’t as close as we are, the argument could turn really ugly. Molly could choose to take my comment in the worst possible way. Then all hell would break loose. But Molly knows and loves me, and I know and love her, so when she just laughs in my face, I can’t stop myself from giggling, too.
“I’m not addicted!” she laughs. “Jesus, Jamie. Addicted!”
I don’t even know why we find it so funny. Maybe we’re just drunk. But, once the laughter has passed, I say, “I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean that. That was mean.”
“You know I didn’t mean to upset you,” Molly says. “I’m the sorry one.”
“Good, then,” I smile. “We’re both sorry. Can we drop it now?”
Molly sighs. “I guess so, but it doesn’t change how I feel about it. It’s horrible, what he did to you. He’s horrible and evil and—uh—words don’t exist to describe what a monster he is. The fact that he’s still walking around … it makes me sick, okay? But I still don’t think you should purposefully stunt your emotions because of it. He’s in the wrong, not you. Why should you be punished?”
Her words hit me hard, because they tempt me to let go of the pain of the past and, instead, look forward to the future. But that’s a dangerous game to play when you’ve got a past like mine.
“Can we just not talk about it anymore?” I ask.
“Sure, babe.” She leaps to her feet and dances around the coffee table, sliding down next to me. “Make-up hug! I will not take no for an answer.”
I wrap my arms around her, squeezing her tightly. For a second, I can almost imagine we’re in kindergarten again, arguing over whose paper airplane is going to fly better. Sometimes, I miss those carefree, innocent days so damn much.
She slides onto the couch next to me and pouts melodramatically. Laying a hand over her forehead, she makes a sighing noise that would put a 1950s actress to shame.
“I’m a terrible friend, aren’t I?” she says.
“You’re a drunk friend,” I correct, shooting her a look. “Don’t get all theatrical on me now, Mols.”
“I didn’t mean to dredge that all up. It’s just … We’ll just be going around in circles if I say it again. I just want you to be happy.”
“I have wine. I have a career. I have you. How couldn’t I be happy?” I smile. “Stop being silly.”
Molly huffs, pouring herself another glass as she sits up. “You know, Jamie, it’s so fucked that your dad bought him. I was talking to my uncle about it and he just acted like it was normal. Sometimes, I’m so sick and tired of this life. How we’re expected to just go along with all the messed-up stuff the Irish do. Sometimes, I think the Bratva actually are more, I dunno, humane than us.”
I bite down, mostly because Molly is echoing thoughts I’ve had myself, especially after reading more news articles about attacks on the Russians.
“I know,” I whisper. “But don’t say that to anyone else apart from me, Molly. You could get your uncle in trouble. You know, for not keeping you in line.”
Molly raises her glass, laughing bitterly. “Here’s to the sexism of the Family!”
I clink mine with hers, and we drink together.
“You know, I might’ve met a guy,” Molly says after a pause, looking flushed. “Like, for real.”
“What, like he’s a ghost? What do you mean, might?”
She wags her finger drunkenly at me. “I can’t say, not yet, not until it’s … official. But he’s different than the Tinder jerkoffs and the barroom bros. This might actually mean something. But I think I’m getting ahead of myself.”
“I think you’re definitely drunk,” I laugh. “But I’m not judging. I think I might be, too.”
We spend the rest of the evening talking about mostly safe topics: Molly’s next event, future projects I might do after The Beast—since talking about The Beast itself would involve talking about Andrei—but I find myself thinking about this mysterious man of Molly’s. I also can’t help but consider her advice. Is she right?
Should I let go of the past?
Can I?
I get a cab home, feeling like I’m going from one universe to another as I cross from the city, to the suburbs, and finally to Dad’s massive estate. The guards open the gate for me and I stride up the front stairs, looking at the garden, down under the big front window. I’m pretty sure that’s just about where Andrei’s cell is, underground like an animal. Not that I care, right? He’s just a subject, a project.
Okay, so I’m drunk, which is maybe why I don’t feel nervous as I go up the stairs to Dad’s office. I knock heavily, wait, and then knock again.
Finally, he grumbles, “Yes?”
“It’s me,” I say.
“What is it?”
“I need to talk to you.”
I can hear him sighing. He was probably dozing, but then, when he opens the door, I see that he’s not alone. One of his girls is there with him. She’s even younger than me, probably around twenty, and she looks so out of place in here, sitting in Dad’s lap in a flimsy dress. I gesture angrily at the door.
“I need to talk alone.”
Dad sighs and pats her on the leg. The way she slides off, all obedient like a pet, makes me shiver. He’s my dad and I love him, but, sometimes, some of the stuff he does makes me sick. Like, can’t he see how fucked-up that is?
“I could be her mother,” I comment, slamming the door behind her.
“That seems like a bit of an exaggeration, don’t it?” he grumbles, taking a cigar from his draw. He lights it with his gold-plated lighter and sucks deeply.
“So let me get this straight,” I say. “Mom dies of cancer—Mom, a good woman, an appropriately aged woman—so you decide to fuck infants?”
“What I do in my office on my own time is none of your business!” he replies. “Is that why you’re here, to lecture me?”
“Mom would be disgusted.” I slump into the chair before the wine makes me trip. “She was a zombie at the end. Do you even remember? That cancer ate her alive. And here you are, basically cheating on her.”
Dad frowns, and then picks up a jug of water and pours me a glass. He pushes it across the desk. “Drink.”
“I’m not thirsty—”
“Maybe not,” he interrupts, talking around his cigar. “But you’re drunk. Drink.”
I take the water, finding that I actually am thirsty once I take a sip. I feel small in this chair, so much tinier than Dad’s huge, superior throne. I wipe my mouth, setting the glass aside.
“Whatever,” I mumble, thinking of Mom. The memories of her are vague in my head. Dad doesn’t even keep any photos of her in his office. Is it that they’re too painful, or does he not want his fuck toys to see them? “I’m not here to talk about Mom, anyway.”
“Then why are you here?” he asks.
It’s been three days since Andrei and I had sex, and since then I’ve kept my distance. But I know that something happened between him and Dad, because Garret told me the Russians have stopped their attacks on us. For two days now, the Russians have gone quiet. But, then, why did I read a news article yesterday about a home invasion
on a prominent Russian family?
The Russians might’ve stopped, but Dad wants to twist the knife. I think about confronting him, but what good would it do? I have to pick my battles. Even if I’m starting to get tired of it.
“I need to move Andrei to the other cell,” I say. “It’s part of my project.”
“The cell we keep for high-ranking prisoners?” Dad muses. “Why would we move that fucker there? He’s fine enough where he is. He’s lucky, really.”
“For my project,” I say. “Didn’t I just tell you that? Jeez.”
Dad clenches his jaws. “Careful, Jamie. Show your father some respect.”
He’s right. Usually, I play the good-daughter routine, but tonight, maybe because I’m drunk or maybe because some of Andrei’s toughness is rubbing off on me—or revealing my own toughness—I can’t stomach it. Still, I need more photos of Andrei, so I can’t go full-on argumentative.
“Please?” I say. “It’s for my project. Just say yes and I’ll leave you to get back to your … work.”
He glances at the door. I know that his girl is probably waiting out there for him. I can’t feel too sorry for her, I guess. I know that Dad pays them really well and that he never abuses them, but the look of hunger in his face still sickens me.
“I guess it makes no difference,” he mutters.
“And he has to have decent meals,” I follow up. “The gruel is making him sluggish, which isn’t good for my project.”
“Silk sheets, too, eh?” Dad says wryly. “I hope this is just for your project, Jamie. Because if I find out that that Russian bastard has …” He waves his cigar in rage. “If he’s turned your head in anyway, fucking tricked you into seeing him more than the animal he is, I’ll crucify him. Do you understand?”
I shrug, somehow masking the fear and resentment I feel with an airy smile. “Do what you want, Daddy,” I say. “I don’t care. Like you said, he’s just a Bratva dog.”
The smile which spreads across Dad’s face is so proud, way prouder than he looked when I graduated college or completed my first exhibition. “That’s right,” he says, nodding. “Well said, dear.”
14
Andrei
“Don’t know how the fuck you swung this,” Jerry growls as he prods me in the small of the back with his rifle.
I step forward into my new cell. It’s not exactly the Ritz, but there are three rooms now instead of two: a bedroom, a living room/kitchen, and a small workout area with padded mats and a pull-up bar. The kitchen, I see, has plastic cutlery and paper plates, and the bed actually has sheets on it. I’m about to ask where the toilet and shower are when I notice a door in the workout area. I open it, and find a decent setup.
Nodding, I turn to Jerry. “I suppose this will have to do.”
“Have to do …” He glances at Ronan. “Can you believe this prick?”
The younger man narrows his eyes, causing his freckles to shift. “Don’t take it personal. He’s just trying to rile us.”
The older man huffs, scratching at his teardrop tattoos as though to draw my attention there, as though I should be impressed by the implication. Teardrops mean he’s killed people, but then, in this life, who the fuck hasn’t?
“One day, Russian, you’ll go too far. And I’ll be waiting to put a bullet in your head.”
“Maybe,” I say, nodding. “Or maybe you’ll miss and hit me in the neck. And I’ll have time to get my hands on you. Bleeding, half-conscious, I’ll still have the strength to crush your neck and windpipe.”
“Enough!” Jerry snaps, flinching. “You’re lucky I don’t put you down right here.”
I shrug calmly. “Is it me, Ronan, or is your friend here starting to get repetitive?”
Ronan smirks for a fraction of a second before catching himself. He glances at Jerry, clearly hoping the older man didn’t notice. He didn’t, but that’s interesting. It shows that Ronan is tired of Jerry, too. I file that away under ‘potentially useful information.’
Jerry just grumbles something under his breath and leaves, shutting the big metal door behind them. I go to the small kitchen area and open the drawers, surprised to find easy-open cans of meat and vegetables. It’s like they don’t know I could peel off the lid of these tins and use them to slice their throats. But then, I’m assuming they’re going to search me every time they come into the cell.
But what about when Jamie comes? Will she search me?
I haven’t seen Jamie since our wild sex, four days ago now, and thinking about her brings up a whole host of confused thoughts. On the one hand, I’m glad she hasn’t visited, because it means I don’t have to confront whatever it is she stirs up in me.
All the regular reasons to dismiss these thoughts rear up, and yet, the truly fucked-up part is that I’ve dreamt of her these past three nights. Of our sex, of her flushed, freckled face, of how concentrated and determined she looked when tinkering with her camera.
In the end, it doesn’t matter if she searches me or not, because I can’t take her hostage. Even if the elevators weren’t double-locked, I don’t think I have that in me. It’s not just because she’s a woman. It’s because she’s … Jamie.
I shake my head, spooning tinned beef into my mouth. It’s cold and not exactly delicious, but far better than gruel. After washing it down with a paper cup of water, I decide to push her from my mind and concentrate on working out.
I focus on pull-ups, since they’re the main exercise I wasn’t able to do in the other cell. I feel the powerful muscles in my back contracting and lengthening, the V-shape of my body becoming ridged and rippled with each successive rep. Sweat slides down my body onto the floor, and then I hop down and drop onto the mat for a set of sit-ups.
I think as I sweat. Did Egor get the message? Has he seen the video yet? It’s entirely possible that he saw it and just assumed I was trying to convince him to stop, or maybe he thought that they had given me a script to read. But no, he must have been able to tell that those words were mine, not the Irish’s.
I’ve been working out for about half an hour when I hear the door open, hear her sharp intake of breath when she walks into the sweat-soaked room. I don’t turn, but I sense her, standing in the doorway. I can hear her high-pitched breathing as she takes in my muscled form.
Even that, just her breathing, causes a torrent of blood to rush to my manhood. I find myself smiling, and have to physically force myself not to turn around and start bantering with her. I thought these days apart had given me a chance to build my resolve, but now, with her this close—I can smell her perfume, not masking her just-Jamie scent—I feel that resolve already crumbling.
I toy with her, pretending that I haven’t noticed she’s watching. Jumping up to the pull-up bar, I do slow, slow sets, lengthening each movement, knowing without having to look that her eyes are locked on each subtle clench of my back muscles.
Finally, when I hop down, I turn, grinning. “Getting a good look?”
She’s wearing those tempting yoga pants with her gray hoodie, no bra, her nipples poking through the thin material. Her hair is tied up in a bun with a pencil slotted through it to hold it in place. There’s something so artistic and sexy about that.
Calm down, man. For fuck’s sake.
“Hmm, that’s weird,” she says after a short pause.
“What is?”
“I’m pretty sure the words you were looking for are thank and, oh, what’s the other one? That’s right: you.”
“And why do you I imagine I should be thanking you?”
“Maybe because of this lovely apartment I got for you.”
I wave a hand at the sparse gym room. Then I bow deeply, sarcastically. “Printsessa,” I say, with mock seriousness, “I have never seen finer quarters. Indeed, they’re fit for royalty. How is it that you aren’t staying here?”
“Ha-ha,” she mutters. “Come on, it’s better than before, right?”
I shrug, noting her camera bag on the floor behind her. Then an ide
a occurs to me. I take a step forward, loving the way her body stiffens, causing her breasts to bounce slightly.
“You’re right,” I agree. “I should be thanking you.”
She raises her eyebrow, suspicious.
“Thank you for the way you arched your back and pushed your ass out for me, for the way you bared your sex for me, pink and wet and glistening with how horny you were. Thank you for the sweet moaning sounds you made, like you never wanted me to stop, like you’d never felt pleasure like that before. It did wonders for my ego.”
Her lips are trembling. The chemistry between us, physical and otherwise, is like nothing I have ever experienced. It’s as though we just fit like two pieces made especially for each other. It’s far too easy to just slip into the grooves.
“Such a jerk,” she whispers, but she takes a shaky step forward, looking up at me with her lips pursed.
“Thank you for being so fucking sexy,” I snarl. “With your tight yoga pants, showing every inch of your legs, your legs that I just want to nibble and bite and suck until they turn red, getting higher and higher until I’m at your sex. Thank you.”
I reach up, thumbing her nipple through her hoodie. It’s so hard, I flick it and it bounces back into place. Pert and feisty and sexy, she sighs in desire.
“Thank you for making me so damn hard I feel like I could explode just from touching you like this.” I keep thumbing her. She presses forward, grabbing my wrist as though afraid I might take my hand away. In wonder, I whisper, “Are you going to come, Jamie? From this?”
She bites her lip cutely, nodding. “Mm-mmm, fuck, I don’t know. M-maybe.”
Jesus Christ. Could she be any sexier?
“Have you ever?” I ask, moving my hand quicker, attacking her nipple with ferocious lust.
“No,” she whispers, her eyelids fluttering as she struggles to keep them open. Her voice catches. She sounds surprised. “First time for everything, though, right?”
She clutches my wrist firmly, digging her fingernails in. I can only stare at her as I rub quicker and quicker, completely enthralled as she collapses against me and starts to shake, her moans sounding surprised, confused, making her more appealing than ever. It’s like we’re exploring new experiences together, learning each other and ourselves.
