by Nicole Fox
Jerry’s face flickers with fear, but only for a second. Then he narrows his eyes, trying to act tough. “Fine by me,” he growls.
“No!” I yell.
But Andrei is already growling, “I could have my hands tied behind my back and this bag over my head, and I’d still leave you bloody and beaten on the ground.”
“Good!” Declan beams, every inch the entitled douche. “Then we have a deal! Jerry, have at him!” He burps, and then swigs from his whiskey bottle. “Ding-ding, round one!”
“We’re not doing this,” I warn. “Just go inside, please.”
“I thank you for your concern, Jamie,” Andrei says calmly, somehow seeming more dignified shirtless, cuffed, faceless, than Declan and Jerry put together. “But let him do his worst.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “You can’t even see!” I yell. “Your hands are handcuffed!”
He chuckles. “I like a challenge, printsessa.”
I glance at Declan, seeing if he noticed how casually Andrei just addressed me. But he’s too busy taking Jerry’s guns from him. Clearly, in Declan’s mind, that makes this a fair fight.
“We’re not doing this,” I repeat firmly. “So just go inside and—”
Jerry ducks his head, sprinting fast right at Andrei. When I scream, trying to dart forward, Garret grabs my shoulders and tugs me back. I fight and rage, but Garret is too strong.
“No, Jamie,” he growls.
“Let me go!”
“I don’t want you to get hurt.”
I struggle, but it’s no use. I’m forced to watch as Jerry throws a punch right at Andrei’s face. I wince as I expect to hear the crunch of the connection, but, at the last second, Andrei throws himself backward. The mud is slick with the rain, and he slips, rolling onto his side … but he avoids the punch.
“Ha! In the dirt, where he belongs!” Declan roars. He’s leaning forward, ogling. I hate him.
Jerry throws himself on Andrei, kicking him violently in the belly. The sound the boot makes against is horrible. But then Andrei rolls over and over, avoiding the next few kicks, and, somehow, leaps to his feet. He moves so fast for a man his size, not to mention the fact that he can’t see or use his hands.
Andrei turns like a cornered tiger, head tilted slightly, listening closely.
Jerry throws a haymaker punch.
Andrei slips, ducks slightly, and then shoulder-charges Jerry in the chest so hard, he goes flying off his feet and lands in a twisted mess on the ground. As he’s trying to climb to his feet, he slips. Andrei runs up and knees him in the side.
Jerry grunts, wheezing as he falls again. Then Andrei leaps on top of him, burying his knee in his belly and letting out a primal howl as he headbutts him, somehow knowing where to aim through the bag. I guess it’s the whimpering noises Jerry is making.
“Jesus,” Garret whispers, sounding impressed. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“Okay, okay!” Declan is whining, pulling his pistol from his hip. He struts over to where the men are. “I’ve had enough of this. This ends here.”
“Garret,” I whisper urgently, struggling against his arms. “Dad has ordered them not to kill Andrei. You know what Dad’s like. Even if he doesn’t agree with it, once he’s given the order, that’s the law. What do you think will happen if he’s killed on your watch?”
I feel tears in my eyes, but I try to mask them. It’s only now, knowing with bone-crushing certainty that Declan will execute Andrei right here, that I realize how much I care about him. Not just sexually … there’s something else there, too.
“Declan!” Garret lets me go and jogs over. “You’ve had your fun. It was a fair fight, and your man lost. Andrei, get off him.”
Andrei still has him pinned. He looks up at Declan, the black bag crinkling in a way that tells me he’s smiling. “What if I don’t feel like it?”
“Bakhtin,” Garret repeats, a plea in his voice. It’s like Garret respects him more after what just what happened. I guess, to a man like Garret who’s been in a fair few fights himself, that was really impressive. I mean, it was impressive, but scary, too. “If you don’t, he’ll kill you.”
“Do you think I’m scared of dying?” Andrei asks. “You know as well as I do, Garret, that when we choose this life, we sign away our rights to old age.”
“Andrei!” I cry, joining Garret. “Just listen to him, please.”
Declan is standing nearby, pistol raised, but I think it was all bluster because now he’s standing there uncertainly. He knows as well as I do what happens if he violates a direct order from Dad.
With a sigh, Andrei stands, backing away from Jerry. “For you, Jamie.”
“Tricky bastard,” Jerry whispers as he climbs to his feet, blood seeping down his face. “The fucking rain. I fucking slipped, didn’t I? Fucking—”
Declan, with a wordless cry, launches himself at Jerry. He smacks his pistol across his jaw. The most disgusting part is how Jerry knows not to fight back, that it’d be a crime to raise a hand to Rafferty Walsh’s son. He just takes the beating as Declan hits him twice more, and then punches him savagely in the gut. Declan slips in the mud, then, falling on top of his so-called friend.
It takes a long time for him to disentangle himself. I just watch, repulsed, horrified. Garret shakes his head in disgust.
“Pussy!” Declan yells at Jerry. “Fucking hands behind his back and you couldn’t take him!”
“You are welcome to try me yourself, Declan,” Andrei says. I know he’s smiling from the tone of his voice.
Declan glares. “Use my name again, dog, and see what happens.”
Garret moves forward and helps Jerry to his feet. Life is so complicated sometimes. I know how much Jerry hates Andrei, and yet seeing him being beaten twice, the second time completely unfairly, makes me feel sorry for him. Declan looks around, his eyes settling on his whiskey bottle, which he must’ve dropped when he took out his gun.
“Okay, enough fun,” he says, putting his gun away and picking up the bottle. “Don’t you have work to do, Jamie? Come on, then, let’s get to it!”
The rain has gotten even heavier, drenching us all. “I can’t, not in this weather,” I lie. “It will ruin my equipment.” Really, my camera is waterproof. The rain might actually make for an even more intense photo shoot. But I’m not about to tell him that. I’m scared where this evening is headed. “I’ll have to reschedule.”
“Stupid bitch,” Declan laughs. “You think you’d learn to check the weather beforehand. Come on, Jerry, don’t sulk. Let’s go get a drink, eh?”
Garret makes to step forward when Declan calls me a bitch, but I put my hand on his arm, looking at him pleadingly. Declan and Jerry are almost gone—apparently friends again, judging by Declan’s arm over Jerry’s shoulder—when Andrei snarls, “Call her a bitch again, Declan, and next time it will be you whimpering in the dirt.”
Declan spins and takes out his pistol in one quick movement, takes a split second to aim, and then fires.
The sound of the shot rings out across the garden, the impact a sickening crunch, and I close my eyes on instinct. I know that when I open them, Andrei will be dead.
It’s sort of funny how time bends after the gunshot. Garret grabs me instinctively and shields me to his chest, the same way he used to after Mom died of cancer and Dad was, well, too Dad to comfort me. His hand is in my hair and he’s shushing me, whispering calming words I don’t even hear.
Because it’s now, way too late, that it really hits me.
I care about Andrei Bakhtin.
It’s not just the sex, not even the banter and the chemistry. It’s this weird undefinable connection, sort of, I dunno, like an addiction.
Like the beginning of something.
But now it’s over before it could even start.
Shit.
But then, when I finally open my eyes, I see that Andrei is not dead. He’s standing right where he was, the only one who didn’t even react at the guns
hot. I look at Declan and see that Jerry, clearly wanting to protect Declan from Dad’s punishment, dove at him at the last second and nudged the gun sideways. The shot missed by a few inches, hitting the magnolia.
The crunch I heard was the bullet hitting the bark.
“Enough,” Jerry says, his voice trembling. “Cormac … he’s given orders. Like it or not, he’s the boss.”
Declan laughs bitterly, actually looking glad that Jerry stopped him just in time. He knows as well as I do what Dad would do to him.
“This isn’t over, Russian. I’m going to request to be the one to execute you when the time comes. And, trust me … it will not be quick.”
Declan stalks away before Andrei can say anything else. For ages, I just stand there, my breath coming super-fast and rain dripping all over my body, my clothes sticking to me. I just about manage to wait until Declan is inside before I run across the garden and throw my arms around Andrei, forgetting that Garret is there for a second.
“I thought you were dead!”
Andrei laughs. “Careful, Jamie. You wouldn’t want to fall for a Bratva boss, would you?”
“Shut up,” is all I can manage. The tears mix with the rain on my cheeks.
Garret clears his throat behind me. When I turn, I realize that he isn’t disgusted at mine and Andrei’s relationship like I guessed. He doesn’t look crazily happy about it, either. But I know he’s not going to tell Dad.
He’s looking at Andrei differently now, too, with a note of respect. “You took a risk there, Bakhtin, speaking up to defend Jamie like that. You need to be more careful from now on.”
“Like I said,” Andrei replies soberly, “I’m not afraid of dying.”
“A lot of men say that,” Garret says. “Not many mean it.”
Andrei merely shrugs in response.
Garret goes on, “I think you might be one of the rare ones that do, though. Jesus. That fight was really something. How did you do that? How did you win?”
“His shoes were making squelching noises on the wet grass,” Andrei says. “It was just a matter of listening. Plus, when he came at me, it was wild, untrained. All I had to do was stay calm.”
Garret is shaking his head in disbelief, a smile touching his lips. But then he remembers that he’s supposed to hate Andrei. “Are we taking him back to the cell? I think it might be for the best, to avoid any more trouble.”
“Yeah,” I say. “You’re right.”
But as we walk back toward the house, I think about how Garret is wrong. There already is more trouble, so much more than when we came out here.
First, I can’t deny now that I actually, viscerally care about Andrei.
Second, Declan is not going to forget this.
And third?
I’m pretty sure outside shoots are a no-go now.
For a long time, Andrei and I just sit in his living room area, side by side. He’s got his arm over my shoulders and I’m resting my head on his chest. It feels natural, like this is the way we’re supposed to be sitting together, or something. After the fear of thinking I’d lost him, it feels so good just to hug and be close.
“That Declan motherfucker is asking for a bullet to the head,” Andrei muses into the silence. “Men like that … he wouldn’t survive two seconds in the Bratva, even if his father was second-in-command. He’s weak and spoiled. Pathetic.”
“I know,” I sigh. “He’s … he and I, we’ve sort of got a …”
Okay, what the hell am I doing right now? Telling Andrei about this dark, twisted episode in my past was definitely not part of the plan. But then, have I ever really had a plan?
“Yes?”
“We used to date, kinda,” I continue. “I mean, when we were teenagers, we were boyfriend and girlfriend. And he—he abused me, I guess you’d call it. Physically and emotionally. I don’t want to go into detail, but it was pretty bad. I was so naïve, I thought it was my own fault. It took me two years to break it off and it really messed me. I told myself I’d never let myself fall for another man.”
I laugh uncomfortably, wondering if he’s getting the message: another man … until you.
Andrei massages my hair slowly, his fingers tickling my scalp. It feels natural, intimate. “I’m surprised your father let him get away with that.”
I laugh bitterly. “Dad just called it a teenage romance, nothing to worry about. Basically, he didn’t want to mess things up with Rafferty, even though sometimes I think Rafferty doesn’t even like Declan.”
“What did he do to you?” Andrei asks. The pressure in his hand doesn’t get any more powerful, but I can sense the rage in him, dormant like an ember ready to erupt into a wildfire.
“All the horrible stuff a man can do to a woman,” I say, trembling. “I don’t want to—”
“Of course,” Andrei says. “I don’t need to hear the details.” It’s only when his fingers move to my cheeks that I realize I’m sobbing quietly. He wipes my cheeks, and then leans down and kisses the tears away with surprising tenderness. “I was already going to kill him for what he did tonight, for the way he spoke to you, for the crime of trying to kill me. But now, when that day comes, I’m going to look him in the eyes and tell him he’s dying for what he did to you.”
I let out a sob, finding his lips. We kiss passionately. Then we stare intensely into each other’s eyes. If I haven’t fallen for this man already, I’m falling fast.
“Deal?” I ask quietly, which is quickly becoming an inside joke with us.
He kisses my forehead, again with surprising softness. “Deal.”
16
Andrei
I mark the next week by the notches in the corner of the bathroom, counting down the days to Russia Day, and trying—and failing—to stay strong and not fall for Jamie.
But it’s difficult.
There is something alluring about her. Something undeniable.
She comes to my cell most evenings when Garret is on shift—Garret, who has tacitly agreed to help us keep our relationship quiet—bringing her photography gear. But often we won’t even take any photos.
We’ll crush each other in kisses, and then tear at each other’s clothes.
I love the sounds she makes when I smooth my hands over her breasts, when I suck on her nipples, making her climax just like that. Or the self-possessed, confident look in her expression when she slides to her knees and takes me in her mouth, eyes wide as if to say: we both know I’ve got the power here, right?
Sometimes, we don’t even have sex. Or, if we do, it’s only a small part of the evening. We’ll lie in bed together, talking idly. I find I like moving my hands through her hair. I like making her shiver, the same way I did the night she told me the truth about Declan.
Declan. Her abuser. Her tormentor. Her nightmare. I haven’t told her my own reasoning—about the fire, about Osip’s warning to kill the boy inside of me. I try, I truly do, to keep his words in the forefront of my mind. But when Jamie and I are in bed, talking about her photography or my rise to become the leader of the Bratva or a dozen other topics, it is difficult.
“I guess I don’t know what my end goal is,” she says one evening, her face flushed, her hair wild after sex. She’s lying on her stomach, kissing my sweaty chest as she talks. We’re sinking into each other. “I guess I just want to keep doing projects. I love the work itself. Just losing myself in it. I don’t think when I’m working on a project. Well, I do, but only about the project.”
“It’s like that with my work,” I say, tweaking her nose playfully. “It’s hard to think about anything at all when you’re in the middle of a gunfight. Your senses become honed, sharp, and the rest of the world just falls away.”
“Don’t you get scared?” she asks.
I move my finger around her ear, smiling when she laughs, batting my hand away playfully. “Scared? If anybody else asked me that, I would say no. But the truth? The truth is, of course I get scared. I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t. But fear can be both th
e fuel and the ruin of a man. You just have to know how to use it.”
“I lied before,” she says. “When I said I don’t think about anything else when I’m working on my photography stuff. That’s not true. Because, these days, I think about you, Andrei. I think about you a lot.”
She swallows and we meet eyes. We have moments like this, sometimes, intimate and close. But then I’ll remember the fire, and she’ll remember Declan’s abuse, and we’ll both remember the fact that she’s Irish and I’m Russian … and we look away.
“I bet your girlfriend is worried sick about you,” she says.
“Oh, she’s terrified.”
Her shoulders slump, her expression darkening. “Really?”
“Yes.” I lift her chin with my hand, winking at her. “You are, aren’t you, Jamie? Worried sick about me?”
“Ha-ha,” she says sarcastically. “Like that would ever work.”
She’s baiting me, I sense, waiting for me to tell her: of course it could work. But I can’t say that. I shouldn’t even have made the joke.
“Imagine,” she laughs after a long pause. “I’m on the phone to Molly. Hey, gotta run. I’m meeting my boyfriend in his cell.”
“Imagine,” I echo gravely. I’m not sure what else to say. Because I’m imagining what it would be like to be with Jamie, to really be with her.
“It’s dangerous to think this way,” I whisper. We’re lying still, almost silent, enjoying each other’s presence. I find the heat of her reassuring. She feels like home, and that sensation is baffling beyond measure. “There’s too much going against us. I hope you know that.”
Really, what I’m saying is: I hope I know that.
“Of course I do,” she huffs, trying to laugh it off. “This is just …” She trails off, probably because neither of us knows what this is. Not really.
