The V Girl: A coming of age story

by Mya Robarts

  Aleksey’s lack of modesty when he undresses borders on the indecent. He doesn’t ask me to turn around. He doesn’t even turn off the lights. I try not to watch, but from the corner of my eyes I see him taking off his armor and every piece of clothing underneath it. His movements are as feline, masculine, and gracefully rough as they always are. I read somewhere that soldiers never undress completely to sleep, but Aleksey doesn’t seem to care.

  When I look at his shirtless figure, a wave of heat courses through my veins. Aleksey is wearing only short-legged undergarments that leave nothing to the imagination. The moment is so intimate that I get butterflies in my stomach. He turns off the light, and the only illumination comes from the dim glow of the digital torch on the wall. As he lies under the bedspread, he puts a gun under the bed.

  The bare skin of his leg briefly brushes my calf. The contact feels strange and deliciously warm, but I pull away as much as the bed allows. I force my mind to ignore his proximity. I think about something else instead. “When will we start training?”

  He tries to give me as much space as possible by lying on his side. “When I say so.”

  “When will you say so?”

  “When you promise that you’ll do everything I ask during training. No questioning. If you still want me to train you, I’ll be aggressively strict. Harsh. Downright severe.”

  “I’ll take everything, I promise. Just make me a good fighter.”

  He remains quiet for so long that I think he has fallen asleep.

  “When will we start training?” he asks in a hoarse tone that implies he’s talking about the sexual training he offered not long ago.

  “When I say so. Perhaps after you answer my questions. What’s your kink? Do you love someone? Your parents? A girlfriend?”

  He turns his back. “Girlfriend? That’s a ludicrous idea.”

  “Why is it ludicrous?”

  “I’m not into girlfriends, courtship, or fiancées.” His scornful voice reflects his hatred of those concepts. Tristan once said that Aleksey had never devoted time to women.

  “Mr. Fürst, obviously you don’t have time for a girlfriend, but all of your men are married. Are you telling me that you have commitment issues?”

  “No. It’s atonement. I’ve done terrible things. I don’t deserve to be loved,” he says unemotionally, as though he’s explaining a scientifically proven fact.

  My eyebrows rise in disbelief. I’m used to seeing a hint of arrogance in his severe stance, one that screams I deserve everything and always get it. Maybe he’s being pragmatic. Love in the time of war is not a wise emotion to feel.

  “Why?” I ask.

  As usual, he answers my question with a shake of his head.

  My hand reaches out to touch his muscular back but retreats immediately. “Mr. Fürst, you may think you don’t deserve love, but I’m convinced that you believe you deserve to be admired.”

  Aleksey turns on the bed, his eyes shining with humor. It makes me smile. He’s just made revelations despite himself.

  “Is that why the day I tried to hold your hand you …?”

  He nods. “I don’t want you to get false expectations about me. My offer is exclusively for pleasure. I’ll make you feel so good that you’ll feel like you won’t ever need love in your life.”

  His words are both tempting and disappointing. No love means no pain. No fear that someone who is important to you will end up dead. But how can he go through his life denying himself love? If I were as powerful as he is, I’d feel safe enough to love, and I’d fight for it.

  I shift under his bedspread. “What I want is a mix of human touch … with a more … um … kinky kind of contact. I’m not exactly expecting romance.”

  Aleksey nods, his expression unreadable. “I said I won’t give you romance, but I can give you human touch.” He stays quiet for a while, then inhales deeply. “Tell me. According to you, what is human touch?”

  I try to remember Olmo’s words. “Um … if it were a dictionary definition, it’d go like this: Physical affection of a non-sexual nature that provides comfort, warmth, support, and humanity,” I say, imitating the preachy tone of voice that my dad uses during homeschooling.

  Aleksey turns to look at me. “And kindness. And recognition. That is exactly what you need, Lila, and what I need from you. Only from you.”

  I don’t know why his words elicit a warm, pleasant feeling. Only from me. “Why me?”

  He shakes his head. The topic, like many others with him, is closed. I try a different question. “What does human touch have to do with us?”

  “At the glade, you talked about a connection between sex and love. I’m so averse to love that I won’t even pretend I’m not. If you accept my training, I won’t give you love.” He looks down at his superb body. “But I can offer you the rest of myself and plenty of human touch.”

  I like his offer. We don’t care for each other as much as we should, but if we had sex, it would involve more than just two people using each other. There would be something.

  “Besides, Miss Velez, I won’t stay here for long. We won’t have any contact after the recruitment ceremony.”

  I pout, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “You can always send me a letter or a messenger dove.”

  “That would be like giving the Patriot authorities a written confession that I’m fraternizing with Nats. They’d kill you.”

  I’ve known all along that whatever we have together would be short-lived, but hearing that he’ll completely disappear from my life makes my heart constrict in pain.

  “I’ll show you the basics only if a temporary arrangement works for you. If you want to,” he says.

  I can’t find my voice. Our silence extends uncomfortably for what seems like hours. I try to talk about something else.

  “Why don’t you want me to sleep on the cot?”

  “It’s partially moist.”

  My head snaps toward him. “How do you know?” I search for answers in his silence. If the brat insult was real, perhaps other parts of my dream did happen. “Did you … touch me right after you called me a brat?” He shakes his head.

  “Why not?”

  “You were too intoxicated to give your consent.”

  “And?”

  He frowns. “And? If, while you were drugged, I had touched you like I wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to call myself a real man.”

  That’s true. He’d be a rapist, but that’s not what I was implying. “What I meant is … I have vivid dreams, and I had one that … I don’t know what was real and what wasn’t. I won’t call you a liar, but I think we had some … physical contact.”

  “Only to stop you from hurting yourself. I trapped you against the wall, but not for long. The moment I said your name, you melted.”

  Oh no! “What do you mean by melted?”

  “You had the strangest hallucination. You fainted, tossed about in your unconsciousness, and … said my name.”

  I cover myself with the sheet, feeling the skin of my face burn. I’d give all the money in the world to evaporate on the spot. “You aren’t a gentleman—” My voice is barely a whisper. “Why didn’t you leave the room? You shouldn’t have stayed and watched—”

  He answers as if, for him, a girl having a sexual hallucination wasn’t worth his attention. “I’m your doctor. I kept checking your vital signs. You seemed to be having a reaction to the drugs.”

  Dammit, Aleksey! “How long … did you observe me?”

  “An hour.”

  I almost fall off the bed when I try to put more distance between us.

  “Don’t feel ashamed, Lila. The genes of non-military people aren’t prepared for the effects of the tonics, so their bodies react in strange ways to repel the drugs. The triggering of certain body functions is only natural.” There’s a certain pride in his voice when he adds, “You had an orgasm.”

  I groan. Such an intimate moment … in front of him, of all people. I hate that he knows that my dream about h
im gave me my first orgasm. “Don’t flatter yourself. As you said, I was under the effect of the drugs. Rey appeared in my dream, too,” I lie.

  Fury replaces the smugness on his face.

  That first night together, we fall asleep facing away from each other. But I wake during the night to find myself resting my head on his chest while he lies on his back with his hands under his head. I pull away, but before dawn, I feel the warmth of his muscular arms leaving my body. He must have wrapped them around me to keep me from falling out of bed.

  Later in the morning, the last helicopter taking soldiers to a hospital leaves. I put on my cloak and visit a slightly less depressed Duque.

  Tristan arrives at noon to take a blood sample. The lab test proves that I’m free of the drugs. To celebrate, we have lunch in the ER with Duque, the Diaz aunts, and the twins. I’m behind in my embroidering, so I spend the rest of the day trying to catch up.

  When I return to Aleksey’s bedroom, I notice a change. Something has replaced his old single bed. The engraved four-poster bed is a work of art that seems fit for a king. Is this bed for my comfort, or his? Why does he insist on this arrangement when he can get sleeping companions so easily?

  Confusion makes my muscles tense, so I take a shower, still wearing my hospital gown. Since I moved to this clinic, I’ve always showered partially clothed. It makes me nervous to be undressed when soldiers can arrive at any minute.

  I try to relax under the hot water, but I can’t. Anything can happen between a man and a woman who share a bed. I keep thinking about my dream. I don’t want to feel that uncertainty, guilt, and shame again. As much as I’d love to repeat the blissful sensations of my first orgasm, I need to feel that I … that we … If only I could talk to him. Set limits. Get to know him and trust him.

  One thing is certain: I won’t ask him. I asked for sex from another man, and it didn’t work. If things flow naturally, we’ll have intimacy, but I hope the sex won’t be like it was in my dream. I hope he’ll control the beast that lives inside him and be gentle with me.

  Can he really?

  “Even if there is some truth to women being raped in Germany when the Allies came, these were soldiers whose wives have been killed, raped, houses burned, cities and villages flattened, for no good reason. So yes, maybe SOME of them retaliated. It doesn’t mean it’s right to retaliate, but neither is calling Allies horrible. There was only one horrible side in that war.

  Nats aren’t that different from WWII Nazis. Patriots are treating Nats better than they deserve. Patriots limit their retaliation to sporadic recruitment ceremonies.”

  Comment on an article about Mass rape in WWII.

  31

  Downright severe

  “Wake up.”

  “Mm.”

  A harsh, angry voice disturbs my sleep. “Do you want me to train you or not?”

  “Tomorrow,” I mumble.

  The mattress disappears abruptly, and I land on the floor.

  “Ouch! What the hell?”

  “From now on, you’ll speak only when spoken to,” says a commanding voice.

  I look up to find Aleksey towering over me. He looks down at me so harshly that I recoil. “It’s three hundred thirty hours. We’ll train every day from three hundred forty-five to five hundred forty-five.”

  He doesn’t want me to answer everything with ‘Sir, yes sir!’ does he?

  “You’ll nod and shake your head in reply,” he says, using his unearthly ability to read my mind. “Now get up.” He doesn’t offer his hand to help me. I feel dizzy, but I won’t tell him. I need to prove that I can do this.

  To my surprise, he kneels and lifts the hem of my gown to check on my thigh. His face gets close as he examines my skin, but he doesn’t touch me.

  “Your thigh wound is still in bad shape, but soldiers drill and fight even when wounded. If you want to survive the war, you’ll have to give your best even at your worst.”

  I nod. I have a fever, and my head is killing me, but I’ll take any pain if it means the slightest chance of getting better.

  “You have ten minutes to get dressed, make the bed, and meet me at the top of the staircase.” With no other words, he leaves the room.

  Making the humongous bed is a challenge. Poncho keeps pulling the bedspread for fun, and the posts don’t help. When I finally meet Aleksey at the top of the staircase, he’s looking at the time on his j-device. “You’re a half second late. Fifty push-ups.”

  I’m taken aback. Is he serious?

  “NOW!” he yells, startling me.

  I crouch and circle my wrists.

  “What the hell are you doing, Velez?”

  “I never do push-ups without warming up my wrists first—”

  “No warming up. Now you’ll do sixty push-ups.”

  I obey. By the time I’m at number forty, my arms ache, and I struggle to keep up. I’m used to doing fifty push-ups easily, but the wound and bed rest have messed with my endurance. To make things more difficult, he puts his foot on my lower back, adding weight to the last five push-ups. I remember his words: I’ll be aggressively strict. Harsh. Downright severe.

  I knew he meant it, but I didn’t know that I’d resent him for it. Still, I won’t let him scold me for not completing the exercise.

  My chest burns and sweat runs down my face. For Olmo, fifty-six. I feel stabs of pain in my wrists, arms, and chest. For Azzy, fifty-seven. I feel like I’m going to collapse. For Dad, fifty-eight. My arms feel like lead, and I’m trembling. For everything I love, fifty-nine. I won’t make it. I groan loudly. For me. My arms burn and tremble, but they manage to straighten, lifting me off the ground.

  Sixty!

  I want to do nothing more than collapse. Instead, I stand up to confront Aleksey’s inexpressive face. Although my head is killing me, I feel proud of myself and submit to his warm-up routine obediently. Stretching, jogging, hopping on one foot. I hold my ground with dignity until he tells me that I have to descend the infinite stairs, then climb back until I reach the clinic roof in less than a minute. I frown. That doesn’t seem humanly possible.

  Without a word, he hands me his j-device. It projects a minute countdown. Then he jumps and plants his feet down several steps only to immediately ready himself for another leap down. Jumping several steps at a time, he looks as if he’s flying. His biggest leap is the last one and covers what looks like twenty steps. When he reaches the bottom of the stone staircase, he drops to the ground and skillfully rolls on his shoulders. Then he barrels his way up again, several steps at a time.

  It’s taken him nineteen seconds—the kind of stunt only soldiers can do. I force myself not to gawk at him.

  “It’s all about balance and using the right techniques,” he says in a steady voice. He’s not even short of breath.

  I step to the edge of the top step, feeling vertigo invade me.

  “The impact of the landing should be in the muscles of your legs, not your bones. Tense your muscles a little, but don’t get too stiff. When you’re nearing the bottom steps, use your leg muscles to decelerate the fall. Don’t bend your knees past a ninety-degree angle, and roll to the ground on your shoulders.”

  I look down the staircase, trying to hide my apprehension. A single mistake, and I’ll fall and perhaps even die. But the fear of falling is nothing compared to the fear of recruitment. Perhaps if I attend the recruitment ceremony with two broken legs, the soldiers won’t take me.

  Aleksey climbs down several steps and reaches up his hand to grab mine. “I’ll be with you to prevent any accidents.”

  That is if I don’t make him fall, too.

  Looking at the bottom step hundreds of feet below me, I take a deep breath and jump off.

  My stomach drops as I descend at top speed, spotting the place where my feet should land. Staggering, I manage to plant my feet several steps below my starting point. I struggle to maintain my balance, but Aleksey’s hand helps keep me steady.

  Heart beating fast, fighting the wave
s of vertigo running through me, I jump off again. This time, if it hadn’t been for Aleksey, I would have fallen for sure. Each jump gives me momentum and accelerates my fall. Each drop makes me feel as if my stomach is clutched in an iron fist.

  “Decelerate! Roll your body on your shoulders!” shouts Aleksey when I’m nearing the bottom steps.

  I lean forward and take the last fifteen steps with my largest leap yet. I remove the pressure from my legs by immediately rolling on the ground. The hard surface connects with my shoulders, bringing acute pain. I still have momentum, so I use it to get up and sprint. I don’t have time to feel pain or gratefulness; I have to return since Aleksey is already on his way up. He didn’t say I couldn’t use the staircase railway to propel myself, so I do this as I take five steps at a time.

  Breathless, I reach the roof, but I don’t get time to recover before I’m forced to throw myself to the ground and out of the way of a wooden sword. I cry out as Aleksey attacks again. I roll on my side and manage to jump to my feet in time to avoid a third onslaught. Another wooden sword is propped against a metallic fence, but he blocks my way to it with a blow to my head.

  “There are plenty of things you can use against an enemy,” he says sternly. “Look at those loose bricks over there. There’s a broomstick right next to you. During combat, you must resort to whatever you have at hand. Attack me with a pebble if you must.”

  The sense that I’m being rightfully chastised overcomes me, and I’m ready to kick myself. Why didn’t I attack him with the broomstick? It seems I can’t do anything well today.

  Aleksey hands me the wooden sword. After an hour of drilling, we start a sparring match.

  At the end of the session, my body aches almost as much as my pride. I’m drenched in sweat. With each attempt to bring air into my lungs, my chest burns. I’m sure Aleksey didn’t use his full force, and even so, I was dreadful.

  “How many times do I have to tell you to use your peripheral vision?” His cold, arrogant tone hits me harder than a punch. I’m sure he never yells at his trainees; his harsh, disapproving voice alone must keep them toeing the line. “You focus too much on the enemy in front of you and don’t pay attention to your surroundings. In real combat, that would be a fatal mistake.”