by Tobi Doyle
My fingers combed through his silky hair. I loved the way his eyes, now heavy-lidded, burned my skin. His muscles flexed, restrained in his clothes, and I wanted to release him. But it was too much, I felt myself slipping, giving over control and I couldn’t let that part of myself go. Not tonight.
“Alyosha,” I whispered.
He froze.
I wiggled and pushed against his chest. “I should go home.” My voice, heavy with lust, hardly sounded convincing.
He dropped a kiss on my forehead and stood, stuffed his hand down his pants and rearranged the contents. I didn’t look away, and he didn’t hide his erection. Neither of us spoke.
I wanted him naked.
He wanted me naked.
There would be no naked, tonight.
He pulled back the collar of my turtleneck and examined the fading bruises. He gave me the same look Elena did, not pity, not disgust, just concern. “They look better.” He released my shirt and slipped his hand in mine. It felt more intimate than kissing. “I’ll drive you home.”
“Thank you.” I squeezed his hand.
He smiled, hugged me and brushed his thumb across my bottom lip. “I’ll dream about you tonight.”
I nipped the tip of his thumb and then kissed it. “I hope they’re good dreams.”
“Are you having bad dreams?” He cupped my face and leaned his forehead against mine as if my answer would seep into him.
“Yeah.” Honesty slid out leaving me exposed and raw.
“Stay tonight. I promise—”
“No, thank you.” I stepped back, needing distance to think.
He released me but clenched and released his fists.
I followed him to the elevator and we stepped inside. He pressed the button for the garage. “Are you afraid of me?”
I cut my eyes to him at his ridiculous statement. “No.”
“But you don’t want to spend the night.”
I crossed my arms and leaned back against the wall of the elevator, putting more distance between us. “If I stayed, we’d have sex, and then it’d be weird.”
He narrowed his eyes, but a smile teased his lips. “Why?”
“Because you want to marry me, and that’s weird.” I didn’t add that sex for fun was great, but this… this felt intimate and I wasn’t ready.
He chuffed. “I don’t understand women.”
“You don’t have to understand all of them. Just me.”
The elevator doors opened to the garage, and he held my hand, intertwined our fingers. The warmth and pressure felt comforting and natural.
“I’d like the opportunity to understand you.” His low voice rumbled through me.
I answered with a noncommittal hum.
He nudged me with his hip. “Adrianna, I like you. People have married for less.” His knowing grin was dangerous.
I could handle scary Alyosha, but playful? I’d be a goner. I gave him the side-eye. “And some people are idiots.”
“But you will consider my proposal?” He unlocked his car and opened my door.
“I’ll think about it.” The uncertainty in my voice matched my scrunched up face and I climbed into the car.
He sighed, standing in the open doorway. “I pictured this going smoother.” His lips flattened.
I grinned at his frustrated expression. An attractive and wealthy man asked me to marry him and I told him I’d think about it. Yeah, probably not what he expected.
He closed the door and a moment later, settled in his seat. “I want you to call me if you have bad dreams.”
Yeah… nope.
His eyebrows drew together, and a storm brewed in his eyes. I expected a pout to emerge soon. “Why are you so difficult?” He threw up his hands, his biceps bunching deliciously.
“I didn’t say anything. And maybe I like it when you’re growly.” And a frustrated Alyosha was sexy as hell.
“Adrianna.” His accent drew my name out, emphasis on the vowels. His low, insistent, tone had a direct line to my core.
“Fine. I’ll call if I have a nightmare.”
“Good.” He relaxed, started the car, and focused on driving in city traffic. Alyosha remained mute on the drive, and our sexual tension fizzled. Awkwardness punctuated the silence that only an expensive car could manage.
He pulled into my driveway and I was out of the car before he put the car in park. “Thank you for the ride.”
“Can I take you to dinner tomorrow?” he asked.
“I need a couple of days to think. I’ll text you when I’m ready to talk.”
I closed the door with care, and hurried to the front door. Fumbling through the depths of my purse, also known as the black vortex of all-things-forgotten, gum, and leaky pens, I searched for my damn keys. I felt him, behind me, waiting in silence. His intensity changed the air pressure, and heated my body. There would be no kiss, no invitation inside.
“Good night, Alyosha,” I said, not turning around, knowing one look from him would crumble my resolve.
“Good night.” His voice held longing.
I pushed the door open and closed it, not looking back. I climbed into bed and checked my text record, saving Alyosha’s phone number as DANGER. My emotions strung taut, pushing against my skin, building tension. I liked him, felt safe around him, but he was complicated… dangerous, dark, daunting.
I wanted to google green card marriage penalties but paranoia kept me from having a search history. I didn’t trust TOR or confidential browsing to be truly confidential. I googled Konstantin’s instead. The second page linked to a newspaper article about the rise of the Russian Mob in San Francisco. A photo of three businessmen smoking cigars outside Konstantin’s restaurant. I read the caption. ‘The Priest’ Timur Popov, ‘The Doctor’ Vadim Orlov, and Yefim Mikahilov, alleged Russian Bratva. Bratva, Russian for brotherhood, dine at the new restaurant. I skimmed the article detailing the unsavory business practices including alleged loan sharking, distributing narcotics, and selling illegal weapons.
Bratva sounded like something you’d eat with sauerkraut. Did Alyosha know these men personally? He’d said he was concerned for my safety. Was it because I could link Alyosha to Herndon’s disappearance? Did the Bratva want to make sure I had spousal immunity to prevent the police from questioning me?
Three years of marriage in exchange for safety and my financial headaches disappear. Well, my current headaches. I couldn’t imagine what managing a salon would entail. He managed a very successful restaurant. I could barely manage my life, let alone a business. Working for myself was intriguing, I just wasn’t sure I wanted to be the boss.
The next morning, I woke up to room service.
“Here.” Elena pushed a huge coffee cup toward me. She wore her favorite flannel PJ pants and a San Francisco State University hoodie. She climbed onto my bed, causing me shift over to the other edge and sit up.
I sipped.
“C’mon.” She nudged me. “Just tell me how your date was already.”
“Living vicariously, much?”
She rolled her eyes. “My life is way more exciting than yours.”
I remembered last night’s sweet, hot, sensual kisses. “I had a nice time.”
“Yeah? So how come you’ve never mentioned this guy before?”
My happiness evaporated. I think he killed a guy for me. The truth sat like a boulder on my chest. “He’s different.” I wrinkled my nose. “And not my type.”
“Why?” One eyebrow rose in challenge, there will be an inquisition, it said.
I shrugged, and forced my cheeks up, imitating a smile, but I probably looked like I had gas. “We didn’t click.”
“You had one date! Give him a second chance.” She slapped my thigh. “You should see him again.”
“Maybe.” I looked around my bedroom. I’d moved in over a year ago, but only unpacked my clothes. I slept in my childhood bedroom, with its twin bed, white laminate bedside table and chest of drawers. It reminded me of Alyosha’s place, a s
helter, but not a home.
“Give him a chance, okay? How do you say his name, anyway?”
“Alyosha.” I loved the sound of his name. Soft, whisper-like sounds. “He looks like Thor.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah.” I set my coffee cup down and grabbed my phone, pulling up a picture of him. I didn’t even care he wore some skinny bitch on his arm. He wasn’t mine, but it was fun to share his hotness with Elena.
“Damn.” Elena breathed out reverently.
“I know, right?” I giggled and covered my mouth.
Elena punched my shoulder. “You know you could use him for sex, some good dinners, and then dump him.”
“I’ll consider that.”
“Good. Hurry up and get dressed and Suzanne and I can drop you off at work before we go to school.”
Thirty minutes later I was showered, dressed, and ready to leave.
Elena called out from the front door. “Adri, Thor left you something.”
I walked down the hallway. Elena’s sweatshirt was now coupled with jeans and tattered sneakers. A man, close to Elena’s age, stood in the doorway. He also wore jeans, but with a button down shirt and tie. He looked European, oozing casual elegance guys our age could never achieve. He reminded me a little of Robert Pattinson with his thick brown hair and brooding eyebrows. His flattened nose, broken in the past and not quite centered anymore, gave character to his youthful face.
Elena bit back a smile and watched me approach the man, who I assumed was Alyosha’s driving minion.
“Good morning, Ms. DelToro. I’m Daniel Sokolov. Mr. Bykov asked me to drive you to work.” His accent was similar to Alyosha’s, but less pronounced.
“Please call me Adri, and I don’t need a ride.” Suzanne’s Jetta pulled up to the curb behind the black sedan.
Daniel dug into his back pocket and pulled out a card. “He said you might say that. He asked me to give you this note.”
The thick cream linen card had four words printed carefully in the center. You agreed to compromise.
Elena looked over my shoulder. “Compromise what?”
“He knows my car broke down and doesn’t want me to take the bus. He’s a little protective.” I shrugged, like guys hired drivers for us all the time.
Elena face said nice try but you will explain this later. She cocked her head to the side and tilted her chin toward Daniel. “Tell him the car will be fixed tonight. Yeah?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Daniel answered.
Elena turned around and faced me, rolling her eyes. She mouthed “ma’am,” and slapped my butt on her way to Suzanne’s car. “See you later, Adri. Do something I wouldn’t do, yeah?”
Daniel’s eyebrows shot up, and the tips of his ears turned red. His eyes tracked Elena’s sashay all the way to Suzanne’s car.
On the drive to the salon, I pumped Daniel for information. “Do you work for Alyosha or are you guys friends?”
“Yes, to both. I’ve known him since I was twelve.” He looked at me. “He’s like a brother.”
I froze at the word and tested out the Russian equivalent. “Bratva?”
He glanced over. “No, that’s different.” His fingers drummed on the steering wheel. “He dated my sister many years ago, and treated me like his brother.”
“Oh.” Relief settled in my shoulders, and I put the questions about the connection between the Bratva and Konstantin’s on hold. I changed the subject. “What, besides driving, do you do?”
“I’m studying to be an accountant.”
I nodded, but then shook my head at the idea of voluntarily taking math classes. “I hate math.”
“Yeah, I hear that a lot.”
“Do you help Alyosha like this often?” I asked.
Daniel gripped the steering wheel, and a minute passed before he answered. “I don’t typically drive for him.” He paused, and glanced my way. “Or provide security.”
“Why would I need security?”
Daniel shot me a look that said I was a naïve woman.
And I guess I was.
Dammit.
Chapter Thirteen
On Saturday, Eric, mechanic, neighbor, and Elena’s occasional friend with benefits, although I was pretty sure he wanted a more permanent benefit status, replaced my car’s starter motor with a used one from the Pick ’N Pull. He wiped his hands on his dark blue coveralls, slow-mo, like posing for Man Candy Mechanics, working his Adrian Grenier looks for Elena.
Elena appeared unaffected.
His pouty lips weighed down at the corners, his bad-news frown. “Adri, the starter motor is a Band-Aid. Your transmission is terminally ill. Haven’t you noticed a noise when you put it in reverse?”
“The squeak or the thunk?”
“Adri,” he muttered. His eyes looked up at the heavens, like he was commiserating with the patron saint of motor repair. A loud sigh, maybe a prayer, and then he narrowed his eyes. “You need a new car, and don’t use reverse until you get one.” His lilting tone lessened the sting of his words.
“I’m not buying a new car.” Not until the house was gone, the bills were settled, and I knew what I could afford.
“How about I look for a nice used car?” His dark brown eyebrows waggled as if that would incentivize me to spend cash. “Look, you know I can find you something safe at the impound. The police sell the cars super cheap at auction.”
“It’ll be fine,” I said.
He shook his head. “It’s death on four wheels.”
“It’s optimistic, only moving forward.” I smiled brightly.
Elena groaned. “Adri, would you want me to drive that car?”
I flinched. “No, but you don’t know her quirks like I do. I’ll only drive it forward, and only for emergencies.”
“Adri.” Elena’s eyes widened and her frown reminded me so much of Mom’s patented I’m-disappointed-in-you glare, I almost agreed.
Almost. But then I remembered the pile of bills. “Don’t worry, I’ll take the bus. It’s no big deal. We’ll save on insurance, too.”
I could rock the optimism thing.
Sunday night, Elena and I sat on the couch eating cold pizza and watching the Wen Hair informercial, too lazy to change the channel.
She tapped my foot curled up against her thigh. “How are you doing?”
“Good, you?”
“I didn’t get mugged last month. Are you having nightmares?”
I put my water glass on the coffee table. “Not anymore.” Something about the ‘kissing night’ with Alyosha cured me. And the dreams where Alyosha saved me.
“Are you journaling?”
“A little,” I lied. “I guess the whole car thing kept my mind off of it.” And whiskey colored eyes, tattoos, and long blonde hair.
“I doubt it was the car, maybe the hot rich guy?”
“Nah.”
“You gonna see him again?” She kept her eyes glued to the enthusiastic model with perfect hair on television.
“I don’t think so. We parted as friends, though.” The lie slid out, and fell into the wedge growing between us.
“Friends with benefits?” She faced me, her eyebrows salsa’d.
My mouth opened, but the memory of Alyosha’s lips on mine, my want, basic and sexual, and turned up to an eleven around Alyosha. Even now, my body readied for him.
She turned back to the TV. “I’ll take that as ‘no comment’. Hey, Monday Suzanne and I agreed to do service hours prepping women for their job interviews. You wanna help do hair and makeup? We’ll pick you up at ten and you should be done by one.”
“Sure. I’ll definitely do the hair, but you’re much better at makeup.”
“I know. I just wanted to hear you admit it.” Elena dug around the pillows. “God, I can’t take her anymore. I’m going to bed.” She got up, turned off the TV, and left me in the dark.
“Night.”
She waved and headed down the hall.
I picked up our plates and glasses and shuffled
into the kitchen. Our doorframe didn’t have notches or lines marking our growth. Instead it held nicks and paint chips demarcating fights, or ‘bad nights’ as Mom called them.
I struggled to remember good nights. I washed our dishes and put them on the rack to dry. I’d always dried and put them away as a child.
Never leave anything out he can throw at you.
My parents dated for almost a year before they got married. How had she missed the signs?
What if I was just as blind?
Monday, my day off, I watched the local news station and drank my coffee. Herndon was the lead story, now missing for twenty-six days. The same picture they’d used last week was cropped and in the corner. The newscaster, one of Marlo’s clients, looked paunchy yet professional on TV, but in reality he resembled a bobble-head doll, with his huge head dwarfing his body. Not the most attractive of men. His elocution, however, was excellent.
“The acting District Attorney, Jose Oro, announced this morning that in response to several families coming forward he has put together a special task force to investigate Gregory Herndon’s case list, and focus on cases that were not forwarded to the Grand Jury. DA Oro admitted his office has been flooded with calls from victims wanting to know the progress on their cases, some of which date back three years.”
Alyosha said he’d wanted to talk to Herndon about a friend’s situation. How many cases had Herndon ignored, and why? And how were the Bratva involved?
Unless the Bratva were paying Herndon to not prosecute cases. My stomach thunked against my spine.
But then why would Alyosha want to protect me from Herndon? Maybe he wasn’t Bratva. If only I could ask.
“DA Oro is still investigating the disappearance of Herndon, and admits that Herndon may have left voluntarily. Our own reporter, Cassie Steward, questioned DA Oro regarding Herndon’s motives for holding back cases and received a no comment. However, a source has indicated that Herndon’s political campaign donors are being investigated.”
“Wow,” I slumped into the couch. Had being caught attacking me by Alyosha been enough to scare him into hiding? I kept the TV on all morning, dusting, cleaning windows, and vacuuming to updates and suppositions on where Herndon may be hiding.