by Bella King
I sit on the floor, glancing up at Zeno’s towering figure periodically as I pull the socks over my feet. Every time I look at some part of myself, I feel like I’m looking at a different woman. I’m not accustomed to being this clean.
A pang of discomfort hits me as I slip into my sneakers. There’s such a drastic contrast between the clean socks and my sweaty shoes that I wish I didn’t have to wear them. I look up at Zeno. “Can I get new shoes too?”
He smiles, the sides of his eyes wrinkling. “Of course.”
There must be a catch, but I’m going to ride this out until there is because I can’t deny new clothes and fresh shoes. Normal people get excited about new phones and expensive things, but I’m all hyped up about clean clothes.
“You ready?” Zeno asks as I spring to my feet.
I nod my head eagerly, unable to hide my excitement. I’m experiencing a surge of energy, probably from having a large meal last night, and I want to go out and conquer the world. I haven’t felt like this since they first released me from the orphanage. I thought I was walking into freedom, but instead, I was walking into hell.
I hope that this doesn’t mirror that occasion. I want my life to be different. I need a fresh start because I was never given a fair chance in the first place. Zeno seems to be the key to this, but I still don’t know what he’s up to. There must be more than goodwill going on here.
The cold rolls in from outside as Zeno yanks the front door open, the wood sticking to the frame from decades of warping. I’m immediately reminded of the months I’ve spent sleeping on the streets, and I have the urge to run back upstairs to my bedroom and dive under the bed, safe from the outside world again.
I brace myself for the cold as I follow Zeno outside, ignoring the surprisingly persistent alarms in my head that tell me to run from Zeno, even if it’s back into the house to hide under the bed. I know it’s fear, and I can’t let fear make me miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime.
“I hate Portland,” Zeno grumbles as he steps over the low brick barrier into the carport.
“Too cold?”
“Exactly,” he replies.
“Is it really that much warmer in California?” I ask.
He opens the passenger door for me. “That depends on where you are, but generally, it is a bit warmer than here, even if you’re up north,” he explains.
“Warmer is better,” I say as the door slams shut.
Once again, I feel a wave of discomfort at being enclosed inside the car with Zeno. The smell of the stale cigar left in the ashtray and the smooth leather behind my back provides a little peace of mind, but I’m always going to be high strung around new people.
Zeno starts the car but doesn’t put it in reverse right away. Instead, he slips his hand into his interior jacket pocket. For a moment, I think he’s going to pull a gun on me. It’s such an unreasonable fear, but anxiety rarely has me thinking clearly.
Thankfully, Zeno chooses not to turn my brains into a pink mist and pulls out a cigar instead of the gun I know he’s carrying. “Mind if I smoke?” he asks.
I shake my head. I’ve seen all the ads about smoking, but it never really seemed like something I should worry about. I’m more concerned with surviving until the next day, not what happens after fifty years of second-hand smoke.
Zeno trims the end off his cigar and lights it up, rolling it between his fingers with patient ease as the end turns black, then red. With a few puffs and a cloud of smoke, the cigar is ready.
“Do you smoke?” he asks, looking toward me.
I was staring at him hard, and he probably saw that.
I blush. “Um, no. I’ve never tried it.”
“You want to?” he asks, extending the cigar to me as he shifts the car into reverse.
“Should I?”
“Why not?”
I shrug. “They’re bad for you, right?”
He chuckles. “Everything is bad for you. Pick and choose your vices, just like everyone else.”
“Let’s see,” I say, tapping a finger against my chin. “Ice cream, staying up late, and I guess smoking.” I take the cigar from his fingers and examine it. “I guess you don’t smoke this the same way as a cigarette.”
“No, you don’t breathe it in. Just hold the smoke in your mouth,” he replies, reaching his hand around to the back of my seat and twists his torso, looking through the back window as he accelerates out into the road.
I put the cigar to my lips, the smoke already stinging my nostrils. The heat is pleasant enough, and I take a puff, mimicking Zeno. I smack my lips, rolling the complex flavor over my tongue and analyzing it. It’s different than I thought it would be, but I can’t say I mind it.
I hand it back to Zeno. “Not bad,” I tell him.
He takes it from me and places it between his lips. I can see the moister from my mouth on the cigar, now mixing with his as he smokes it.
A curious sensation rolls over me at the image of him consuming something from my mouth. It’s giddy, light, and fluttering in my stomach. I don’t know what to make of it, or whether I like it. I just know that Zeno makes me feel something that’s difficult to explain.
“Too bad they don’t have biscuits here. I think that’s more of a southern thing,” Zeno says, joining the main road with the rest of traffic.
“I’ve never had one,” I admit.
He raises a thick eyebrow, glancing over at me. “Oh, really? Maybe we take a trip to South Carolina sometime. I’ve been to a couple of places there that have good ones.”
“You’re making me hungry,” I say with a laugh.
“I think you’re always hungry,” he replies, smiling as he fills the cabin of the car with smoke.
“You have to fatten me up, right?” I pat my stomach with both hands.
“Certainly. I’m still planning on eating you,” he says.
I squint at him, but it’s more playful this time. “Not if I eat you first. You’re lucky I didn’t do that while you were sleeping last night.”
“It would’ve been impossible. I don’t sleep,” he replies, his face growing serious.
“I don’t think you can stay alive without sleeping,” I say, but for some reason, I would believe it if Zeno never slept. There’s so much that intrigues me behind his handsome face. I want to know more about him. I bet he’s hiding a lot behind those dark eyes and that subtle smirk.
“One time,” he says, his eyes lighting up, “I stayed up for five days straight. I’m pretty sure I almost died, but that was when I was younger. You can do stupid shit like that and get away with it.”
“I would start hallucinating,” I say, shaking my head. “I did two days once, and that’s what happened.”
“I was definitely hallucinating, but I was also so jacked up on coffee that I didn’t really care.”
“Sounds more like amphetamines to me,” I reply.
His head snaps toward me. “How would you know something like that?”
I laugh. “Come on, man. I was living on the streets. Even before I got booted from the orphanage, I saw people doing shit like that.”
“And here I was, thinking you were innocent.”
“In some ways yes, and in others, no.”
He nods. “The duality of man.”
“And woman,” I correct him.
“The duality of people, I suppose I should say,” he replies.
“I guess it doesn’t matter,” I say. “There are more important things to worry about.”
“Like what to eat,” Zeno says, leaning forward in his seat to get a better look at the fast-food joints on either side of the road. “Do you like hash browns more, or bagels?”
“Never had either. Which one is hot?”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. “Hash browns, but we’re getting both.”
Chapter Thirteen
Zeno
The drive-through is fast at the first place, but the second requires that I go inside to get the bagels. I don’t want to leave
Alexia alone in the car, but with her munching on a bag of hot and greasy breakfast food, I doubt she’ll be going anywhere. I just have to be quick.
I leave my cigar in the car, which she eagerly takes, to play with, or to smoke while she’s eating. She’s such a curious young woman, and I enjoy her company. I can see this going places other than friendly banter, and that gives me hope. This marriage doesn’t have to be forced.
Boris has fallen silent on the phone, which eases my nerves a bit about this whole situation. I’ll admit that I was nervous about this going sour once I took Alexia into my possession, but she has warmed up to me faster than I thought she would. I don’t have to worry too much about her.
The smell of fresh bread is thick in the air as I enter the bagel shop. The line isn’t too long since it’s early in the morning, and I should be in and out of here in just a few minutes. I might not be freaking out about Alexia, but that doesn’t mean I want to let her out of my sight for too long. She’s still unpredictable.
But, as it turns out, Alexia isn’t who concerns me the most once I slip into the line to order our breakfast. It’s the two men that come into the store immediately after, talking in gruff voices and carrying themselves like a couple of killers.
Mafia killers, to be exact.
“One more hour in this fucking city, and I’ll shoot myself,” one of them says from behind me.
“Too cold. I prefer Russia to this,” the other replies.
Fuck. If they were with the same mafia as me, I wouldn’t be concerned, but I doubt that’s the case. I know practically all of the members in both California and Oregon. These two men sound like they haven’t been in the United States for very long.
I shift my body weight over to the other foot, trying to loosen the tension that’s coiling around my legs like a serpent. Mafia folks can smell trouble, and they’ll know I’m one of their kind if I don’t do my damnedest to hide the fact.
The person in front of me finishes, and I step up to the counter.
“Good morning, sir. What can I get for you today?” the woman at the counter recites in a bright and airy voice.
I lean toward her, keeping my voice as low as I can while I place my order so that I don’t draw attention from the two men behind me. They probably wouldn’t have an issue even if I were part of the mafia, but I don’t want them to hear my Russian accent. Then, they’d probably insist on talking to me.
“Two bagels with cream cheese,” I say softly.
The woman frowns, turning her head sideways and cupping a hand to her ear. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t get that. Did you say you wanted to try the breakfast platter?”
I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose and shaking my head. “No, I want two bagels with cream cheese,” I say in a slightly louder voice, trying my best to mask my accent in the process.
The two men behind me have fallen silent. I can feel the tension behind me, like I’m about to be shanked in the back without warning. I need to get the hell out of here before something goes down. I don’t like this one bit.
“What kind of bagels, sir?” the woman asks, her smile never wavering for a moment.
“I don’t know,” I mutter. “Poppyseed, I guess.”
She punches a few keys on the register and looks back up at me. “Can I interest you in coffee with that this morning, sir?”
I want her to stop talking. Every overly-cheerful word that comes out of her mouth makes me feel more and more like turning around and running from this place. I feel like the spotlight is on me, and I’m not an actor. I hate this.
I shake my head, keeping my mouth shut as I pull my credit card from my back pocket.
“Excuse me,” a voice grumbles from behind me. It’s one of the mafia men.
I freeze, my arm half-extended to the woman behind the counter.
“Hey, buddy.” A hand lands on my shoulder.
I spin around, facing the two men and frowning. “What’s up?” I ask, trying to sound as American as possible.
“Could you hurry it up? We’re fucking starving over here,” one of the men says while the other crosses his beefy arms and glares at me. They look like the IQ of a single person has been split between the two of them.
I smile, cranking up the pleasantness of my voice to a level that’s bordering on obviously fake. “Of course. I wouldn’t want a nice fellow like you to starve.”
He raises an eyebrow, looking be up and down. “Do I know you?”
Shit. That wasn’t the response I was hoping for.
I pull my lips in with an awkward smile. “No, I don’t think so.”
“You’re from Russia,” he says, revealing two rows of tragically unmaintained teeth.
“No, Ukraine, actually,” I reply, handing the card to the woman at the register while keeping my head in the same position. I’m not letting these two out of my sight. Rival mafia members aren’t known to start shit in public, but these two don’t look smart enough to play by the rules.
“Ukraine? You’re not with those Kyiv fuckers, are you?” he balls his fists and glares at me.
“Would you like your receipt, sir?” the woman behind the register asks me.
I take my card back from her and wave a dismissive hand, still maintaining eye contact with Humpty Dumpty and his friend. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say to him.
His frown deepens, drawing in the wrinkles on his bald head. “You gotta be from one of those groups. You fucking lying to me or something?”
I step to the side. “Sorry, no clue what you’re talking about,” I reply. “Your turn to order, though.”
“I don’t think I’m hungry anymore,” he says, reaching a hand inside of his suit jacket.
That’s my signal to drop him. I hate to have my cover blown in such a public place, and I’m sure my face is going to be all over the news after this, but there’s not much I can do. If this clown wants to pull a gun on me at the bagel shop, I have no other option but to defend myself.
But instead of the evil glint of a gun, the idiot pulls out a knife.
I jump back, both relieved and bewildered that he would resort to something so primitive. I guess he thinks that threatening me with a blade won’t get his face plastered onto the news, which is probably true. He risks catching a bullet to the head by doing that, though.
I can already hear the shrieks of men and women in the shop as the two men leer at me, coming forward as though we were in a dark alley at night. They want a fight, assuming I’m part of some enemy mafia group, but they won’t get one. I don’t even know what group they belong to.
I pretend to lunge at them before changing direction and peeling out of the shop, bursting out into the parking lot where Alexia still waits in the car. I can see her puffing on my cigar through the windshield, with her feet kicked up on the dashboard.
She’s cute when she’s laid back, but I doubt she will feel relaxed when I’m ripping the car out onto the road. I hope those idiots inside don’t decide to pursue me.
I let out a breath as I sink into my seat, starting the car without hesitation and ignoring Alexia’s worried questions as I slam my foot into the gas. I look up through the windshield to see the two men coming outside, one of them still waving his knife in the air.
What a couple of clowns.
“What’s going on?” Alexia asks, panic rising in her voice as I tear out of the lot.
“Nothing,” I reply through gritted teeth.
“Those men don’t look like nothing,” she says, taking a drag of my cigar.
“Give me that thing,” I bark, snatching it from her hand and shoving it between my teeth. “We need to get the fuck out of here. I hope you saved me some hash browns.”
I jump the curb, skipping ahead of a slow-moving car and breezing through a yellow light. I don’t think those two mafia goons are going to follow us, but I’d like to get some distance between them and Alexia to ensure I don’t have to use my gun in public.
; “You need to tell me what’s going on,” Alexia says.
I wring the steering wheel in my hands, glaring down the road as I weave through traffic. “I think we should go to California early. How about that?”
“Why? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“No,” I grumble.
“I doubt that,” she says, folding her arms across her small bosom. “You’re a real charmer, Zeno, but I’ve been getting the sneaking suspicion that you’ve been lying to me. Who are you, really?”
“Now isn’t the time for questions, darling,” I say, growing irritated at her.
This was all going so well until Humpty Dumpty at the bagel store decided to pull a knife on me. How the hell am I going to spin this without sounding like I’m full of shit?
“Tell me,” Alexia demands.
I pass the cigar back to her.
“I don’t want it,” she says, holding up a hand. “I want you to tell me what just happened.”
“Maybe I owe some people money,” I say, thinking on the spot.
“You owe people money, and we’re about to go on a shopping spree?” she asks, her words dripping with obvious doubt.
“It’s just some clothes. Nothing expensive,” I insist. “Besides, I still have the money I borrowed.”
“I smell bullshit,” she replies.
“It’s not,” I claim, but I know I’m going to have to try harder than that to convince her otherwise.
“Okay, so here’s the real truth,” I say, concocting another story in my head. “I used to be part of the Russian Mafia.”
She laughs. “God, could you please try to be realistic, at least?”
“Realistic?” I ask, surprised that she has rejected my partial truth.
“Yeah, nobody is in the fucking Russian Mafia, man. What the fuck kind of story is that?”
I laugh nervously. “Yeah, I guess that’s pretty unbelievable, right?”
“Right, so tell me what’s really going on. I won’t be mad. I just don’t like liars,” she insists.
I honestly wonder what I can say to her that she’ll believe if the truth wasn’t good enough for her.