by Loren, Celia
“Tatiana, I think this is the perfect time for long stories. I think this is a fucking brilliant time for long stories. I think you sure as hell better tell your long stories so we can have a fucking chance of getting to the next long story alive.”
Blessed Mary, give me patience.
“Fine. I will tell you everything, as simply as I can.”
Well, almost everything. There are some things I am not ready to talk about: the way I am suddenly nervous around you, the way you look at me. The way that it’s insane for me to feel so much, and I can’t seem to talk myself down.
“Ok, I’ll explain more. Listen.”
“I’m listening.”
“If you’re listening why are you talking?”
“I was just telling you that I’m listening.”
“So shut up and listen.”
“Alright. I’m shutting up. I’m listening.”
There’s a hint of a smirk on the corner of his full lips. I don’t know whether I want to kiss him or smack him. He clearly does this just to annoy me.
“Knox I have never told anyone these things, ok? It’s, how would you say, a big deal? It’s a big deal to me. So shut up.”
This time he doesn’t have a quip. Instead, his eyes burn into mine with understanding and respect. My stomach turns at the directness of his gaze. God, he is a beautiful man. But more than this, he is a strong one. And he is ready to hear me, to see me. For the first time.
So I begin.
Chapter Sixteen
Rusudan Tsetsilia Dadiana
“We came to the United States in 2007, eight years ago, Deda, Keto and I. Deda is ‘mother’ in my language. Anyway, the three of us came here like refugees, and this was even before the Russo-Georgian War. Let us just say that my father was not a good man. Deda wanted a better life for us. The American dream, I guess.
“She worked herself to the bone: a housecleaner, a hotel maid, a waitress, a nanny. Never had less than three jobs, all under the table. All our paperwork was forged because we didn’t want my father to find us. I was only twelve when we got here. Keto was fourteen.
“Deda somehow got us into very good schools, private. God knows how she paid. I wonder sometimes if she was the one Breslin found first, if she was the way he found Keto, preying on the mother’s desperation while laying a trap for the daughter.”
Knox interrupts. “You were born in 1995,” he says, sighing in relief. “You’re twenty.”
I blink at him, dumbfounded, then incensed for the millionth time in my short life as I realize the single-minded obsession of the male brain with sex.
“Of course, I am an adult.” I roll my eyes. “Is that all you heard, that you’re not a felon for sleeping with me? You are supposed to be listening, thinking of ways to use my experience to beat Breslin. You’re supposed to be giving me reasons to trust you, and instead you calculating my age?”
“Sorry. Shutting up.”
“Fuck. I’ll have to make this long story as short as possible, since you clearly have the attention span of a goldfish. Anyway, my sister decided she wanted to be an actress. She started going to auditions without telling Deda, lying about being in the school drama club. But she wasn’t. She was running around Manhattan by herself.”
“Getting into trouble.”
“Not exactly. Keto was a very good girl, but she was also ambitious. She didn’t want the kid stuff, the school plays. She wanted to make money, to help Deda. She’d grown up watching our father beat our mother and she was determined to make it up to Deda. So she had this crazy idea to become famous as a surprise, a gift to her. Youthful stupidity.
“One day Keto told me she’d met a man who said he would be her agent, get her real work, make her famous. He was a powerful man, she said. A real man. She started acting different at home. She cut her hair, she stuffed her bra, she put on airs.
“But it changed, slowly. At first it was her dreamy secret, but it turned dark. I could see she was scared; the way she looked behind her when we walked home from school, the way she laughed too hard, and couldn’t sleep through the night.
“After a few months I got her to confess to me that this man was also her boyfriend. She told me his name, Jasper Breslin. Keto made me swear a blood-oath not to tell Deda. And because I was a young stupid idiot, who worshipped her older sister, I did what she said.
“A week after she told me, Keto disappeared.”
Knox’s face is clouded. “God, I’d never imagined him actually trolling playgrounds for girls. That’s a whole other level of fucked up. How old was she, when she disappeared?”
“Sixteen. It was 2009. She is the first name on the list from his computer, maybe the first one he took.”
“Jesus.”
This next part of the story is hard to tell, and it takes me a minute to work up the courage.
“Deda went wild with grief.” Already my voice is trembling. “She haunted the police stations, the alleys. She called Congressmen. She wrote newspapers. She would walk the neighborhood at night calling Keto’s name. No one took her seriously. Hysterical woman, they called her. It was terrible to see her like that. And I couldn’t do anything to make it right. I knew in my heart if I had only told her everything, if I hadn’t kept my promise to Keto, maybe she wouldn’t have vanished. I thought it was really my fault, that I could have stopped it from happening. So we both blamed ourselves about Keto, and let the guilt destroy us.
“Over the weeks and months, with no word about Keto, Deda started drinking. She became volatile and unreliable, retreated from the world. First her hotel job fired her for missing shifts, then her restaurant job.
“I started working so we wouldn’t lose the apartment, but then my grades slipped, and I lost my place in school. That drove Deda over the edge. She felt like such a failure, like a monster, as if it were her fault that her daughters had suffered. She gave up, never got out of bed again.
“One day I came home from work and Deda was dead. Hung herself with a blanket.”
It’s strange, saying it aloud. It’s strange, hearing my own words, words I’ve recited to myself in my head for years, my secret personal history finally voiced to another person. It’s the first time I’ve said it aloud, and it’s as if a wall around my heart is tumbling down, and sunlight is bursting in for the first time in years. In the silence, I work to regain control of my voice. Almost there. Almost to the end.
“It was then that my self-blame turned outward. I knew I hadn’t killed my mother. I knew I hadn’t been the one to lose Keto. Someone took them from me, someone was responsible, and I would have revenge on that someone. That someone was Jasper Breslin. I knew in my soul the only way I could make things right, was to make sure he was punished for his crimes.
“I was only fifteen. I knew the state would take me away if they found me. I knew that if they put me in a home I would have no chance for revenge, or at finding out what had happened to Keto. So I left my mother hanging from the ceiling, took a few things, and ran away.”
Knox’s hand covers mine, the pressure light but warm. He is reassuring me, comforting me.
“That was very brave of you,” he murmurs. “It must have broken your heart.”
Tears form in my eyes but I will them to stop. I have had enough crying today. Now is not the time to cry. Knox is right, I have to pull myself together.
I squeeze his fingers, nod, and continue.
“Yes, but it cleared my head. I knew my life’s work was to defeat Jasper Breslin and bring him to justice. That and, of course, finding Keto.
“I watched Breslin for years, studied him. Every day was about chipping away at the darkness, uncovering whatever information I could. It was…well…hard. I was alone all the time, couldn’t talk to anyone. If anyone found out what I was doing, it would have meant losing everything. I knew if Breslin found out about me, about my plans, it would be catastrophic. I knew it could cost Keto her life, if she were still alive. And I always thought she was. So everything i
n my life had to be a secret. I had no friends, no life. That’s when I started using aliases.
“For years it seemed like I’d never find what I needed. Then finally I got lucky. I learned about Breslin’s private records that he kept in his penthouse. I got inside, determined to get those records, convinced they were the key. That is the night I met you, after his party when you approached me, it was just the opportunity I needed. I drugged you and took the computer. The rest you know.”
Knox frowns. “But what answers did those records give you about your sister? It sounds like you still don’t really know what happened to her.”
I swallow. “It gave me enough to set the wheels of justice turning on Breslin. And I believe that I can guess about Keto. I think Breslin got Keto pregnant. I think that is what the code he wrote by her name in the list meant, that and the address he etched on his laptop. When she wouldn’t agree to an abortion—she was a good Orthodox girl—he must have kidnapped her, drugged her, forced her to have one at that Planned Parenthood.”
“So that’s why we went there.”
“Yes.”
“It all sounds very possible. I’ve actually never seen any of this kind of stuff with Breslin, the underage girl thing. It wasn’t exactly my department to clean up his messes. But it rings true. I’ve heard rumors. I’ve seen him knock up a couple socialites, hush it all up. This is a lot like his standard operating procedure in those cases: fake name at the Planned Parenthood. You might be a thousand percent right.”
I wish this were more comforting to hear.
“Now I am afraid that she died during the abortion, that something went wrong. Why else would they have lied about her records today? But I needed more evidence. I need to know.”
“Right. Because you are leaving.”
The way he says it makes my heart beat in my throat. What does he feel, thinking of me leaving him, leaving his country? Does he feel anything?
“Yes,” I murmur, tired and emotional at having told him my true story. “This is the end of my mission, one way or another. I will die, Keto will be found, or my chances for redemption and revenge will run out…and I will be deported like a criminal. One of those conclusions is inevitable.”
Knox stares at me, his gaze non-judgmental and caring. “Is that everything?”
I nod. “Yes. Everything.”
Almost everything. At least, everything I am willing to tell.
Except…
“Actually, there is one last thing.”
Now my heart really is beating as if it wants to fly out of my mouth, and I can feel my hands starting to sweat. I haven’t been this nervous since…well, since this morning, when I finally sent the email to my press contacts. But I haven’t been this nervous about something personal in…oh…maybe never.
It’s concerning: controlling my emotions is supposed to be my specialty. Harnessing my fears, directing my focus—isn’t that what I’ve practiced all these years? How is it that this man can reduce me to such a nervous wreck so easily?
Knox squeezes my hand and pulls me to face him, cupping my face. “What is it? You can tell me Tatiana. It’s ok.”
“Well, see, that is the problem. My name is not Tatiana.”
Knox groans, theatrically throwing his head back and banging it against the seat cushion. The groan turns into a laugh.
“Fuck me,” he bellows. “Of course it’s not. Mystery Girl strikes again.”
“Tatiana is just easier for Americans to say. My mother started signing my papers with that when we came here, but it’s not my real name. I want to tell you my real name now if that is all right. I swear this is my real, real name. No more aliases. I promise. Can you believe me, one more time?”
Somehow my arms have twined around his, traced over his neck, pulled his face close to mine. Somehow my need to confide, to be truly close to him, has also become physical. Knox reciprocates, tracing his fingers up my waist. His touch sends chills all over my skin.
“Ok,” he rasps. “Shoot. Lay it on me, baby. Who the fuck are you?”
Who are you?
Who am I, without them? Who am I, with him?
Who am I, now, with everything at last coming together—or coming apart?
Breathe, just breathe. One truth at a time.
“My name is Rusudan Tsetsilia Dadiana. My family…they always called me Rusiko. You don’t have to, you can call me whatever you want. You’ve called me so many things already, but I wanted you to know who I am. This is who I am. Not really Katja, Jana, or Tatiana. Those were parts of me, disguises for a time, but I am really Rusiko.”
I feel so naked. Utterly exposed. For the first time, someone else knows my real story. My mission. My name.
For the first time, I am not alone in the whole world, not the only one who knows these things about myself. For years I’d kept it locked tightly away in my heart, afraid that if anyone knew, that if my inner truth got out, they would use it against me…stop me…become an enemy…hurt me…reject me.
Suddenly I am terrified. What if Knox Cole, with all his rough edges and unpredictability, doesn’t believe me? Or, what if he does believe me, but can’t accept me as I truly am? What if he dislikes me, exploits my weaknesses?
What if he uses it against me, or turns away?
As the seconds stretch out, I begin to panic, but I force myself to keep my racing heart and fearful thoughts buried far under the surface. I can’t read his face, and it’s killing me.
He might reject me. I couldn’t bear it.
He might think I am a fool, pathetic, small, obsessed. He might see through everything and really know me now…know how little I have thought or experienced of life…of anything except my mission to find Keto, and avenge Deda. He might think me so pathetic and tiny that I am no longer worthy of his help or time. If he does, it might break me.
If he walks away now, I will be lost forever.
I hadn’t realized I’d feel so exposed, so helpless, once I was truly seen.
But Knox’s eyes soften and he shakes his head, amused. Is that a look of affection? He believes me. I can feel it in his touch as his hands pull my body over to his, as his lips close on mine.
“Rusiko,” he whispers, trying it out. “It’s nice to meet you.”
I laugh, a tear escaping, and he traces its path down my cheek with kisses, his eyes traveling down my cheek, my neck, my body, and back to my face.
He shakes his head. His eyes gleam, the way they do when he is thinking. I can see how he could be a hard man, a frightening man, when he looks like this. I wouldn’t want him as an enemy, now that I know him better.
“Driver,” he barks, the sudden volume of his voice startling me. “When you get off the bridge, head to Astoria Blvd, the 114th Precinct.”
Turning back to me, Knox gives me a grin. It’s confident, cool, clear.
“Rusudan,” he says, “Your story has given me an idea. You said you never knew for sure if your sister is still alive, and you’re running out of time. Well, you want evidence about your sister? I’ll get you evidence. You’ll finally know one way or another if she is alive or dead. I can do that much to help you, at least.”
I stare at him still tangled in my arms, and feel my own mind cool and clear to match his businesslike tone.
“Knox, the police can’t help. They have nothing on Keto, or Breslin. My mother went to them so many times.”
“She didn’t go to this guy. Trust me.”
“Trust you?” I whisper. “How?”
I am really asking, and he frowns, not knowing how to respond. An idea occurs, a way that he can help me feel safer, a way he can let me in as I have let him in.
“Knox, will you tell me your story, eh? Are you going to tell me why you are helping me? Who you really are? Tell me why I should trust you.”
He stares back at me, and I see many things flicker over his face. Confusion. Resistance. Longing. Hope. Fear. Pride.
Shame.
What is he ashamed of, I wonde
r?
He doesn’t give me an answer. He doesn’t tell me his story. I recognize in his face the same fear I felt a moment ago.
Instead of telling me his truth, he jerks my body on top of his so that I am on his lap, so I can feel all of him pressed against me, his arms crushingly powerful around me like a cage. There’s no escaping him, his strong body, his desire. He kisses me deeply, the force and relentlessness of the kiss taking my breath away. I can feel him as if he’s invading me, pouring all of himself into me. He’s straining and pushing and plundering his tongue into my mouth as if it’s possible to fill us both to the brim with his kiss, as if we can overflow and flood each other and find peace in this way. His arms work up my back, pulling me closer, as if he can crush our bodies together into one. My skin burns, my blood coursing through my veins furiously. His body curls around mine, touching me in every way he can. I don’t want it to stop. I don’t want to breathe ever again. I don’t want to think, feel, or be anything else other than this kiss.
I understand what he is doing.
He is doing this on purpose, trying to make me forget my questions.
For now, his kiss is the only answer I am going to get.
Chapter Seventeen
Rusudan Tsetsilia Dadiana
The 114th Precinct is clean, quiet, and gives me the creeps.
It’s hard to say why police stations make me nervous. Maybe because I’ve lived as a lawbreaker in this country for so long, maybe because I remember the stories of the police in the Soviet times, corrupt and brutal.
From the moment we walk through the doors, I feel surrounded and frightened by the men in blue, like I am a fox in a hunt and all around me are dogs that could tear me apart if they caught my scent.
Knox asks the booking officer at the desk to check and see if Detective Dario Lopez is there, and while the message is relayed I look around to find my exits. There are only a few drunks handcuffed to a bench, a few officers standing around talking and filling out paperwork. I feel like I stand out like a sore thumb, with a big sign on my head: illegal alien, past-due visa, parole violation.