by Hart, Callie
Andrew, Waylon and Henry share confused looks. Garrett grunts, unhappy, nostrils flaring as he grimaces at Rivin. “Oh. So, you came here to visit Zara, then? That’s a little…odd.” Andrew shifts away from Pasha, his torso twisting as he finally takes the time to assess the newcomer properly for the first time. His eyes travel over him and land on his wrists and his neck—the only two places you can see the man’s extensive tattoos. Andrew goes stiff, wary now; he’s never liked guys with ink, let alone ink all over their bodies. Pasha opens his mouth, and I brace myself. His next words are important. If he says the wrong thing, there will be fireworks. And then an ambulance. And something tells me the guy doesn’t have health insurance.
“I actually came to apologize to her. My mother can be a little…hostile at times. She’s not known for her warm bedside manner. I also came to return this.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slim black device. Instantly familiar. It’s my cell phone. He gently sets it down on the bar top. “Thought you might need your portal into the outside world,” he says. “People don’t tend to do so well when they’re separated from these things. I was in the neighborhood. I figured fuck it. I’d bring it by.”
Four pairs of eyes watch me closely; I assume they’re waiting for some sign that I’m scared of this guy, and his unannounced intrusion into such a personal part of my weekly routine is unwelcome. I don’t want any trouble, though. A fight is the last thing I want. Andrew can’t even open a jar of pickles by himself these days. If he has to weigh into a brawl in defense of me, then he’s not going to fare well.
I hold out my hand, gesturing for my phone. The simplest and smartest thing Pasha could do is hand my phone to Andrew, so it can be passed down to me. He doesn’t do that, though. He tosses back the drink Henry’s poured for him, slamming the glass down on the bar, and gets to his feet. The phone in his hand, he saunters past Waylon and Garrett without so much as sending them a sideways glance. He really doesn’t give a shit about them, or the fact that their eyes are flashing murder. When he stops in front of me, to my horror, something strange and unusual tightens in the pit of my stomach. Pasha reaches out and takes hold of me by the wrist, lifting my arm.
“I don’t think so, friend. Get your fucking hands off her,” Waylon warns. “It’s not polite to show up at a bar and hang around for a girl if you haven’t been invited. You should be on your way now.”
Pasha looms over me, a giant presence. I’ve never felt more fragile than in this moment, with Pasha Rivin’s grip cuffing my wrist. My arm is on fire, from my fingertips to the top of my shoulder. He smiles down at me, a strange, secret smile, and for a second the arrogance that he’s been brandishing like a shield seems to drop away. I open my mouth, about to tell him to unhand me, but then…
A shockwave, powerful and alarming, hits me straight in the gut.
He...
A shot of adrenalin rushes straight to my head. Everything tilts rather drunkenly, as I’m overcome with the weirdest sense of familiarity. His hand on mine—there’s something about the way his hand feels on my skin. Pasha’s eyes flare, a fierceness shining brightly in his unusual irises. “Oh. I’m sure Ms. Llewelyn doesn’t mind. Here you go, Firefly,” he says.
Firefly? Why does that sound so familiar to me? No one’s ever called me by that nickname before, and yet it sounds so right when Pasha says it. Like I’ve heard him call me that a thousand times before.
He flips over my hand and places my cell phone into the cradle of my palm. His hands are calloused, warm and strong as he closes my fingers around my cell. “I’ve got something to attend to right now,” he says, his tone lowering even deeper; he’s close enough that I can feel the vibration of his words rumbling in his diaphragm. He’s also close enough that I can smell him now, too. Oh, holy fucking shit.
Warm leather and wood shavings. The slightest hint of smoke. Not the unpleasant bite of cigarette smoke, but the smell of a wood fire burning in a winter forest. Crisp. Clean. Cold. Deadly and inviting.
My entire body reacts as his scent teases the back of my nose.
Pasha’s mouth curves, lifting at one side as he smiles. Leaning in a little closer, his warm breath stirs my hair as he whispers in my ear. “Glad you’ve got your phone back. I’ll be waiting for your call.”
With that, he straightens up, releasing his hold on my wrist. I’m numb, down to the roots of my being as he removes his wallet from his pocket and places some money down on the bar for Henry.
Waylon’s voice reaches my ears—he’s saying something, and his tone doesn’t sound very patient, but I don’t respond. Neither does Pasha. His eyes travel over my face, and the frown he wore the other night when he walked out of Shelta’s tent appears again. Critical? Disappointed? Irritated? God, I have no idea what to make of his expression as he steps away from me and slowly heads for the exit.
Shock ripples through me, and I gasp for a breath of air; it’s as though a part of me is being pulled along with him as he goes, and it feels…it feels terrible. As the door to Hitchin’s swings closed, I realize to my horror that my eyes are stinging like crazy, and I have no fucking idea why.
As one, Waylon, Garrett and Henry walk to the windows once he’s left and watch him as he vanishes into the night. “Wow.” Henry twists his bar rag around his knuckles and clenches his hand into a fist. “That’s the last time I let anyone else stay past closing. You okay, Zara?”
I drop my phone into my purse, shaking off the sensation that, good or bad, something of consequence just happened. However, the sense of familiarity that just overtook me won’t be shaken off; it settles inside me, itching at me, begging for me to take notice of it. It’s the most unsettling sensation.
Pressing my fingertips to my mouth, I suck in another deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. He’s gone now. I’m free of him, and that’s all that matters. I can still feel the warmth of his hand, chaining my wrist, though. I can still smell him. A dull pressure thumps at my temples. God, what would Sarah have done if she was here? She would have realized who he was in ten seconds flat. Would she have told him who she was, or would she have freaked the fuck out and bailed? I honestly don’t know but having him show up here without warning would definitely have been upsetting for her.
Her words from this morning are still bothering me; she’d said his existence changed everything for her estranged family, but she hadn’t expanded on her cryptic statement. She obviously hadn’t wanted to discuss it any further, and I hadn’t wanted to push.
A multitude of questions clamor for my attention all at once. How the fuck did he end up at Hitchin’s? How did he know I’d even show up here tonight? He’s obviously done his research and managed to dig up a few useful kernels of information about me. And if he knows about my weekly bar sessions with my friends, then what else has he found out about me? There’s a high likelihood that he knows where I live.
My phone contains all kinds of information about me, but the device is password protected. He couldn’t have broken into it, there’s just no way. So how did he find out so much about me?
I don’t know a single thing about him. Not one thing.
Waylon looks like he’s chewing on glass as he stalks back to his bar stool. There’s a dangerous look in his eyes. “You got plans on seeing that prick again, darlin?” he asks.
“Hell no. Absolutely not.”
“Good. I didn’t like him. Guy had a really bad attitude. No fucking respect.”
Garrett grunts in agreement. He doesn’t sit down again. Instead he stares at the door, fiercely watching it like he’s waiting for it to swing open again and he’s preparing himself for war.
He’s always been protective, but this is something else altogether. He really must not like the guy. Must really not trust him. And when Garrett doesn’t like someone, there’s usually a very good reason.
Our conversation resumes, thankfully for Andrew, onto a subject other than female anatomy and periods, but I can’t shake the sound of Pasha’s voice
in my head. The sexuality that dripped from his every word as he told Andrew how women loved to fuck at a certain time of the month. And the promise I heard in the rise and fall of his subtly lilting accent, right before he walked out of Hitchen’s. “I’ll be waiting for your call.”
Why would I want to call him? And even if, for some strange reason, I did want to call him, how on earth could I? I don’t have his number. Without going back to the fair, I have no way of obtaining it, either. Not that I want to obtain it, but still…
I’m as silent as Garrett for the next thirty minutes, my mind flitting back and forth, trying to decide if I should run over to Sarah’s apartment to tell her what just happened, or if I should simply go home, get out of my work clothes, have a shower, climb into bed and forget the fact that Pasha Rivin even exists.
The boys walk me home not long after. It’s fairly early by our Tuesday night standards, but no one seems to be in very high spirits following the Pasha incident. As I climb the stairs after saying goodnight to everyone, a wad of mail clasped in one hand and my keys in the other, I realize something.
I was wrong before.
There is one thing I know about Sarah’s darkly handsome nephew.
Now, I know his name.
16
ZARA
GARDEN LEAVE
The payphone out on the street hasn’t rung once since the mysterious call that directed me to Rochester Park, and yet I still struggle to fall asleep. When I do pass out, I sink deep into unconsciousness, losing myself to the most sexually charged dreams I’ve ever experienced. His hands are everywhere. His mouth is everywhere. I’m charged and breathless as he enters me, and my throat is raw from screaming his name. I cling to him, holding him to me, tasting his sweat, my head swimming as he thrusts himself into me, growling into my ear.
I wake to the sound of my cell phone ringing on my nightstand, but it’s the rich, deep, rough-edged voice in my ear that has my heart hammering like a piston beneath my ribcage.
“Come for me, Firefly. Fucking come.”
I’m frozen in place, tangled in my bed sheets, my body drenched with my own sweat, and a sinking feeling pulls at my insides. No. No way. The name. That name? I’ve never remembered hearing that name in my dreams before. But then again, I haven’t remembered any details from my dreams before now. Is there a chance my dream guy has called me that before? Sure, of course there is. But it doesn’t mean anything. How can it? The guy in my dreams isn’t real. It’s not as if I’ve been dreaming about Pasha all these years, and I have willed him into existence. If I was going to will the literal man of my dreams into being, I would make him kind, and considerate, and gentle, and…
Okay, okay.
Maybe I wouldn’t.
Maybe I’m just like most women, and there’s something about a bad boy that has me going weak at the knees. But Pasha Rivin isn’t just a bad boy. There’s something dangerous about him. Something that sends a thrill through me every time I even think the man’s name, but also makes me want to run.
Shit! My phone hasn’t stopped ringing. I groan as I finally pick it up and see who’s trying to get hold of me. Accepting the call, I slump back down into my pillows, holding the phone to my ear. “Morning, Roger. I didn’t leave my log sheet at my desk, did I? I know I filled it out, I swear.” I mustn’t have filed my shift paperwork properly last night before I headed home—it’s the only reason I can think of that would have my shift manager calling me so early in the morning.
“No, no,” Roger mutters on the other end of the line. “Your paperwork was perfect. Nothing to worry about there.” He sounds uncomfortable. Awkward. I crack my eyes open, a fraction more alert than I was a moment ago.
“Is something wrong? Do you need me to come in early?”
“No, no. Everything’s fine here. I’m just calling because, well…this is actually quite tricky to say. How should I put this? Um. We’ve had a complaint. About you. It’s…it’s actually quite a serious complaint, and…well, Larissa’s told me to call you and let you know that—”
“What?” I sit bolt upright. “Wait, wait, wait. Hold up. A complaint? What kind of complaint?”
Roger hums. I can imagine the sweat that’s beading on his brow right now. He begins to perspire the moment he has to have a difficult conversation with anybody. Christ, he looked like he’d just run a marathon when he had to tell Mitch in HR that he couldn’t use his personal bathroom anymore, because his shits were too big and kept blocking the damn thing.
Roger’s voice is riddled with anxiety as he trips over his words. “The complaint is…is of a…a sensitive nature. You’ve been accused of workplace harassment.”
“WHAT?” I roar the word, my lingering exhaustion gone in a puff of smoke. “Who? Who the fuck…?”
“I think it might be best if we let the victim’s identity remain anonymous at the moment, but we’ll be able to pass the information on to your attorney—”
“Victim?” No, no, no. What the hell is happening right now? Someone at work said I harassed them? And now there are words like victim being thrown around? I try to speak, to say something calm and logical, but I’m at a complete loss for words. “I’m supposed to get a fucking lawyer?”
Roger wheezes down the line. He’s probably rummaging in the top drawer of his desk for his inhaler. “Larissa thinks it might be best if—”
“Who the fuck is Larissa, Roger?”
“She’s the head of human resources. She thinks it would be ill-advised if you came to work for the next couple of days. A week. Two weeks, max. Just until all of this is ironed out.”
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. “I’m not getting a lawyer, Roger. I haven’t done anything wrong. And even if I did get one, what am I supposed to hire them to do, if I don’t even know who’s making up this utter bullshit about me?”
“Uhhh…”
“Let me get this straight. I’m suspended from work. That’s what you’re telling me. Because someone said I’m being mean to them. I’m having a hard time trying to work out what’s going on here.”
“I’m sorry, Zara. It’s not my call. I know…this is a bit of a shock, but—”
“No, Roger! This is not a shock. This is a fucking nuclear bomb going off, and my entire life it at its goddamn epicenter!”
“I’m sorry, really I am. My hands are tied. This is our policy when a complaint is reported. We have to do things by the book. I know you’re a good girl. This…this is all stuff and nonsense. We’re going to get to the bottom of it, and you’ll be back at your desk in no time, mark my words. In the meantime, I took the liberty of packing up your belongings. Just in case you need anything. A guy let me into your building a couple of hours ago and I left the box outside your door. I would have knocked, but it was still dark, and I just thought, well…”
He doesn’t finish his sentence. Doesn’t need to. We both know what he’s trying to say: he thought it would be easier to avoid a confrontation in person, and he dumped my stuff on my doorstep like a motherfucking coward and then ran away. I’ve never had a problem with Roger, but right now I want to punch him square in the face. I look down at my cell. I don’t have a landline. If Pasha hadn’t brought the device back to me last night at the bar, what would have happened? I would have strolled into work later on this afternoon, completely oblivious and unaware of what was going on, only to find myself shamed, embarrassed, and escorted from the building.
I can hear Roger mumbling on the phone, but I can’t bring myself to lift the thing to my ear, so I hit the end call button and stare at it until the screen goes dark.
What.
The.
Actual.
Fuck.
Is.
Happening?
I drag myself to the front door, on the verge of tears. This month. This stupid month has been off the charts weird already, and it just got infinitely worse. Roger didn’t say anything about my ‘leave’ from work being with pay, so I’m guessing it isn’t. I
love my job, but it doesn’t exactly land me a huge amount of money at the end of each month. Roger said I’d be away from dispatch for two weeks at the most. Half a month’s salary, gone, down the drain. And for what? I literally have no idea.
As promised, a small white box sits on my doormat with my name scrawled across the top of it in sharpie. I snatch up the box and carry it into the kitchen, then remove the lid. The contents inside make my stomach drop. It’s everything from my desk. Everything from my drawers. Not a pen, a notepad, or knickknack left behind. Even the few photos I had tacked up around the edge of my computer screen have been slipped into the box.
I collect the photos, slapping each one on the kitchen counter, the tears that had threatened to fall now doing so.
A photo of my mom and dad on vacation in Cabo, toasting each other, champagne flutes in hand. A shot of my friend Jillian and I at the top of Machu Picchu—the one and only time I’ve ever left the country. A trip I paid for with the money I saved working at Starbucks for three years while I was in school. The third photo I let float down onto the counter is of my friend David and his wife. I was meant to go to their wedding six months ago, but I’d had to work. The fourth photo—
I stop. My hands shake as I look down at the photo in my hand. Except it’s not a photo at all…and it was not on my desk. Something roils in my chest, a pressure rising to uncomfortable levels. I’m either going to have a heart attack or I’m going to explode. Flashes of gold glint as I turn the card over in my hand, studying the detailed, delicate illustration of the woman on its face. She’s beautiful. Her long, wavy hair is thick and full, streaked with bolts of gold. Her dress is a spring green, the color of freshly sprouted leaves. The same color as Pasha Rivin’s eyes. In her hand, she holds a gleaming scepter, topped with what looks like a cut diamond, and on her head sits a blazing crown of stars. The matte surface of the tarot card is smooth and silky beneath my fingers as I carefully set it down next to the unopened mail I brought up last night and I stare at it.