by Staci Hart
“Ms. Belousov.”
“Mr. Anderson,” she answered. “What’s up?”
I shrugged. “Just getting a little work done.” I held up the sketchbook in display.
“And you need to be down here to do that work?”
“Not really.”
She took a controlled breath. “We needed the space clear today for construction.”
I looked around. “I don’t seem to be in the way.”
“You’re not. It’s a liability thing.”
“Need me to sign a waiver?”
“I need you to leave the store.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “Not happening.”
She folded her arms right back at me. “Are you worried about what we’re doing here? Because I assure you, we won’t do any damage.”
“I’ll stay right here and make sure of that myself.”
“Joel—”
My heart jolted at the sound of my name from her lips, but I still cut her off. “Listen. Hand me a liability release waiver and I’ll sign it. I’m sure you have a dozen on hand. I’m not leaving this store until it’s done, not when every penny I have is tied up in it. This is my home, and you’re all strangers here. So at least give me the courtesy of being present while your team drills into it.”
Something about her face softened, her eyes I think, though the shift was almost imperceptible. “Fair enough,” she said, the venom gone, but the cold steel was ever-present. “But I’m staying with you.”
I raised a brow. “You don’t have something more important to do?”
“Other than make sure you don’t get brained by a light fixture? No.” She stepped behind the counter, and I shifted so she could squeeze past and sit on the other stool. The scent of her — jasmine, maybe? — slipped over me as she moved by. Once in her seat, she turned her attention to her phone.
I made no move to open my sketchbook, just turned on the stool and leaned against the counter. “So, that’s it? We sit here in silence while you jack around on Facebook?”
She glanced up. “I’m not on Facebook. I’m reading.”
“As in, a book?” I asked, surprised.
“No, a census report.” She shook her head. “Yes, a book.”
“Hey, it could have been an article or an email or something.”
I thought I caught a hint of a smile. “Sorry. Yeah, I’m reading Persuasion by Jane Austen.”
“Romance?” The question was flat.
“Romance. I know it’s not the latest edition of Bros and Beers, or whatever you read, but I think it’s all right.”
I snorted and reached under the counter for my book, setting it on top of the counter. “I read a lot of sci-fi. This is my desk book.”
She picked it up. “Ursula K. Le Guin? I’ve never heard of her.”
“I’m not surprised. She’s pretty obscure and was out of print for a while, but her writing … I don’t know what it is about it. It’s dark, haunting. When you read her words, they stay with you.”
“I really only read historical fiction, the classics, usually nothing post-mid-century in time period,” she offered. “Although, I do love Margaret Atwood.”
I perked up. “Have you read her MaddAddam series?”
“No, I haven’t. It’s sci-fi?”
“Dystopic, as is her specialty. It’s dark and genius, per her usual.”
The shadow of a smile found her lips again. “I will. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
She glanced away toward the workers, forcing a lull in the conversation, and I scrambled to keep it going.
“So, I’ve been wondering about your name. Eastern European?”
“Russian,” she answered, still looking away, giving me nothing more.
“Are you from Russia?”
“My parents are. They fled during World War II, ended up bouncing all over the place before ending up here just before I was born.”
“Do you speak Russian?”
Icy eyes locked on mine. “Da.”
I smirked. “Say, Joel is an impossibly handsome bastard.”
She mirrored me. “Joel nevozmozhny ublyudok.” The words rolled off her tongue and past her lips, powerful, her voice smoky but with the edge all her words seemed to possess. I found myself full-on smiling.
“You didn’t say what I asked, did you?”
“I might have left a word out.” She actually smiled back, the corners of her lips rising, eyes lighting with mischief. It changed her face, her air, her.
“Bastard?”
“Handsome.”
I laughed, a big sound, the kind that came from deep in my belly. Her smile stayed put, though a flush brightened her cheeks.
“I like you,” I said simply.
“Really? I couldn’t tell.”
We were both smirking again. “And here I thought I was being discreet.”
“About as discreet as a bullhorn. You know, you’re much more pleasant when you’re not hosing me down with testosterone.”
“Well, you asked me to stop, and I’m not one to hose anyone down with testosterone unwilling. Not when I have plenty of volunteers. It’s a veritable wet T-shirt contest when it comes to my testosterone-hosing.”
She shook her head.
“Too far?”
She almost laughed, I could feel it. It was all of a sudden the single thing I wanted from the universe. She shook her head again and slipped off the stool, taking my chance with her.
“The bathroom is this way, right?” She pointed to the back of the shop.
“It is. Second door on the right.”
“Thanks.”
She touched my back as she slipped past me, a simple gesture, one that probably meant nothing, but I felt it, felt her through the pads of her fingertips, through the cotton of my shirt. I’d never thought that chemistry between two people could be tangible. But there was also something strangely deeper than just the physical. Don’t get me wrong — I wanted her, bad. But it was more than just the itch, the opportunity, more than something that would pass once acted upon. I had a feeling once I got a taste, I wouldn’t be able to get her out of my system for a long, long time.
The thought gave me pause.
I hadn’t been so attracted to someone in ages. In fact, I never remembered even being this attracted to Liz, not like this. Like I was fire and she was crisp, clean air, and if I couldn’t breathe her in, I’d disappear.
I had no idea what had come over me.
I pulled in a deep breath to clear my head, watching her as she walked past, pretty sure she was intentionally avoiding looking at me and fully aware that my eyes were on her. But just as she passed under a strip of lighting, one of the canisters slipped loose and fell, hitting her squarely in the head.
I was out of my seat and halfway to her before she hit the ground.
Annika
One minute, I’m fleeing the clutches of Hairy, and the next, I’m dead.
No, not dead, I realized as my head thumped low and dull, though everything was still black. I groaned and peeled my heavy eyelids back to find myself in the clutches of Hairy anyway.
Worry creased his brow, which was low, his eyes green and dark and fierce. His face was close to mine, closer than we’d been before, and I realized his arms were around me. His very large arms.
“Oh, thank God,” he muttered. “Annika?”
He’d said my first name again, and with his arms around me, with the smell of him in my nose, I felt dizzy. So dizzy.
I groaned again — I couldn’t speak. His hand was in my hair, inspecting the side of my head, and I realized I’d been hit.
“Are you all right?”
“Did I get brained by a light fixture?”
His worry softened as he smiled, just a little. “You did. Hopefully you signed that liability waiver.”
“Ha,” I breathed roughly. “Better me than you.”
And just like that, the smile was gone. “Don’t say that. Can you
sit up?”
“I …” I assessed my body and thought I could, but I didn’t want to answer. I didn’t want him to let me go. I was so tired, and his arms were so big and strong, and he smelled like soap and laundry and— “Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, pushing him away gently before I lost my mind completely and kissed him or something. I hadn’t noticed before how full his lips were, and I wondered absently if he was a good kisser.
I sat all the way up, but pinched my eyes closed when I got the spins.
“You okay? Somebody get her some water,” he called out to the peanut gallery of crew members, the timbre of his voice low and annoyed at the necessity of the command, it would seem.
I pressed the heel of my palm into my eye socket and pulled in a long breath. “I’m okay, I think.”
He cupped my face. “Open your eyes, Annika.”
I did as I was told, and he was close again, even closer than before, and he searched my eyes, tilting my face up toward the lights.
“Your pupils aren’t dilated, so that’s good. Feel woozy?”
“Uh-huh,” I breathed in affirmation, my eyes on his, and I felt hypnotized, like a snake charmer and a cobra. I giggled, glad I was the cobra.
He frowned, brow dropping. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
I frowned right back, annoyed. “I said I was, didn’t I?”
He shook his head. “Stubborn.”
I moved to try to get up, and he grabbed my elbow. When I was on my feet, I pulled away, but the second the support was gone, I wobbled.
He caught me again. “We need to get you to a doctor.”
“I said I’m fine. God, are you always this pushy?”
“Yes,” he said, still looking all broody. “Come on, we’re going to talk to your boss.”
“Jeez, fine,” I conceded, since my head was ringing like the Liberty Bell. I even leaned on him a little as we made our way upstairs, past his apartment and into the control room. You know, for balance. Not because he smelled good and clean and good. Or because he was big and strong and burly.
It was then that I realized that I most definitely had a head injury.
Laney looked up from her computer, her eyes bouncing between us.
“A light canister knocked her out, and I think she might have a concussion.” Joel said, his words rumbling through his chest and into me like an earthquake. I giggled again at the thought, wondering where Joel would rank on the Richter scale.
Laney’s eyebrows rose. “I think you might be right.”
The room started to spin again, and my stomach clenched, sending my breakfast charging up my esophagus.
“Oh, God,” was all I managed as I pushed away from Joel, launching myself toward the tiny trashcan next to Laney’s desk. And then, I hurled.
When it had passed, I looked up to find Laney gaping. She handed me a tissue.
“Thanks,” I croaked as I took it and wiped my lips, swiping the involuntary tears from my cheeks.
“Head to the doctor and get yourself home.”
I nodded, knowing there’d be no arguing with the contents of my stomach in the trashcan between us.
“You’re just gonna send her by herself?” Joel shot, clearly upset at the idea.
“She has a driver.”
“Is there anyone you can call?” he asked me.
I shook my head, not wanting to bother anyone with something so stupid.
“I’m going with you.”
Both Laney and I swung our heads in his direction. “Oh?” I said.
“I think it’s a great idea,” Laney said, and my head pivoted again so I could stare her down. She smiled, looking like a traitor if I ever saw one. “Thanks, Joel. Just keep any receipts for anything you buy and I’ll reimburse you.”
I looked back to Joel, annoyed and cagey and woozy. “I thought you had stuff to do today?”
He shrugged and knelt, taking my arm and hand to help me up. “I’m not supposed to be in the shop today. Seems there may be some potential hazards I wasn’t aware of before this morning.”
“Convenient.” Once up, I leaned into him again, grateful to have him solidly next to me.
“Can you call your … driver, or whatever?”
“I’ve got it,” Laney answered for me and handed over my purse, which Joel took. “Take care of our girl.”
“I will,” he answered, and the resoluteness in his voice did something to my uterus. My brain shouted at me to stop being such a freaking ninny. I didn’t need anyone to take care of me.
So I said, sounding way more bratty than I meant to, “I don’t need anyone to take care of me.”
I nearly missed the first step, and he caught me, squeezing me in his grip before I’d moved much more than my feet. “Right, princess. You’re doing just fine on your own.”
I made a noise in dissent but let him guide me down the stairs anyway.
Within a few minutes we were in the car — Joel ran back into the shop to get a couple bottles of water. Literally ran, or jogged, I guess. I watched his broad shoulders, muscles bulging as they expanded and contracted, then the serious bend of his brow as he slipped in next to me. I thought it was funny — Joel, serious — and stifled another giggle. He didn’t take anything seriously. His serious face looked more grumpy than anything.
I leaned back in the seat, chin lifted, eyes closed, trying to get a grip on my brain.
“Want some water?”
I didn’t open my eyes, but extended a hand, closing my fingers around the cold plastic when it touched my palm. “Thanks.” I twisted off the cap and took a drink.
“Gonna puke again?”
“No promises either way.”
“Gonna keep fighting my help?”
“Probably.”
He chuckled, and I cracked my lids, turning my head to look at him. He really was handsome underneath all that hair and ink. I knew in my head that he was much older than me, twelve years older, in fact. But he didn’t look older. I mean, he looked older, but not older. The only indication that he was a couple years shy of forty were the smallest of creases next to his eyes, lines that said he laughed, and often.
I found myself smiling, and he looked over, smirking when he caught me.
“You’re pretty funny when your brain’s furry, you know that?” he asked.
I shrugged.
“I bet you’re a riot when you’re drunk.”
I shrugged again. “I only drink vodka. Pretty much all other liquor makes me take my clothes off.”
One of his dark eyebrows rose. “I’ll be sure to stock up on whiskey, in that case.”
“Okay, first — stock up all you want because I won’t drink it. Second, stop hitting on me.”
“Whatever you want, princess.”
“And stop calling me princess.”
“Sorry, that one’s non-negotiable.”
I huffed and fixed my head back where it had been, closing my eyes again, knowing it was useless to argue, even if I had the energy for it. I really did feel terrible. Not to mention confused — I wasn’t mad at him at all. Mostly I just thought he was funny and cute. Obviously you have a head injury, I told myself. But I liked that he pushed back, didn’t back down, didn’t run away. He stepped right up, spit in his hand, and got ready for the fast pitch.
Baseball metaphors. That’s how you know you’ve got a concussion. I don’t even like baseball.
It was just because he was being nice, going all caveman to take care of me. Pretty sure it was an autonomous response, something my genetics screamed for like fangirls. Double-crossing, anti-feminist DNA.
We hit a pothole, and I groaned when my head bounced against the headrest.
“Drink some more water,” he said, not asking.
I sighed and obliged.
“And try to stay awake.”
“That’s a myth,” I mumbled.
“What is?”
I opened my eyes and lolled my head over to look at him again. “Not letting someone sleep when
they have a concussion. It’s a myth. Sleep is good for healing, so long as there aren’t any other major symptoms, like dilated pupils.”
“How about barfing?” It was a challenge.
I gave him a flat look.
“I’m just saying. Try to stay awake.”
My head thrummed, but I didn’t feel nauseated anymore. I was tired though, my body heavy and mind slow, that kind of tired that could let you sleep anywhere. I breathed slow, hands in my lap, telling myself to stay awake or have to converse with Hairy. But I felt myself drift away, unwilling, unable to stop myself.
CLEOPATRA, QUEEN OF DENIAL
Joel
I WATCHED HER FROM ACROSS the bench seat, studying her breathing, but when her hand slipped off her lap and into the seat, I knew she was out.
I reached for her, clasping her hand in mine. “Annika. Wake up.” My other hand slipped into the curve of her neck.
Her eyes opened slowly. “Hmmm?”
“Come on, princess. Stay awake. Don’t make me resort to singing show tunes.”
She smiled faintly. “You know show tunes?”
“Do I know show tunes,” I said with a laugh before clearing my throat. “Ohhhhhhhhhhhh-klahoma where the wind goes sweepin’ down the plainnnnn. Where the wavin’ wheat can sure smell sweet, where the wind comes right behind the raaaaaaaaain.” I bellowed the lyrics, knowing full well I was tone deaf.
She gaped, eyes bright for the first time since she’d been knocked out. “Oh, my God.”
It took all I had not to laugh. “Ohhhhhhhhhhhh-klahoma, Ev’ry night my honey lamb and I, sit alone and talk and watch a hawk makin’ lazy circles in the skyyyyyyyyyy.”
And then, she laughed. It was a glorious sound, rough and raw, unbridled. The gift was one I knew not many received. I checked off the box next to making her laugh and made a new mental checkbox — make her do it again.
“I cannot believe you.”
I shrugged, realizing then that her hand was still in mine, her long, white fingers draped over my palm. “My mom loved old musicals. I’ve seen a million of them, watched them with her ever since I was a kid. I think that’s where I learned to really love music, honestly. Or not. I dunno. Our house was never quiet, Mom couldn’t stand it. She always had something on, classic rock from the 70s, they’d say now. At the time, it was just the radio.”