Slave to the Rhythm (The Rhythm #1)

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  Even as my muscles tensed, ready to drive me forward, I felt the impact of the bullet, the air punched from my lungs. I saw muzzle flash and heard a popping sound. It was all in the wrong order, and that bothered me.

  I tumbled over the edge of the stage, falling into the orchestra pit, a discordant jangle of noise as I crashed against the drum kit.

  I lay winded on the floor, stunned, motionless, my lungs empty. I stared up at the ceiling, the spotlights from the stage painting a silhouette of evil as Sergei leered in triumph. But when he turned and pointed the gun at Laney, time stopped. It was seeing every future falling into black nothingness, and I didn’t want to live like that anymore.

  Breath surged back into my body and the torn edges of my vision crystalized.

  But I was too slow. Even as I pushed myself upright, even as the air rushed past my face, even as I flew forward, I was too slow. Sergei fired the gun and this time it was Laney who fell to the floor.

  My body smashed into his and we were wedged between two rows of theater seats, the flip-up section pressing into my screaming ribs.

  “You really won’t die, will you? Never mind, I’ve always wanted you on top of me, Aljaž,” Sergei mumbled as I rained down punches.

  My knuckles split and I could feel a finger sliced open against his teeth.

  He spat out a gob of blood and started to speak. I didn’t care what he was going to say. Every dark thought that evil bastard had ever had, every breath he’d ever taken had the stench of depravity. Laney was my sunshine, and now she was gone.

  In the distance, I heard police sirens, then yells.

  Sergei sighed theatrically then grinned at me through bloody teeth.

  “I’ll be out of jail before breakfast. Then I’ll be coming for you.”

  I shook my head. “Not this time.”

  The Devil had come for his own.

  I pulled the gun from his limp hand and kneeled up. In the distance I heard someone shouting at me to drop the gun. But I had something to do first. I pointed the gun at Sergei’s face, ignoring his streaming nose and torn mouth. I pushed the barrel of the gun into his empty eye socket. He laughed.

  And this time I pulled the trigger.

  His body jerked once and I could smell the sharp stench of cordite.

  Hands grabbed me from behind, twisting my arms, forcing me to drop the gun.

  I stared down at the gory splatters on my chest: mine, his, I couldn’t tell.

  I stared in fascination as blood pooled around his head, and a thicker ooze of brain and splinters of bone.

  I stared and felt nothing more than a butcher would feel looking at a side of beef. No emotion.

  Satisfaction, yes. Relief, yes. Conscience, no. My conscience was quiet.

  The pain in my chest shrieked through me as my hands were forced behind my back with a quiet click—the cold steel of handcuffs.

  And then I saw Laney, still and silent, the side of her head sheeted in blood. Every emotion slammed back, a door opening with a flood of grief and terror and shock.

  “Laney!”

  I called out her name, trying to reach her, but I was held tightly.

  “Laney!” I screamed.

  I tried again to get to her, but my cuffed hands were yanked backwards and the pain in my chest was so intense, the light dimmed and I thought I was going to pass out.

  “He’s her husband! Let him go!”

  And then Billy was there, yelling some more.

  “Take the cuffs off now! Shit, he’s been shot, you morons. Where are the paramedics? Ah, fuck, Laney!”

  Laney

  I was dreaming, floating in that happy place between two worlds.

  We were lying in bed together. It was very soft, like resting on clouds, or the ocean on a summer’s day. Yes, we were lying on a beach together, the water lapping at our feet.

  “Do you dream, Laney? You must do. What do you dream about?”

  Ash was bare chested, his skin a deep golden tan, his eyes the color of Irish whiskey. Dream Ash was impossibly beautiful, his long, lean, toned lines, his muscled thighs and sculpted torso. He glistened and glowed under the warm sun—so beautiful.

  Dream Ash smiled at me, more relaxed and happy than I’d ever seen him, the tension in his eyes completely absent for once.

  “My daytime dreams are different from my nighttime dreams,” I smiled. “At night, I dream about flying, not in an airplane, just me, flying through the air.” I laughed quietly. “It’s pretty self-evident what that means. What do you dream about?”

  “Daytime dreams? Those haven’t changed. I dream about taking my dancing all over the world, telling stories through dance, making people happy. At night, I used to dream about standing in a spotlight, and if it was a good dream, the music would begin and I’d start to dance. It would start off real, but then the jumps would become bigger, until I was flying through the air—like you.”

  I smiled. “Do you still have that dream?”

  “Not lately, I . . .”

  “We don’t have secrets from each other,” I reminded him with a gentle nudge.

  The sunlight was too bright, so I closed my eyes, listening to the soft slur of Ash’s light accent.

  “I still dream that I’m standing in the spotlight, but when the music starts, my body doesn’t move. It’s like I’m frozen. I’m trying to move, but I can’t. And then . . . then Sergei is there, sometimes Oleg too, and they’re laughing and laughing. Once, the girl was there as well, and they pointed the gun at her and then at me, deciding who they’d shoot first.”

  I felt moisture in my eyes and I opened them to find Ash staring at me, tears running down his cheeks, as well.

  “You mustn’t give up on your dreams. Not because of those monsters. Never because of them.”

  And I wasn’t sure which of us had spoken . . .

  Ash

  I SAT BY Laney’s bed, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. I could see traces of dried blood in her hair. She’d hate that. A white bandage covered the left side of her head, one forearm heavy under a thick blue cast.

  She’d been lucky, they said. The bullet had sliced across the surface of her skull and knocked her out. But he hadn’t killed her. She’d wake up soon.

  I was lucky, too. Luckier than I deserved. My St. Christopher had been folded in half by the impact of Sergei’s bullet. X-rays confirmed that I had a cracked sternum which made it painful to breathe. Black and purple bruises were spreading across my chest, and they kept checking my EKG. Something to do with a trauma injury to the chest, I didn’t care.

  Up and down. Up and down.

  For hours, I watched Laney breathing. I watched her living. And that was enough.

  My left hand throbbed, wrapped in bandages. Sergei had shot off the tip of my index finger. They hadn’t found it, so it was probably still at the theater. I felt sorry for the janitor. Sweeping up candy wrappers was one thing; blood and body parts probably wasn’t in their contract.

  Up and down. Up and down.

  The police had talked to me while I was still being treated. I couldn’t focus and didn’t really understand their questions. I didn’t care either. Laney’s dad told me that Angela was helping. But nothing mattered—just Laney.

  Her father was sitting on the other side of the bed, and he kept glancing toward the door, expecting Laney’s mother at any moment. She’d been out of town with Laney’s sisters, but now they were all on their way.

  He cleared his throat.

  “We have a witness—one of the ushers says you threw yourself at that piece of shit while you were unarmed.”

  My head jerked up, surprised that he’d spoken to me. I was still waiting for him to throw me in jail for getting Laney hurt.

  His face reddened and his eyes watered as he stared at me.

  “You saved her life.”

  I cocked my head to one side, weighing his words and finding them sincere, but so wrong.

  “Sergei came to Chicago because of me.
Laney would never have been in danger otherwise.”

  “Son, I can see that you’re not the kind of man who goes looking for trouble. There are a lot of fucked up people in this world, and bad things happen to good people. I don’t know why and neither does anyone else. My wife tells me that God knows. Well, good for Him, ‘cause it sure as shit makes no sense to me.” He paused. “But I know that my daughter is alive because of you.”

  Then he stood up to shake my hand.

  “Welcome to the family, son.”

  It was so unexpected that I just stared at him like an idiot until I realized that I’d left him hanging. I stood painfully, trying not to breathe too much, and shook his hand.

  A moment later, the door was flung open and Laney’s mother and sisters poured in. Their questions rattled like rain on a tin roof and I couldn’t concentrate.

  Thankfully, her dad was used to it and worked his way through the questions one at a time, until they were all satisfied that Laney was in no immediate danger.

  “But what about the big boss?” asked Bernice. “The mafia boss?”

  Laney’s dad grimaced.

  “We think he’s the reason Boykov was here in the first place. The big boss, Volkov, is cleaning house. It looks like he got tired of the mess his second-in-command was making. If Ash hadn’t taken him out, Volkov would have.”

  Their wide eyes switched to me.

  “The boy saved our Laney.”

  That was it—I was engulfed in hugs and kisses that made me groan with pain. Laney’s dad peeled them off one by one, explaining that I was injured, too. Then they fluttered around and I wanted to wave my hands until they scattered like starlings. They meant well, but being surrounded by so many people made me twitchy.

  I leaned forward, concentrating on Laney’s face, and when I looked up again, much later, they’d all gone.

  It was getting light. Morning had finally arrived. I knew that bogeymen didn’t vanish at dawn—but something about sunlight made me happier.

  The nurses had tried to make me leave, but after Laney’s dad spoke to them, they left me alone. One of them returned later with a blanket, so I stayed in the chair next to Laney’s bed, watching.

  The door opened slowly and I saw Gary standing there, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

  “Can I come in?” I nodded and he stepped inside. “Is this her?”

  “My wife, yes.”

  He crept into the room and peered down.

  “Man, I can’t believe you’re married.”

  My lips twitched with amusement.

  “I fly 7,000 miles to get hijacked by Bratva, get whipped by a psycho who wants to fuck me up the ass, I drive across half of the USA to escape him, and then he follows me and tries to kill me . . . and the part you can’t believe is that I’m married?”

  He pushed my shoulder, making me wince.

  “Sorry,” he said. “But it is kind of crazy. She’s cute though.”

  “No, she’s the most beautiful, amazing woman I’ve ever met.”

  He looked at me sideways.

  “I wish some guy would look at me like that.”

  “I think you’re amazing, too,” I said sincerely.

  Gary grinned.

  “Aw, honey! You say the sweetest things. But I’m not going to sleep with you—not even if you beg. Well, maybe if you beg.”

  Then his face fell and he looked serious.

  “Um, just to warn you—Yveta hasn’t taken it well.”

  I frowned, confused.

  “Hasn’t taken what well?”

  Gary sighed. “You being married.”

  “But . . .”

  I didn’t know what I was going to say. I’d had sex with Yveta a few times. I’d never thought that it meant anything to either of us. Just something that we both needed at the time, temporary.

  Gary waved a hand.

  “I know, I know. But when we were in that place, she kept saying that if you had gotten out, we could, too. And when we did, she was going to look for you. You were a sort of good luck charm—the hope of better times.” He sighed again. “She was really cut up when she found out about the wife thing—they had to sedate her.”

  Gary shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, Ash.”

  He laid his hand on my shoulder for a moment, then bent down to kiss me on the cheek.

  “Merry Christmas,” he said quietly as he left.

  Hope. Such a small word, in my language, too: upanje. A small word, but a big emotion—the biggest. But having too much will crush you when you’re weighed down with the impossibility of your dreams.

  Laney was the sun, my sun. She warmed me, she dazzled me. She lit the way like a beacon of hope.

  But Yveta didn’t have a Laney. And I didn’t know what I could do that might help.

  “Ash? Am I dreaming?”

  Laney’s eyes fluttered open and the stone I’d been carrying in my heart dissolved.

  “No, my love. You’re awake now.”

  Her forehead wrinkled.

  “He killed you. I saw Sergei shoot you!”

  I leaned down to kiss her cheek, nuzzling her neck.

  “Sergei can’t hurt us anymore. He’s gone.”

  Her eyes drifted closed.

  “Is he coming back?”

  “Never.”

  She smiled and I held her small hand in mine as she drifted toward sleep.

  “Merry Christmas, my love.”

  Gary’s parents arrived to take him home—solemn and sincere, grateful to have him back in their lives, bemused to find him hand in hand with Yveta. They invited her to spend Christmas and New Year, and she gratefully accepted.

  Gary said they were still holding out for a straight son, but I think he was joking.

  Yveta made it clear that she didn’t want to see me, which meant I had to explain it to Laney.

  The stress of the last 24 hours had left us exhausted and we were both on pain meds. I could see the weary resignation on her face, but she tried to joke about it.

  “I was hoping for hot sex under the Christmas tree but having you to myself is nice, too.”

  “I’ll give you a raincheck,” I promised.

  Her parents wanted us to spend Christmas with them. I didn’t say anything, but I couldn’t stand the thought of being surrounded by people, so I was relieved when Laney insisted on going home instead. She compromised by saying that we’d visit soon.

  A cab dropped us at the apartment and we climbed the six steps wearily, Laney leaning against me for support.

  I picked up the mail, shocked to see a letter from the U.S. Immigration Service addressed to both of us.

  Almost numb, I opened the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper. It still took me a while to read English, but three words stood out: No further action.

  I took a deep breath. They couldn’t send me away from Laney—and I had the paper to prove it.

  Laney

  I was so relieved to be home. Although I couldn’t remember everything clearly, flashes of the horror inside the theater plagued my thoughts. Getting whacked on the head by a .32 bullet does that to a person, or so the doctors told me.

  Ash was in pain, too. He was given some codeine tablets to take the edge off a cracked sternum, and I had my broken wrist which ached, and my head was throbbing dully.

  We spent Christmas curled up on the couch under the quilt from the bedroom, slowly munching our way through frozen pizza, potato chips and everything unhealthy that we could find while watching silly holiday movies. Then we shuffled into the bedroom and fell asleep holding hands.

  I was woken the next morning by my cell phone. Ash cursed sleepily as I picked it up to see who was calling so early, but the number was unknown. I pressed ‘reject’ and tossed it back onto the bedside table, but a moment later, it was ringing again.

  If this was a telesales call, I was going to be pissed.

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Novak, good morning. My name is Phil Nickeas
from the ‘Chicago Tribune’. Is this a good time to talk?”

  It took a few seconds for my brain to make a connection. For a start, I wasn’t used to being called by my married name, and secondly, what the hell?

  “How did you get this number?”

  “From Angela Pinto. She’s a friend of mine and we’ve worked together a couple of times. She thought if I talked to you it could really help your husband’s case.”

  Case?

  My brain was struggling to make sense of what he was saying.

  The caller took my silence in his stride.

  “I’d really like to get your side of the story before the investigation. Russian mafia—that’s big news. I won’t be the only journalist to call you, but I’m a crime reporter, not a sleaze-monger. Angie said she was going to call you about me.” He paused. “Maybe you need a minute to talk to your husband . . . okay, well you can call me back on this number. Any time.”

  I muttered something and hung up. Ash was sitting with a quizzical expression on his face.

  “That was a reporter from the Tribune. He wants to talk to you—to us—about Sergei, I think.”

  Ash was already shaking his head.

  “He said it would help your case. What does he mean?”

  Ash shrugged and winced as he adjusted the pillow behind him. His chest was a rainbow of ugly black, purple and yellow bruises radiating out from the center.

  “Ash, what case?”

  “The murder case, I guess.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “What . . . what murder case?”

  His eyes shifted to mine before sliding away.

  “Because I shot Sergei.”

  “You! I thought the police shot Sergei?”

  His lips pulled to the side. “No-o. After he shot you, I fought with him. I took the gun and shot him.”

  A sigh of relief escaped me. “So, it was self-defense.”

  Ash nodded.

  “Thank goodness for that. I thought for a moment . . . I don’t know what I thought. He made it sound like the police charged you.”

  “They talked to me at the hospital, but your dad said I didn’t have to leave you.”