by Box Set
“I don’t believe that for a second,” Amaya insists while I get to my feet.
“It doesn’t matter what you believe. It doesn’t change anything,” I reply and start to collect all the medical equipment together. “Do you have any other wounds?”
“Don’t try and change the subject, Oliver.”
“Sir, Amaya. You call me, sir. Don’t forget your place.”
She laughs, and I feel the hairs on the back of my neck prick up with both irritation and desire because the sound is beautiful in a world filled with screams.
“You deny who you are. What you are. You say you’re a monster, but I’ve known you less than twenty-four hours, and I’ve seen the truth already. Do you really think that you’ll be able to keep hiding it from everyone? One day, the façade you maintain, protecting whatever delusion you have this is the only path you can follow, will fall.”
“I tell you what. Why don’t we have this conversation again in a few months. You can tell me then that I’m right about what I say. Just look at Irina and Zola.” I make sure she knows I’m not going to listen to her crap anymore. I deposit the medical equipment back in the doctor’s bag and pick it up. “Go wash yourself off. You’re sitting there with the cum of numerous men on you just like the whore you are.”
I’m done with this conversation and head toward the door, intending to give the doctor back her bag and finally get a shower, when a cup comes flying past my head and smashes into the wall in front of me, before falling to the floor.
“What the fuck!”
“You bastard!” Amaya screams when I turn around and scowl at her. Dropping the doctor’s bag, I’m moved across the room in a few short steps and have my hands around her throat, backing her up until she hits the wall behind her.
“Don’t you ever throw something at me again.”
She doesn’t reply, just purses her lips and glares at me. She’s not even scared that I’ve my hand around her throat and could snap her neck like a twig if I squeezed a little harder.
“Whatever game you’re trying to play with me stops now. I’ll never help you get free, because this has been my life since the age of eight, and I know nothing different. The person you think I am died the day he tried to shoot his father and saw his mother raped and murdered. You think my heart is able to feel anything? You need to grow the fuck up, or you’ll be dead before the month is out. You disrespect me again, and I’ll have you beaten because I can.”
I let her go and she slides down to the floor rubbing at her neck. Her eyes are still focused on me with a fire burning behind them.
“All hope ends now,” I finally inform her. But she shakes her head.
“You may tell yourself these lies every time you look in the mirror, but I couldn’t. How you can live like this, I’ll never understand.”
She pushes to her feet, and before I have a chance to say anything more, she disappears into her room. I look down at the floor and take a few minutes to compose myself. I’m shaking. Why am I letting this woman get to me? She’s nothing but another toy for the Pakhan to play with, and I’ll be invited to stick my dick in her mouth the next time I please my boss. Mind you, with how feisty she is at the moment, I’d be reluctant to put my dick anywhere near her in case she tries to bite it off. I need a drink, anything to get this woman out of my head. It’s been a long day, but tomorrow will be better – I can go back to my worthless existence until the day my luck finally runs out.
6
AMAYA
I mark off another day on the wall of my room. I’ve been here exactly thirty days – a whole month of hell and torture. I drew the first line after my argument with Oliver on the night I arrived here. I wanted to see how long it would take him to break. I thought two weeks, but he’s withdrawn further into himself, since that day. I barely see him unless it’s to take me to the Pakhan or some other event where I’m required to be a performing monkey. I know he’s not as unfeeling as he believes. I saw it in his eyes on the first day. Why won’t he help me escape? Is he unwilling because he is truly scared of what the repercussions would be? I’m starting to think his heart really is black, and I simply saw in him what I wanted to see and what, in reality, isn’t really there. His words about shooting his father and seeing his mother raped and murdered haunt me. He’s not the man I thought him to be, and the error has cost me.
I can’t dwell on him, though. I need to look for some other way to escape. One of the other guards will have a weakness I can exploit. I’ve searched the rooms I’ve been in a few times, but I’ve been unable to find a way out without it leading into the path of several armed men with lewd sneers and heckles. This place is like a fortress.
I place the pen back in my drawer and push it shut. The rest of the apartment I share with the other girls has been quiet this morning. I know that Zola and Irina were called upon by the Pakhan late last night. Rea told me that he’d had an argument with his wife and was in a foul mood. She felt sorry for the Russian sisters and for all they’d received at his hands. The girls had never really settled into this life. They’d come from a strict catholic family, and what they are doing is wrong in their eyes, but they have no choice. The moral ethics of the life they were forced to lead weighs heavily on them. I told Rea I’d come and help her clean them up when they were returned, but I must have fallen asleep because I’d woken around five and everyone was sleeping. That was an hour ago, and I’ve tried to be as quiet as possible since then, but I really want a cup of coffee. On tiptoes, I make my way out into the kitchen area and set the kettle onto boil. I pull the instant coffee out of the cupboard and put two teaspoons into a mug. I don’t take sugar, because I like the bitterness of the caffeinated beverage. A splash of milk is all I need. The kettle finishes boiling, and I pour the hot water into the mug and bring the full roasted drink up to my nose to inhale the refreshing aroma. I let out a little moan of pleasure. Coffee and chocolate are my weakness. Whoever invented mocha deserves to be lauded with praise for evermore.
“If it’s that good, I think I’ll get you to make me one.” The deep masculine voice comes from behind me. I jump in shock and push the cup away from me as it slips from my hand, ensuring I don’t get the scalding liquid all over me. “Shit,” the voice exclaims, and I look around to see Oliver rising from one of the armchairs in the corner and coming over to me. The room is still dark, and the curtains drawn, so I didn’t see him when I entered, too focused on needing a drink. “Did you get any on you?” he asks me and looks me up and down.
“No,” I reply with my hand placed over my heart, trying to stop the rapid beating and prevent a potential heart attack from the intrusion.
“Amaya.” Natasha’s voice comes from her bedroom door. She’s wearing next to nothing and standing there rubbing her eyes. She’s squinting at us like she’s trying to focus on what’s happening. “Are you ok?” she asks.
“Yes, sorry. I dropped my coffee.” Oliver grabs a tea-towel and starts to wipe up the steaming liquid.
“Go back to bed,” Oliver orders, and Natasha pauses for a second before realizing it would be futile to argue. She steps back into her room and closes the door after her.
“You scared the life out of me.” I place my hands on my hips and stare down at Oliver who’s at my feet collecting together the larger pieces of the broken cup. He looks up at me with his big brown eyes full of mischief.
“You scare far too easily.”
I roll my eyes.
“Is it any wonder given my circumstance.”
He groans and goes back to collecting up the porcelain.
“Don’t,” he says.
“Don’t what?” I go to step forward, but he stops me.
“Stay still. There are tiny shards, and you’re barefoot. Go get some slippers on and then make more coffee. I’m black with one sugar.” I don’t move. He ignored my question.
“Don’t what?” I ask again.
He gets to his feet. He’s a giant compared to me. I crane my neck to
look up at him while he towers over me.
“I’ve had a shit night. Spent most of it trying to get a few hours’ sleep in that chair”–he points over to where he was sitting when he scared me– “while making sure Zola and Irina survive it without doing something stupid. So please, right now, don’t go on about me not being a monster and don’t ask me to help you escape. I need coffee, and you want it as well. Go get some shoes on while I clean the rest of this mess up and then come back and make us some. Just give me normality for a few moments and behave.”
I go to open my mouth to say something. I’m not sure what. I want to shout well boohoo to him for assisting the man who has hurt Irina and Zola, and I want to ask how the girls are, but I fear the answer. I decide, instead, to return to my room where I place a pair of soft faux fur lined slippers on my feet. When I come back to the kitchen, Oliver has cleared away the spilled drink and is getting two more cups out of the cupboard. I watch him for a moment as he spoons exactly two teaspoons into each cup before placing sugar in one, milk in the other, and adding hot water to both. He brings one of the cups up to his nose and sniffs. A smile crosses my lips – I could get him back for scaring me, but he turns around and smiles at me, instead.
“Sorry. Payback isn’t happening today. I think Natasha will be pretty pissed off if we wake her again by smashing more cups.”
“I’ll just have to wait for another day.”
He holds a coffee out for me, and I go to take it. As he hands the cup over, my hand brushes against his, and at his touch, I feel a bolt of electricity surge through me. But Oliver pulls away and goes back to sit on his chair. I stand there feeling slightly awkward. Can I sit with him, or should I return to my room? He makes the decision for me, though, when he asks,
“What was Mexico like? I’ve heard the beaches are beautiful, and there are really wonderful sunsets.”
I cock my head toward him when he sits back, brings one of his strong legs up over the other, and takes a sip of the hot drink without even flinching.
“I lived on the east coast. We had spectacular sunrises,” I reply and pad lightly through the kitchen area before taking a seat on a chair near to him. “But the beaches are stunning with water as clear as glass, sand as white as snow, and sky as blue as the color of cornflowers. It’s a beautiful country, but like most places, it has its drawbacks. It can be really hot in the summer – too hot to even leave the house without becoming covered in sweat and resembling a drenched rat.”
“Pleasant.” He chuckles, “Are you cold here?”
“In Russia?”
He nods.
“It was a shock at first. The temperature is vastly different. I’m not looking forward to the depths of winter although it’ll be nice to see snow.” I go silent and stare down into my coffee. I’ve not been outside since I came here, so I don’t even know if I’ll be allowed out to see the crystalized flakes when they start to fall in a few months.
“Rea likes the snow. She hadn’t seen it before either. The Pakhan took her and Natasha up to his country retreat a few years back when it was winter. He wanted to get away from his wife who was heavily pregnant and thoroughly miserable. They seemed to have had a good trip – I was assigned to another role, at the time, in England.”
It’s now Oliver’s turn to go silent and stare at his cup, willing his coffee to swallow him up in a comfort blanket that’s strong enough to keep away the bad memories.
“Your name?” I’m hesitant to ask him the question that comes to my mind, but it’s something I’ve thought about for a while now. “It’s not traditionally Russian.”
“I’m English,” he replies curtly.
“But your accent? It’s heavy with Russian.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” he answers me, but this time his velvety voice sounds British in origin.
“You hide it?” My own accent has Spanish flourishes, but we are speaking in English, and I barely know a word of Russian.
“I came to Russia when I was eight years old. Over the years, the accent has crept in because of the people I’m around. If I hang around with you long enough, I’ll probably pick up Spanish flares.”
I laugh because I can’t imagine him pronouncing a slurred ‘r’ or lisped ‘z’. It wouldn’t suit the hard-set features of his face. He’s not what I would call flamboyant when he speaks unlike many native Spanish speakers.
“Is it that funny?”
“No. I just think Russian probably suits you better.”
“Cold and calculating.”
“Something like that.” I quickly take a sip of my coffee. It’s cooled down enough for me to drink now. Oliver’s cup is nearly finished. He must have an asbestos tongue to be able to drink coffee that hot and that fast.
“What happened to your mother?” he asks me, and I suck in a breath of chilled air at the thought of her.
“I…er… No puedo.” I stutter – the emotions surrounding my mother and her death, swirl in my head like a typhoon of pain.
“English.” Oliver’s tone causes me to shudder. It’s demanding.
“I can’t,” I repeat, this time in a language he’ll understand.
He sighs and places his coffee mug on the table next to his chair before looking directly at me.
“I was born in England. My mother and father traveled there when they found out she was pregnant with me. I didn’t know any of this until after they died. My father was Russian and a member of the Ivanov Bratva. My mother was British. I barely remember their faces because it’s been so long.” He pauses, and I lean forward on my chair, wanting to hear more of his story. “You don’t escape the Bratva that easily. My father owed them, and the price was me. They collected.”
“They took you and killed your parents?” I gasp.
“Yes.” I watch as Oliver lowers his head and brings one of his hands up to fiddle with the cuff link in his shirt.
“Why stay here?” I ask without thinking.
He jerks his head up. His eyes darken but not with anger, more with the sadness of regret.
“I remember the fields surrounding the little thatched roof cottage I was born in. It was close to five hundred years old. Cows and sheep roamed the surrounding fields, and a cockerel woke us every morning at the crack of dawn. At least, I think that’s what I remember. I was eight when I left.” Oliver shuts his eyes while he speaks. It’s as if he’s trying to bring the memories to the surface again rather than allowing them to remain in the background. I do the same when I want to imagine my mother. I place my half-drank coffee down and slip onto my knees in front of him. I place my hands on his thighs, and he opens his eyes and looks down at me. He brings a hand up and runs it over my hair to take the comfort I offer him. “You ask why I stay here. The answer is simple, because it’s easier. It’s a regulated life that you can’t escape from. No matter where you go, they will find you and…” He trails off, and I lay my head into his lap wanting to take away the pain I know he’s feeling over the loss of his parents. He strokes my hair again, and I feel him bend over and press his lips to the back of my head. My breath hitches, and I sit up. Oliver’s staring at me, and all I can see are his lips. He licks them, and I want to kiss him. The urge is stronger than anything I’ve ever felt before. We move in closer but jump back when the door opens and another one of the guards comes in.
“Thank fuck,” the solider exclaims. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, sir.”
“What is it?” Oliver gets to his feet – a stern frown marks his brow.
“We found him, and the Pakhan wants him dealt with immediately,” the soldier informs Oliver. The man I was about to kiss a few moments ago looks down at me with the darkness of regret back in his eyes.
“I have to go.”
I nod.
“Thank you for my coffee.” I say to him.
“You’re welcome.” He smiles at me. “Try to be more aware of your surroundings, next time. If you’d dropped the first mug on you, it would’ve burned.”
“Is she the only one who is up?” the soldier asks, and an eerie feeling of cold cascades through my body.
“Yes, why?” Oliver responds.
“The Pakhan asked me to bring one of the girls back. The mood he’s in, Rea would probably be better, but if she’s the only one up, then she’ll have to do.”
I gulp when Oliver turns to me, his eyes are wide, but he doesn’t say anything. What can he say? Remaining in Russia is easier. His mouth moves like he wants to say no…or yes, but he can’t. He’s frozen with indecision, so I make it for him.
“Let Rea sleep. I’ll go. I won’t give him any trouble.”
I step toward the guard who is about to lead me to untold pain and torture, but before I leave the room with him, I stop and turn to Oliver.
“My mother was murdered by my father. She was of no use to him anymore, so he had her killed by a heroin overdose. The truth was, she’d never touched the stuff unless he injected it into her. She was a fabulous mother. The best. I miss her every day but know I’ll meet her again soon, when my usefulness is at its end.”
7
OLIVER
I send my fist into the face of the pervert in front of me, but it’s not him I’m thinking about. It’s the Pakhan and what he’ll be doing to Amaya at the moment. I’ve tried so hard not to allow her to get under my skin, but she’s done it so subtly with her beauty, wit, and need for my protection. I’m completely under her spell. I want nothing more than the man in front of me to be exchanged for my Pakhan. That thought alone would get me brutally killed if it were voiced. I need to suppress this – get over it. I steel myself with a deep breath and send another punishing punch into his face. His nose cracks with blood splattering across his face and over the front of my crisp white shirt. I savor the pained groan that comes from him. This man is sick. He raped the Pakhan’s niece-in-law. She’s only fourteen years old. He’s a fucking perv, and he’ll die like one.