Absolution Savage Duet Part Two: Russo Saga Part Five

by Nicolina Martin

  She raises an eyebrow as her face stiffens.

  I backpedal. That wasn’t clever. “Sorry. I haven’t got any other clothes.”

  “I’ve got some that should fit. You get out of that now.”

  She disappears into the little hallway on the opposite side of the room, the one with the jammed backdoor. I start fighting my shirt but my left shoulder refuses to let me raise my arm enough and I have to give up. I yank and pull to get out of my pants instead. When I look up, my soggy pants clutched in my hands, she’s standing in front of me, her eyes wide. She’s holding a pile of clothes and hands them to me with trembling arms. Her eyes dart between my naked legs and my face.

  “Here,” she says. “I… You...”

  I take the clothes and look through the pile. There’s a pair of green cargo pants, a thick checkered flannel shirt, thick fleece socks, a couple of T-shirts. I look back up. She appears calmer again, chewing on her lip as she studies me.

  “Where’ve you been hiding these gems?”

  “In the back. They were my dad’s. I—I couldn’t throw them away.”

  I take in her solemn features. She still mourns her old man. “I heard. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you,” she says quietly.

  “He went way too young.”

  “Dad had a massive heart attack. He died instantly. We had no idea he was ill. He rode his bike to work every day, seemed healthy as a horse.”

  I reach out with my good arm and lay a hand on her shoulder. “You were close?”

  Kerry looks down at her feet, not pulling away, almost leaning into my touch as if I’m really comforting her. “Yes,” she whispers. She sighs and closes her eyes and I don’t know how to interpret the look on her face. “Where do we go from here, Christian?”

  I study her, letting my eyes roam over her straight little nose, the plump – very kissable – lips, the damp dark tresses of hair. Clenching my hand into a fist, I have to fight the urge to pull her to me. “Ker. None of us are going anywhere the way it looks outside. When that day comes… we’ll just take it from there. Okay?”

  She bites her bottom lip and nods as she looks up at me, her dark green eyes flooring me with the depth of emotions in there. Very much like the first time I saw her. Flashes of a tipsy, over-confident redhead in a bar shoot through my mind. So much has happened between then and now. Not only years, but hurt, betrayal, Cecilia. Her eyes are the same, and yet, with the underlying solemnity that permeates her whole being, they aren’t.

  “Okay.” Turning on her heel, she leaves for the bedroom and pulls the door closed behind her.

  I remain standing, looking at the closed door. My chest tightens. I wish I could have helped her get warm, hold her tight, take some of her pain away. Her lips were still bluish and her skin so pale. Myself, I feel hotter than hell right now. It must be all the fighting, all the adrenaline. Sorting through the pile of clothes, I then put on stuff I’d normally never wear. Cargo pants that hang loose on my hips, a thick gray flannel shirt that I pull on over my own shirt. I don’t have the energy to take it off when it should dry up soon enough anyway. I look like a new man. A new man I right now wish I was. For her. Them.

  It’s hard to find a comfortable position on the narrow couch. My shoulder hurts worse than ever. I’m too tired to look at it now. I’ll do it tomorrow. I toss and turn. I’m so drained I could throw up, but I can’t sleep. My shirt is wet from sweat and I shiver constantly even though my cheeks burn. And the damn shoulder throbs.

  I dart up, pull off the flannel shirt and again try to wriggle out of the still soaked one, but it clings to my body and it’s impossible. I try ripping it to pieces with my good arm, but it doesn’t budge over my shoulders where the seams are stronger, and I end up with shreds. Why do I have to buy such fuckin’ high quality clothes? Tiptoeing to her bedroom door, I listen for sounds of breathing. I hear Cecilia’s light snoring and an occasional snivel, but nothing else. I push the crack wider and enter. Spotting the contour of Kerry in the bed, I bend over her and intend to whisper in her ear.

  “What do you want?” she whispers tersely before I have a chance to say anything.

  “I need help.”

  “With what?”

  My cheeks heat up even more, and I suddenly feel as if I’m intruding. “It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.” I turn to leave.

  I jerk when she grabs my wrist. “With what?”

  “I need help getting my shirt off.”

  Her silence is deafening, and I’m surprised when she gets up. “Sure.”

  I stumble to the table by the couch and sit on it. I’m dizzy and nauseous. She could overpower me easily right now because I’m a wreck. I can only hope she won’t notice. I look up at the woman before me. She is pale but looks calm and as spent as I feel.

  “My shoulder hurts… it’s stiff and swollen and I can’t get this shirt off. It’s wet still and—”

  “I see you’ve tried. You’ve ruined it completely.” She plucks at the strips that hang over my chest.

  I nod. “It wouldn’t budge. I can’t get my arm up in the right angle to get it off. It’s too strained. It’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s okay. I got it.” She pulls the right shirt arm off behind my back, yanking at the material that almost sits like one with my skin. Then she carefully peels off the left one the same way.

  I shiver when her fingertips touch my skin as she works the shirt.

  “My God, Christian. You’re burning hot.”

  “I’m cold as hell, Ker.”

  “Yeah, your arms are, but up here you’re so warm.” She touches my left shoulder, and her fingers leave traces that burn hotter than any fever. “Your dragon is scorching,” she says with a short laugh, her fingertips resting on my tattoo.

  “Thanks,” I growl and suddenly need to pull away. There’s clearly one part of me that isn’t tired. At all. I want to pull her to me and…

  Do what? She’d scream and beat me.

  “How does your wound look?” To my great surprise her voice is suddenly laced with worry.

  “It’s fine,” I snap. I don’t need her hands on me again.

  “Let me have a look.”

  “What for? It’s fine.”

  “Christian! You stubborn cretin. Let me.”

  “All right. Whatever.” I shrug, feigning indifference, the indifference I should be feeling.

  She pulls at the makeshift bandage that has covered the wound since yesterday. “Why did you let your hair grow so long?” she asks as she works the strips, her eyes darting up to meet mine, then back to focus on her task.

  Layer after layer comes off.

  “Why did you cut yours short?” I reply. “I don’t like the black. It’s not you.”

  She pulls at one of her short choppy tresses, twisting it around her index finger. “I didn’t want to be me anymore.”

  I nod. It stings, because I think I understand why. “I stopped caring. It grew.”

  She stops and regards me. “Hmm. I’d have figured you as vain.”

  I scoff. “Vain?”

  “Definitely. Pretty boy-vain.”

  “And you haven’t been ‘pretty girl-vain’, then?”

  That was a long time ago,” she says quietly and looks away.

  Her last words wrap us in an uncomfortable silence. I clear my throat to say I can take it from here, wanting to get her out of the room. It’s as much for her sake as for mine. But what comes out sounds a lot harsher than intended.

  “Leave. Go the fuck back to sleep, Ker.”

  She lets go of my shoulder and takes a step back.

  “You’re such a dick, Christian. You know that, right?” Her lips tighten and her nostrils flare, then she turns on her heel and leaves. I have no words. No words of comfort. No clever replies.

  Fucking. Nothing.

  Chapter 3

  Kerry

  * * *

  Cece sleeps until nine. Had I been awake I would have worried and wondered. But I slept like
the dead. My first real sleep since he came here. I wonder if he has slept too. I let her down on the floor. Slipping my feet into a pair of thick socks, I tiptoe out into the main room. Cece isn’t as subtle and barges out, her feet pattering against the floorboards.

  “Bwekfaa!” she squeals, making me smile and ruffle her silky dark hair. It’s short. I’ve cut it, but now I can’t help thinking she’d be cute in braids.

  In the living room the air is stale and used. Outside it’s darker than it was yesterday, and the wind howls.

  He lies on his back, completely still under a thick blanket. He’s taller than the couch is long, and his legs are curled awkwardly. I stiffen and stop for a moment to look at him. His eyes are closed. Does he move at all? But when we walk past him, he lifts his head.

  “Is it morning?” His voice is rough and raspy and there’s something in it that sends shivers down my spine.

  “Yeah. Nine.”

  “I think I need more sleep. Is it okay if I lie here a little longer?”

  My mouth falls open. Since when does he ask for anything? “Of course.”

  “Are you leaving?” he asks, his voice faint.

  I frown. “Are you hallucinating?” I walk to the front door, open it and look out into the maelstrom that is the outside world before I pull it closed again. It feels as if a large hand is trying to keep it open. “No car, still windy… No. I don’t think so.”

  “Thank you,” he says. Then his head falls back onto the pillow and he closes his eyes.

  Thank you?

  Preparing breakfast for us, I make an extra cup of coffee and put a couple of extra pieces of bread in the oven. He can slice them himself, though. I don’t have a single knife left.

  He turns his head toward me as I walk up to him.

  “Hey. Breakfast.”

  His eyes are dark and hollow, his face pale and a little pasty.

  “Good for you.”

  “I made you some.”

  That wakes him up. “You—”

  He sits up, swaying. “You made some for me? I must be Alice.”

  “What?”

  “In Wonderland.”

  He’s hung the flannel shirt over his shoulders and I suddenly wonder what his wound looks like. Then I remember his harsh words, how he chased me off. He can go fuck himself!

  “Just shut up and eat it.” I spin on my heels and stalk back toward the kitchen. His sudden change in demeanor makes me uncomfortable. I don’t like that he says please, that he asks before he takes. I don’t recognize him, and I don’t like it. I don’t trust it to last. With him everything is an act, and I have to remember that.

  “I’ll be back in a minute.” I look at his back as he heaves himself up off the couch and leaves for the bathroom, swaying a little. He looks different. Calmer. Weaker. I frown as a twinge of unexpected worry nips at my heart.

  We eat in silence. Christian has fetched the bread knife and everything seems oddly normal. Except ‘normal’ never used to be with him at the breakfast table. I steal a glance at him and blush as he catches my gaze. His cheeks are a little flushed and his forehead is sweaty.

  “Did you spike my coffee again?”

  I almost choke on my tea. “No.”

  He takes a sip. “Good. It’s less sugary that way.”

  My face burns and I look down. “So… what now?” I don’t even know what I mean myself or what kind of answer I expect. I busy myself with spreading butter on a piece of bread.

  “I don’t know anymore, Ker. Does it matter, though? At this point?” He glances at Cece’s jam-covered cheeks and grabs a paper tissue, wiping some of it off.

  I frown as I look at their interaction. “What do you mean?”

  He shrugs. “Is it important to know everything, to have everything plotted out?” He drops the now-crumpled tissue on his plate and leans back.

  Cecilia waves a spoon in front of her and yogurt splatters in a wide circle around her. I reach for a new tissue and wipe it off, as I study him. I don’t get it and I don’t know how to answer. I’m beginning to think he’s hallucinating because he doesn’t sound like himself anymore. I wonder when I started to believe I knew anything about him at all.

  He clears his throat. “Is it that important… to be in control?”

  I stare at him as I ruffle my daughter’s hair. “Spoon belongs in your mouth, love,” I tell her before I turn to Christian. “Yes. Of course it is. Don’t you think so?”

  He takes a bite out of a piece of bread and chews it annoyingly slowly, shrugging. “I’m used to plans changing, to needing to adapt.”

  “But you try to control it, don’t you? I doubt you’re that much of a hippie inside that sharp suit.”

  He looks down at his flannel shirt and wrinkly oversized pants and grins. “Not very sharp at the moment.”

  I follow his gaze, swallowing against the bolt that shoots through me, seeing his caramel-colored skin in the gap in the shirt. “You know what I mean,” I say faintly.

  “Yeah.” He sighs and rakes his fingers through his hair. “I’m probably not much of a hippie, no.”

  I frown. He’s acting strange.

  The conversation dies. I help Cece finish up her breakfast and then I run a bath for the two of us. When we emerge from the bathroom in a cloud of strawberry-scented steam, fresh and sated, Christian stands by the window, his right hand clutching his left shoulder. Cecilia runs through the room, dressed in thick socks and a yellow bathrobe. She takes a lap around Christian’s legs and then crawls to her doll that lies under the living room table. I smile at her, then I follow his gaze. The day seems just a nuance less dark than the night.

  “You’ve raised her beautifully,” he says softly as he turns to me.

  That wasn’t what I expected. I’d have thought he’d crack more ‘wise words from the life of an assassin’. “She’s a very easy child. Maybe you’ve noticed.” I avoid his gaze.

  “Yes, and no. I… don’t have much experience with kids.”

  Something in his voice makes me glance at him, trying to catch his eyes. He sounds so desolate. I swallow hard. Not human. He’s not human. I can’t fall for this again!

  “I figured as much.”

  He gives me a half-smile, his eyes dull.

  Damn you! Don’t be human.

  I dress my daughter as I keep glancing at him. She trots off to the fireplace and starts piling some of the lighter logs. There’s a peacefully crackling fire burning behind the thick glass doors.

  “Thank you for the fire.”

  “Yeah. It was cold.”

  The morning passes agonizingly slowly. Cecilia sleeps when we should have eaten lunch and I fall into a coma next to her. I wake, sweaty, full of worry. Where is he? I need to see what he’s doing. More hours have passed than I would have thought.

  Yes. I need the control.

  Christian is lying on the couch with his back to me. I immediately realize three things, all washing over me at once. He’s exposing his back and I have access to a knife again, there’s not a fiber in me that wants to hurt him anymore, and I don’t think he’s well. I bend over him and his eyelids flutter, but he doesn’t wake. That’s strange. His forehead is sweaty, and his face is flushed. Putting my palm against his cheek, I gasp when his hand suddenly strikes out and grabs mine. But I felt it.

  “You’re burning up, Christian. You have a fever.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he mumbles and releases his hold on my hand. He rises with a grimace and remains sitting, swaying. “I think I need to look at my shoulder.”

  Guilt suddenly stabs me. “I can help you with that.”

  He chased me off last night, but I still feel the urge to help him with what he obviously can’t handle himself. And in a way it’s my fault, but I silence that thought, because mainly it’s his own fault and I need to stop taking the blame. But I can’t let him die.

  “No, don’t. It’s all right.”

  He protests, but this time I’m not letting him. My stomach clenches
with worry, and I’ve already pushed that side of his shirt off his shoulder.

  Warm air rises from his skin mixed with a scent I recognize all too well, a scent that used to make me implode with need. His skin is too hot. I continue with his bandage where I left off last night, and sure enough, the shoulder is swollen, the wound has glaring red edges and there’s white-gray goo between them. I press at his skin where there’s an angry red swelling and it seems to fluctuate.

  “This doesn’t look good.”

  “That should please you.” His voice is raspy, tired, sounding as if he’s given up all of a sudden.

  It suddenly worries me that he’s ill, and that he’s so indifferent about it. It worries me that I’m concerned. I shouldn’t be. “Hey,” I say, putting on a cheery tone, “not as much as it pleases me that I get to cut into you with a knife. Again.” I grin and pat his arm.

  He glances at his shoulder. “You’re probably right.”

  “We’re gonna need to open that. It’s filled with pus.” I press carefully at the red area and he groans.

  “Fucking brilliant.”

  “Don’t be such a wuss. I got a nail through my finger the second week we lived here. We were fixing the porch. It looked like this after a few days and I had to go see a doctor. He cut it open and gave me antibiotics for it. It could have destroyed the joint, he said. This—” I poke the swelling again, “this is just flesh.”

  I leave out the part about how I forgot to take the pills after a couple of days and had to have the procedure done all over again and with a new prescription.

  He makes a face as he glares at his shoulder again, a shudder rippling through him. “If you leave it, I might die. I thought you’d like that.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to do with your corpse, now can you please turn around and give me your damn knife. It’s probably the sharpest thing in here.” A brief shiver runs through me as I think about where that knife has been.

  He sways and lies back down. “Can’t it wait?” Closing his eyes, he turns his back to me again.

  “Christian! Get a grip! Come on! Don’t leave me alone with a child in this weather and with a broken car, you piece of shit!” It comes out even more desperate than intended. He’s really freaking worrying me right now.