Raze & Reap

by Tillie Cole

  Alik was never anything but angry, never anything but hateful … except toward me. Something changed in him when I was around. He was never calm, but a softness crossed his eyes when he looked at me.

  “I … I was laying out in the sun,” I said softly, and the iron grip he had on my neck loosened, but he didn’t let go. Alik was fourteen, but his incredible strength was more like that of a full-grown man.

  Alik dropped his hand. “I’m going to lay with you.” I didn’t dare question him, so I offered him a timid smile and rested down on the towel.

  I lay motionless, then jumped when I felt Alik begin tracing the edges of my bikini top. “Alik, what are you doing?” I asked, trying to bat away his hand.

  Alik’s hand caught my hand in a grip. “Get off, Myshka. I’m touching you.”

  “But—”

  “Shut up! You’ll do as I say,” Alik snarled. I did as told, too terrified to fight him off when he commenced tracing the triangle edges of my bra. “So pretty,” Alik murmured as tears built in my eyes.

  My hands began to shake, yet I just closed my eyes and let Alik touch me, feeling his lips press onto my stomach. I wanted to cry for help, but I couldn’t. As stupid as it sounded, I often felt sorry for Alik. I didn’t want him to be beaten any more by his father. My complaining would do just that. Physically, I couldn’t fight off Alik and I certainly didn’t want to anger him further, so I let it happen. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time.

  “Mmm…” Alik moaned as he lapped at my skin, his finger trailing down to the edge of my bikini bottoms. Alik’s finger ran along the edge of the material, stealing all my breath from my lungs.

  “Alik, don’t, please—” I managed to say, but I was interrupted when a voice hissed, “What the hell are you doing, Alik!”

  In sheer relief, I looked up and found Luka Tolstoi towering above us, a furious expression on his handsome face.

  “Fuck off, Tolstoi!” Alik hissed as he gripped my wrists tighter. Luka’s eyes bulged at the action. When I whimpered out loud, Luka gripped Alik by the hair, dragging him to his feet. Luka hit Alik square on the face. Alik stumbled back, bringing up his fingers to his burst lip. He smiled coldly at Luka—a disturbing bloodied smile.

  Luka leaned down and pulled me up beside him, protecting me from Alik’s view.

  “Go,” he ordered. I turned to run away, casting a backward glance to see Alik watch me flee. He had an angry expression on his face.

  I didn’t stick around to see them fight. This happened a lot. Alik would try to take advantage of me, and Luka would be my champion. They would fight, Alik would take a beating off his father, or worse, my father, then life would continue as normal for a few days—until Alik did it again.

  I ran until I reached my favorite cove. No one ever came down here. I slumped down against the rock where I always sat, always sat with Luka.

  Entranced by the waves crashing on the shore, I didn’t hear Luka approach. I jumped as I looked up to see him watching me as he leaned against a rock.

  “Luka!” I said breathlessly. “You scared me!”

  Luka sighed and ran his hand down his face, moving around the rock to sit beside me on the sand. We said nothing at first, Luka also too focused on the crashing of waves on the sand.

  His fingers brushed against my fingers. Then they wrapped around my hand, which he lifted to his lips. My heart fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings.

  Turning to me, Luka pushed a loose strand of my brown hair behind my ear, then pulled me in close to wrap his free arm around my neck. I relaxed against his warm body and wrapped my arm round his toned waist. He had grown so much lately. He was getting so big and so handsome that my heart could barely take it.

  Luka sighed loudly, his warm breath blowing in my hair. “You have to keep away from Alik, Kisa. He’s obsessed with you and he’s dangerous.” I tensed in Luka’s arms and felt him pull me closer still. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but Alik’s papa is training him to be a fighter, an enforcer. He’s hard on him, and I can see Alik becoming addicted to the violence. He loves it, Kisa. Stay away from him.”

  Squeezing Luka tighter, I replied, “I was laying out in the sun. Talia went shopping with your mama. You and Rodion went for lunch with Papa. I didn’t think I was in any danger. Alik just has a crush on me. He wouldn’t hurt me.”

  Sighing, Luka pressed a kiss to my head, and I slumped farther against his warm body.

  “I don’t like him. I can’t stand the way he looks at you,” Luka said coldly.

  Slowly leaning back, I looked into Luka’s brown eyes, the left with a smudge of blue in the iris, making them so beautifully unique.

  “How does he look at me?” I asked tentatively.

  “Like he owns you. Like you belong to him. When you’re around, he doesn’t focus on anyone else but you.”

  “And why does that bother you?” I asked shyly, trying hard to swallow the nervous lump in my throat.

  Luka’s beautiful gaze met mine and his lips parted with a brief exhale. “Because you belong to me, Kisa. You always have.” Luka’s face thawed and he pointed at my eye, then his left. “You’re a part of me, remember? God put a piece of you within me so when we were born, everyone would know we matched.”

  My skin felt on fire, but I knew it had nothing to do with the burning temperature of the afternoon sun. It had to do with Luka. Luka and that tale his mama and my mama would always tell us.

  I loved him. I’d always loved him. I would always love him. Luka, my Luka. I was only thirteen, he was only fourteen, but he was so much more than my best friend … He was my whole world.

  “Luka…” I whispered, my soul melting at his words. And his lip hooked into a smirk.

  “Kisa…” he imitated. Then his gaze fell to my lips and my heart raced to an almost impossible speed. “I want to kiss you now,” Luka said, all humor dropping from his beautiful face.

  “But I’ve … I’ve never been kissed before…” I said, a blush forming on my sun-kissed cheeks.

  Luka tilted his head and gave me a crooked smile. “Me neither.”

  My eyes widened and relief melted in my chest. “You haven’t?” I asked in shock.

  “Who else would I have kissed?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know? You have a lot of girls at church following you around.”

  Luka laughed and shook his head. Squeezing my shoulders, he leaned down and rasped, “But none of them are you.” Luka pointed to his eye again. “We match. Why would I want anyone else? Nobody else is you. Long brown hair, blue eyes and tanned skinned beautiful you.”

  Dipping my eyes, I pushed my toes into the sand, loving the soft feel of the hot grains beneath my feet. When I lifted my long lashes, I met Luka’s eyes and whispered, “Okay…”

  Luka tensed and regarded me so seriously that my stomach began doing flips. His hand released mine and he gently cupped my cheek, hand slightly trembling. “You ready?” he said, licking his lips.

  Swallowing my nerves as he moved to only an inch from my mouth, I confessed, “I hope I don’t mess this up.”

  “Not possible,” Luka said as he leaned all the way forward and pressed his lips against mine. Everything seemed to go quiet around us and my eyes closed of their own accord. Luka’s lips were so soft and, like the pieces of a puzzle, fit perfectly against mine. There was no movement of tongues, no frantic caressing of lips, just two innocent young mouths feeling one another’s intimate touch for the first time.

  Finally pulling away, Luka wore an expression of shock, making my heart thump too slow. But when his swollen mouth pulled into a happy, besotted grin, I knew mine reflected his own.

  Luka’s heavy arm pulled me down to curl into his chest, and I stared out at the glistening water in perfect contentment.

  “Like I said … we match,” Luka confirmed—I think to himself. I knew right then and there that I’d given my soul to this boy … I knew there’d never be anyone else that ever came close.

  * *
*

  “Kisa?” a heavily accented female voice called out from my right. Sitting back in the wooden pew, wiping away the tears from my sacred childhood memory, Mama Tolstoi came into view. She too had dressed in all black—the traditional color of mourning. Not a day had gone by in twelve years that Luka’s mama hadn’t worn black.

  Rising to my feet, I smiled at Mama Tolstoi and embraced her. “How are you, Mama?”

  Her brown eyes—the same eyes as Luka’s—stared off to look upon Christ on the cross, and she shrugged. “Today is a very hard day, my girl.”

  My stomach fell and I nodded my head, unable to speak through the threat of tears. Talia joined us at the pew, and I saw her eyes rimmed with red. She could barely meet my gaze. Today was our mutual nightmare.

  “He would have been twenty-six today,” Mama Tolstoi added. The tears that had been a threat to me finally trickled slowly down my face.

  Mama Tolstoi reached out and grabbed my hand. “You two would have been married and perhaps I would have been a grandmama by now.” Her eyes gazed over and she added, “He would have loved you your whole life. You would have looked so beautiful on your wedding day and my Luka would have looked so handsome in a tux. Your mama would have smiled down from heaven on that day, Kisa. Her heart would have been so full at the two of you committing to one another under God’s eyes.”

  The picture Mama Tolstoi conjured up might as well have been a dagger to my heart. She squeezed my hands to gain my attention after I had to look away, too upset by what she’d said.

  I stared into her tense brown eyes when she gripped my hands tightly and said, “He wouldn’t do it, Kisa. He wouldn’t have killed your Rodion. My boy, your fated love, would not have taken his best friend’s life. He was wronged. Deep down you know this.”

  Bowing my head, the tears came thick and fast. I believed her words, but I still remembered Rodion’s eyes glazed with the new presence of death, Alik stabbed and in hospital.

  “Mama, come,” Talia said, interrupting her mama’s plea for her lost son. Talia moved around her to press a kiss to my cheek. Wrapping her arm around her mama’s shoulders, Talia led her out of the church, leaving me alone in the expansively ornate room, all the eyes of the saints staring down at me, balefully watching my despair.

  “Kisa?” Father Kruschev said, and I cast my gaze to the back of the room. “Are you still good to join us on the truck?”

  Breathing a sigh of relief that Father Kruschev had found something for me to do, I made my way to the back of the church. I turned one more time to look to the altar and whispered, “May God bless your soul, Luka … I love you, lyubov moya, my love … I know I was made for you too … We matched … you were part of my heart…”

  7

  KISA

  “Kisa, you stay in the truck. You were out on the streets last night. Stay in the safety of the truck tonight,” Father Kruschev said as I unbuckled my belt and panic flowed through me.

  “If it’s okay, Father, I prefer to be outside. I need fresh air.”

  Father Kruschev gave me a sympathetic smile. He believed it was because of Luka’s birthday. I confess in part it was, but I couldn’t lie to myself. I had to admit that I wanted to see that man again—my defender.

  Who was homeless …

  I closed my eyes and shook myself. I was losing my damn mind!

  Zipping up the leather jacket I had brought over my black dress, I stepped out onto the street. It was hot, but without the jacket, Alik would think I was showing too much skin.

  Pavel cast me a weary smile. “Back with us tonight, Kisa?”

  I shrugged and helped one of the other volunteers load the care packages onto the street. When everyone was set, I scooped up my packages and headed east to where I’d spotted the man sitting on the street.

  Passing three homeless people, two men, one woman, I made quick work of dispensing the care packages and turned the corner to the next block, praying I would see the man hunkered down.

  Taking a deep breath, I turned onto the street and, in the farthest, darkest corner, saw a large shadow and a jar of glass glinting from the nearby streetlamp.

  My heart began to race like I’d run the damn New York Marathon, and checking there was no sign of danger in my vicinity, I moved silently across the street to stand right in front of the man, his dark-gray sweatshirt in place, hood pulled low over his eyes, his body as still as stone. The jar in his hands had coins and random notes in it but it was only filled halfway to the top.

  Like last night, I was immediately struck by him. This time his static position allowed me to really assess his frame. He was big. Maybe two hundred and twenty pounds, athletic looking, slightly bulkier than Alik. His black training pants were covered in dirt, and on closer inspection, I noticed his hands were covered in rough, broken skin, dried blood clearly etched into the flesh.

  “Hel … hello?” I managed to ask, my voice shaking like a leaf in a storm.

  He didn’t move. He looked like he was barely breathing.

  I willed him to look up. I wished him to push back the thick gray material of his hood and look up at me. I had to put a face to the actions of last night. Something in my gut pushed me to make a connection, to get a name … a visual, something.

  But he did nothing.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I took in the quiet street and I slowly bent down, warily watching the man the whole time. He didn’t flinch. For a time, I wondered if he was deaf. Any noise I made didn’t seem to register.

  “Excuse me? Are you okay?” I said, holding my breath as I waited for him to look up and reply.

  Nothing.

  I inched closer. “I’m with the church. You saved me last night. Do you remember? Do you need anything? More food, blankets? Would you please talk to me?”

  Still nothing.

  Absolutely nothing.

  His gray sweatshirt was zipped up, hiding what I guessed was a broad chest. His shoulders were huge, his traps visible through the thick material. His legs were crossed as he clutched the open-topped Mason jar resting on the ground.

  My heart beat furiously, my palms sweated, and I found myself reaching out to pull back the hood.

  The material slid back like I was unwrapping a Christmas gift. No, it wasn’t that safe. I’d observed this man in action. He killed a man without remorse. Reaching out to him would be like putting my hand in a wild animal’s cage. I had no idea if he was a threat to me or not.

  A cropping of messy sandy-colored hair emerged, followed by the most beautiful chiseled face I’d ever seen. A broad forehead, defined European cheeks, a strong jaw, perfectly full lips, and stubble covering his golden skin.

  The man’s eyes remained downcast as though he hadn’t even felt the material of his hood being pushed back off his head. The only indication that he’d noticed me at all was the slight tightening of his fingers on that jar he was holding.

  My breathing quickened and all I could do was stare. I was struck mute and still by his looks, his unkempt raw and rugged looks. My stomach was tightening, my hands began to shake, and my pussy began throbbing.

  He was perfect—wild, rough, stern—absolute heart-stirring perfection.

  “Do … do you need anything?” I asked again through a clogged throat, my voice barely a whisper. “Please, talk to me,” I begged, feeling all hope drain from my limbs. “I want to thank you for saving me.”

  Again, there was no response, and I realized I wasn’t going to get anything from this man. I studied his sharply featured face. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, but with dirt and dried blood covering his face, in reality, he could have been older.

  I found myself desperate to know his story. Why was he here? Who was he? But his silence pushed me away. I sucked warm air into my lungs in an attempt to calm down. I didn’t know why this was so important to me. But I had to know why he was collecting money. What was it for? Did he really need help?

  I kneeled there for minutes just listening to his deep breathing. T
hen I sighed and placed the care package of food and blankets at his feet.

  “I … I’d better go,” I announced and slowly got to my feet. I was about to turn around when the man cleared his throat, and I froze.

  “Mnny,” was all I heard, his gruff, deep voice unintelligible.

  I turned to face him. His head was still downcast.

  “What?” I asked urgently and bent down until my knees hit the ground, praying he would speak again.

  His fingers gripped the jar and he tilted it up in my direction. “Money,” he growled.

  I visibly shook at the deep timbre of his feral-sounding voice. It was primal, animalistic. I slapped a hand on my chest as I fought to breathe. I dipped my eyes to try and meet his, but his chin lowered until it almost touched his defined, ripped chest. He could sense I was trying to make eye contact, yet he wouldn’t let me see him.

  Filling my lungs with the humid night air, feeling their ache, I asked, “Money? You need money?”

  A grunt told me I had it right, and I bent down farther. “How much?”

  Nothing happened for several seconds, before one of his rough hands let go of the jar and he reached into his pocket, pulling out a tattered piece of paper. He held it out for me to take. I reached out for the scrap. When my finger brushed his warm finger, a current like a bolt of electricity shot through my body. I almost leapt back at the sensation. He must have felt it too as no sooner had our fingers touched than he pulled his hand back and tucked it into his pocket.

  With trembling hands, I unfolded the crinkled paper and my eyes saw a number: ten thousand.

  My eyes locked on the man whose full lips were pursed.

  “Ten grand?” I whispered, yet he said nothing. “Ten grand?” I said louder, betraying my disbelief. “What do you need that kind of money for?”

  His free hand clenched slowly into a fist and the split skin began to seep with droplets of blood. I was gripped by fear as I watched the droplets fall to the sun-parched ground.