by Holly Bargo
“I’m not weak,” she protested.
“No, but your strength is different.” His eyes glinted. “You will make such beautiful babies.”
“Babies!” she spluttered, spraying bits of egg.
He leaned back in his chair, gaze assessing her. “What? You did not think I invited every woman whose body I enjoyed to live with me?”
From the darkening expression on her face, he could see that he’d not expressed himself well. Cecily set down her fork with a distinct clink.
“That’s all I am to you? A body to enjoy and an incubator for your babies?”
Not much scared Pyotr, but this cold, hard expression on his beloved Cecily’s face did. Thus far, he’d managed to keep her bound to him by virtue of a job she loved and frequent, amazing sex. However, dread churned his belly as she rose from the chair.
“Thank you for breakfast,” she said with chilly politeness and left the table, her food mostly uneaten.
“Cecily!” he called after her.
She ignored him and disappeared into the bedroom.
He rose from the table to go after her, but his cell phone rang.
“Da.”
There was no polite inquiry as to whether that was a good time, only the command, “Come, you are needed.”
There was only one possible response: “On my way.”
Wishing he could pursue Cecily, apologize, and explain what he really meant, he heeded Maksim’s call. Instead, he poked his head into the bedroom and said, “I must go.”
Cecily, tugging on a comfortable pair of jeans, nodded her acknowledgement without turning to look at him. The snub stung.
Pyotr left.
When dressed, Cecily stood in the room, completely unsure of herself. Slowly, she walked to the nightstand where her phone lay plugged into recharge. She unplugged it and dialed.
“What’s up, Cece?”
“Latasha, are you busy?”
“Girl, I am always busy, but never too busy for you. What do you need?”
“I—I need to talk.”
“Did that big, dumb Russian hurt you?” her friend growled.
“Er, no, he wouldn’t hit me.” She knew that for truth. The big, brutal Russian treated her with utmost care. Gennady hurt women, not Pyotr, and liked it.
Latasha’s sigh seemed to hit her ear with a long-distance gust of air. “You working tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“My shift doesn’t end until four o’clock. God, hospital hours are crazy. Anyway, I can meet you during your break tonight or…” The silence lasted about three seconds. “No, no, that won’t work. Tell me now, girl, what’s got you so upset.”
“It’s Pyotr.”
“Well, duh. What did the big oaf do?”
Tears welled up and ran down Cecily’s cheeks as she blurted, “He said he wants me for sex and babies!”
“Whoa, there,” Latasha cautioned. “Are you sure that’s what he said?”
“Yes, I’m sure! He doesn’t love me. He just wants a warm, soft place to stick his dick and an incubator for his babies.”
“Oh, honey, all men want that. How can you be sure he doesn’t love you? You’re still living with him, aren’t you?”
“Not after today.”
“Cece, I’m all for pounding an idiot man into the ground, but I don’t want you acting too hastily.”
Cecily’s already flushed cheeks burned at the mention of pounding, which immediately recalled the delightful pounding she’d enjoyed earlier that morning. And the night before. Three times.
“Latasha, don’t you think he would have told me he loves me or maybe even given me a diamond ring by now if he wasn’t just using me?”
“Honey, you’re living with him and he’s supporting you like he would a wife. Maybe he thinks he doesn’t need to give you a ring or tell you he loves you, because he already has you where he wants you.”
Which made Cecily cry harder and made Latasha apologize for her blunt words.
“I need to go,” she finally sobbed.
“Call me when you have more time, Cece.”
Cecily dragged out her suitcase and started throwing clothes into it. When she’d packed enough for a week, she zipped it shut. She unplugged the phone charger and stuffed that into her purse. She looked longingly at the iPad Pyotr had given her and decided against taking that, but she did remember her e-reader and a few favorite pieces of jewelry. Everything Pyotr had given her, she left untouched. Purse filled, she set it on the bed and sat down and called in sick to work.
“Cecily, we open in two hours!”
“I can’t make it, Charlie. You won’t want me spreading germs all over the food, do you?”
“No, but—”
“Antoine can substitute for me.”
“All right. Let us know when you’re better.”
“Sure.”
After terminating the call, she left. She drove to the bank and emptied her account, much to the disapproval of the clerk and bank manager who oversaw and witnessed the withdrawal. Next, she drove to a chain restaurant where she could sit in comfortable anonymity and use her tablet to check flight tickets. She looked out the plate glass window and watched the snowflakes fall. Somewhere warm, she thought. Somewhere south...like...San Antonio. The destination ignited a spark of enthusiasm. There were tons of restaurants in San Antonio, the fabulous River Walk where she could walk off all those extra calories she ingested while tasting food, and a climate that didn’t call for parkas in November.
She’d miss her family over Thanksgiving, but maybe moving during the holiday season would work in her favor. Restaurants were bound to be extra busy and need extra cooks.
Cecily knew better than to expect to be hired as head chef or even sous chef, particularly since she could not use The Matrynoshka as a reference. Any inquiry from a prospective employer would get to Maksim who would send Pyotr after her. She did not doubt that Pyotr would find her.
She searched for the least expensive tickets to San Antonio and cringed. Well, at least she’d only need to purchase one-way tickets, not round-trip, she reasoned. Having at least a destination in mind, she drove back home—no, not home, Pyotr’s house—and called for a taxi to take her to the airport. While waiting, she wrote a quick note and propped it on the kitchen counter next to the dirty dishes leftover from breakfast:
Dear Pyotr,
I realize that I can’t stay here any longer as your live-in mistress. I need more than that. Please, do not search for me. Sell my car and jewelry and keep whatever money you get as partial payment for the rent that I owe you.
Sincerely,
Cecily
It wasn’t eloquent or even very sophisticated, she knew. But it would have to do. She set her car and house keys on the note. The taxi pulled up and honked. She grabbed the extended handle of her suitcase and dragged it outside for the cab driver to load into the trunk of the car.
“Where to, lady?”
“The airport.”
“Which airline?”
“Southwest.”
“You realize I got to charge you out-of-city rates since you’re more than ten miles outside the airport?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“You got it, lady.”
The driver wasn’t chatty, which she appreciated. He dropped her off at the correct terminal and unloaded her suitcase. She paid in him cash, including a modest tip. Luckily, the past six months of living rent-free with Pyotr had given her a fat bank balance. She felt guilty about sponging off him, but now she needed that cash to carry her until she could find a job.
Having never flown before, she carefully read all the signs in the airport before proceeding to the ticket counter. She waited in line for what seemed to be an inordinately long time until she could speak to the attendant herself. After showing her identification, confirming that she was checking just one bag, and answering a few other questions, she began to wonder why she hadn’t just driven to Texas. Oh, yeah, it was a long, long
drive through areas that saw real winter.
“Your flight’s on a one-hour delay,” the attendant informed her as she handed Cecily her boarding passes. There were no direct flights from Cleveland to San Antonio. “You won’t have to rush through security.”
Cecily thanked her and made her way to the security line where she realized that there was absolutely no rushing through security. Moving with all the speed of a crippled tortoise, the security line finally cleared her. She put her shoes and coat back on and collected her purse. Reading the overhead signs, she proceeded to the gate where she found a seat and waited.
And waited.
Nearly two hours later, she found herself inching along another line of economy class passengers to find herself wedged between a grossly overweight woman and a pudgy businessman who immediately set down his tray table and spread his papers and computer in as wide an area as he could manage. The man cast glances at her generous bosom, bumping the side of her left breast with his arm until Cecily rather acidly asked him to stop.
“Can’t help these narrow seats,” the man said with a smarmy smile and an oily chuckle.
Cecily’s skin crawled and she tried to hunch further into herself. The fat woman in the aisle seat took immediate advantage and seemed to spread her bulk even further. Far too long afterward, the airplane landed in Chicago. Cecily escaped as quickly as she could to head for her connecting flight, which, as luck would have it, was running half an hour late. Running for the correct gate in another terminal, she arrived out of breath and just as the attendant called for all passengers to board. Once again, she found herself squeezed in a middle seat. This time the normal-sized passengers to either side stayed within their own allotted spaces and did not infringe upon hers. She appreciated that they were both women and not as likely to focus on her generous cleavage.
“So, are you going home to San Antonio or just visiting?” the lady in the window seat inquired.
“I’m moving there,” Cecily answered and wondered if there was something about the window seat that made people intrude upon the privacy of perfect strangers.
Snapping gum against her teeth, the woman smiled and said, “Oh, you’ll love it there. Folks in the south are so friendly.”
“That’s good to know,” Cecily replied with her own reserved, Midwestern politeness.
“Watcha gonna do down there?” the woman drawled.
“I’m sorry?”
“Do. Whatcha workin’ at?”
“Oh, I’m a chef.”
“Well, we got a lot of terrific restaurants. Best place to get food is the River Walk.”
“That’s what I’ve heard. I’m looking forward it.”
The woman patted her leg and looked her over. “Gal like you knows how to eat. I’d assume you know how to cook good, too. You’ll find something.”
Cecily wondered if desperation were written on her forehead.
The woman seemed to clue into her travel mate’s reluctance to converse and turned her head to look at the clouds passing beneath them. Cecily pulled her e-reader from her purse and read the latest paranormal romance from her favorite author. The passenger seated in the aisle seat ignored her for the entire flight.
Cecily allowed herself to be herded along with the rest of the deplaned passengers upon arrival in San Antonio. While in the airport, she used her e-reader, which doubled as a tablet, to find and reserve a hotel room at one of the less expensive extended-stay properties. She made sure to find one with free wi-fi, a kitchenette, and coin-operated laundry. The money she saved by getting basic lodging would be better spent on transportation to and from interviews. Gia would be proud of how practical she was being.
She collected her bag from the luggage carousel, which looked like a slowly moving carnival ride for kids, and followed the general flow of travelers to the doors over which a sign promised she would find ground transportation. Quickly finding the taxi stand, she waited in line until her turn came to climb into a stranger’s car and let him drive her to her new, temporary home.
Cecily checked in at the hotel’s registration desk and rode the unbearably slow, squeaking elevator to the third floor where she dragged her suitcase to room 347. Unlocking the door, she entered. The first thing she noticed was the room’s frigid temperature. She shivered and set her suitcase aside. A quick tour of the room revealed a hard double bed, an uncomfortable sofa, a utilitarian dinette set that doubled as a desk, a basic kitchenette. The cooktop had two electrical burners. She doubted the small oven would accommodate a whole chicken. The small refrigerator was the same size she’d seen used in college dormitory rooms. The kitchenette came equipped with four plates (slightly chipped), four mugs (one missing a handle), a smattering of silverware and serving ware, four plastic cups, and four bowls (also chipped). She recognized the dinnerware as inexpensive and easily replaced Corelle. The silverware looked clean. Cecily decided not to take chances and washed everything anyway. A drawer held some faded and stained dish towels. The under-sink cabinet contained a trial sized bottle of dish soap and plastic-wrapped sponge.
She huffed. Well, for what she was paying, she supposed that an expectation of anything more luxurious would have been unwarranted.
After exploring the kitchenette, she set about unpacking. She harbored no illusions that she’d need to pack up right away and find an apartment. She hoped that she could find a cheap and furnished studio apartment within a week or two before her funds were entirely depleted.
Once unpacked, she settled down for a nap. Who knew that traveling like that could make a girl so very tired? Or maybe it was the lack of sleep she’d gotten the night before.
* * *
Pyotr felt the emptiness of his condominium the second he walked in. It was more than just Cecily’s absence. With his knuckles raw and his hands aching, he prowled the space with wary dread. The breakfast dishes remained on the counter, still dirty. Pulling out his phone, he called the restaurant.
“May I speak to Cecily?”
“She’s not here today.”
“What do you mean?” He walked to the bedroom and stood in the open doorway. His heart thudded a rapid beat inside his chest.
“She called in sick.”
Pyotr saw the iPad he had given her lying on the nightstand. He rushed over to the dresser and yanked drawers open. His keen eye for detail immediately noticed clothes missing. He jerked the closet door open. More missing clothes.
“Nyet!” he shouted. “O, Cecily, gde ty?”
Emotion demanded that he drop to his knees and weep. Training ordered him to think, damn it, think. On stiff legs, he walked back to the kitchen, figuring that he might as well do something productive—like wash the dishes—while he thought. When he reached the sink, he noticed the note lying flat on the counter beneath two sets of keys. Before reading the note, he realized that Cecily had not been forcibly abducted; she’d left of her accord.
He read the note. Tears brimmed, blurring his vision. Pyotr leaned against the counter.
“Zachem?” he asked as his heart shattered into tiny pieces of pain. Why?
He picked up the keys and dumped them into his pocket. They hit bottom with a clunk that reminded him of the small box he’d carried with him all day, the box that he never got around to giving to Cecily that morning before his clumsy tongue had driven her away and Maksim’s call had pulled him away.
Like an automaton with stiff, jerky movements, Pyotr washed the dishes and wiped down the countertops. Then he sagged and staggered to a chair. Again he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed.
“Vitaly, she left me.”
“What?”
“Cecily. She left me.”
“You are sure she left and was not taken?”
“Da.”
“Do you have any idea where she went?”
“Nyet. She’s been...restless...lately.”
Pyotr’s friend and colleague seemed to understand his distress and did not chastise him for not thinking clearly.
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“Call her parents. Perhaps she went home.”
“Da, khorosho.” That was a good idea “I’ll do that.”
“If she hasn’t gone home to her family, then think about where else she would go. Check her computer search history.”
Pyotr nodded and sighed. “Da. I will do that. Send Gennady, would you? He’s good with computers. I am not.”
No, Pyotr was good with his fists. He could fix anything mechanical, liked to dabble in carpentry, and dreamed of being a race car driver had he had the opportunity. But a man of thirty-two years old did not suddenly embark upon a race car driving career, especially when he was neck-deep in the Bratva.
For the first time in a very long time, he regretted the choices of his youth that had led him to his current predicament.
He trudged to the bedroom to retrieve Cecily’s iPad and turned it on. He wanted to weep when the smiling photo of them lit the screen. He remembered that picture, taken on a bright summer day at the Cleveland Zoo. He’d loved her innocent and childlike enthusiasm for the animals, her sweet delight in the snow cone he bought her, and the gentle affection of her happiness in holding hands as they walked from exhibit to exhibit. He Cecily was unspoiled, soft, and open. He loved those qualities in her, such a contrast to the hard, ugly violence of his life. It was as if, by sinking as deeply into her flesh as he could, he would absorb some of that purity and wonder.
Damn his clumsy tongue!
He checked her web browser history: that much he knew how to do. His spirits sank as he found searches for Las Vegas, Los Angeles, Savannah, Boston, New York, Chicago, Memphis, and other big cities. How in the hell would he find her?
A knock on the door captured his attention. Pyotr rose to answer it.
“Gennady, thank you for coming.”
The whipcord man nodded curtly and made no remark upon his colleague’s shell-shocked expression, because only the horrors of war or a woman could do that to a man.