Alex skated his hand down her arm, to her slender fingers. “We’ll talk soon.”
Hannah fluttered those fingers in a little wave. “Drive safe.”
By the time he pulled into the garage half an hour later, his smile had vaporized and remorse had clawed its way back to the vanguard. Anya, waiting in the great room, leapt from the sofa. Not waiting for him, however; she kept checking her phone.
“What’s wrong? You’re home sooner than I thought.”
“It…didn’t go so well.” Alex sank into his hideously expensive club recliner. Every man ought to have a place to put up his feet, though perhaps not one with a four-digit price tag. Fuck it. In another five years, I’ll be glad I spent the extra money. “I told her we could try again in a couple days, but…maybe I’m not ready.”
Anya knelt beside him and wrapped her hands around his. “It’s okay, Dad. It’s your first try. You can’t expect it to be perfect.”
“I suppose not.” He nudged her knee with the toe of his shoe. “What about you? What’s this party you’re going to tonight?”
“Just…you know, Hailey’s having a thing.” Shrugging, she withdrew her hands and pushed herself off the floor.
“Anya. You’re lying, and you suck at it.”
He saw the angry retort burning in her eyes, behind her otherwise calm veneer, but she held her tongue. “I’m going to figure out what to wear.”
Alex slouched forward with his head in his hands. “Bozhe moy,” he muttered. “Save me from teenage girls.”
Chapter Eleven
Anya
She was turning eighteen in four months, but the contents of her closet remained frilly, childish, and inappropriate for leaving Lucas with a lasting impression. Except for one. Anya pulled out a red, two-piece body-con dress with a glittery lace illusion neckline resembling snow. The exposed back and midriff would dictate she put on her coat just to get out of the house before Dad saw it.
No little-girl flats either. Anya owned only two pairs of heels—not because she hated them, but because her arches were so used to skates and sneakers that heels triggered an unholy amount of pain. The pair she chose made her half an inch taller than Lucas.
The intervening hours crawled by. She shared with Dad an awkward dinner of borscht, baked cheese-filled tarts he’d picked up from the Russian deli in town, and accusatory glares. Dad, who enjoyed the sound of his own voice, found the silent treatment most effective in communicating his displeasure with people. It had never lasted long with Mom, though, who’d referred to it as his “sexy broody face.” Before you knew it, they were having raucous make-up sex in their bedroom.
“Can I be excused?”
“Nyet.”
Anya crossed her arms and tapped her foot against the table leg.
“You think I’m a hypocrite, don’t you?” Dad pinched the bridge of his nose. “Here’s the thing, Anya—I wasn’t trying to sleep with a school employee.”
She shot daggers at him. “I said I was going to Hailey’s!”
“Maybe this is my fault for not being there for you after Mom died,” he mused in a quiet, contemplative voice meant for himself more than her. “No—I know it was.”
“I’m almost eighteen.”
“Almost. You don’t know what it’s like to be a father, when all that matters in the world is protecting your little girl. I know I have to let you make mistakes, but there are some that could change your life forever, and—”
“I’m not a virgin. And I’m not you and Mom.”
That dagger cut deep. He stared at the table, his eyes reddening at the edges, then shoved his bowl and plate away. The spoon clattered as he got up.
“Dad.” Anya’s voice cracked.
“We’re done here. Have fun at your party.” He stalked down the hall toward the gym room.
Funny thing about being a teenager—the headstrong quest for freedom, once attained, felt an awful lot like rejection. Alienation from the man who held the most important place in her heart was not a price worth paying.
Anya cleared the table, rinsed the dishes, and arranged them in the dishwasher. She followed the sound of dance music down the hall. Dad kept his workout clothes in the gym room; changed into a sleeveless tank and nylon shorts, he was doing one-legged calf raises on a step. The entire set-up had cost thousands of dollars and included several Olympic bars with coordinating barbells, a power rack, and a bench. He’d built an eight-by-eight platform out of a couple plywood sheets and a rubber top so his weights wouldn’t crack the floor.
“Daddy.”
He glanced at her, paused the music, and dug his fists into his hips, his muscular arms colorful with tattoos. “We talked about this, Anya. Not just him but everything. Your attitude. When do you stop punishing me? Every day, it’s another fight. I can’t do it.”
She chewed on a fingernail. He looked so tired. Beaten.
“I didn’t want you to grow up. Now I feel like it’s the only way I’ll get my little girl back.” Dad sniffed and put one fist to his lips, his eyes wet and red. “I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know how to make you happy anymore. Do you want me not to care? Because I can’t do it. You’re my only child. And if I could bring back your mother and take her place—”
People made similar melodramatic pronouncements all the time. Coming from him, it carried a sinister connotation theirs lacked. “Don’t say that, Dad. Don’t ever say that.”
“I love you more than anything. And I’m sorry if I’ve screwed up. I’ve done the best I can.”
“I know.”
The weights on his rack had failed to line up with the measurements his anxiety-riddled brain calculated as precise, and he began shifting them in tiny increments to the left or right. “I’m your father, when it suits you and when it doesn’t. I’m not trying to make your life miserable. I am trying”—he swapped two sets of dumbbells that had strayed from their appointed positions—“to keep you from making the same mistakes I did, especially the ones I didn’t realize at the time. You think you know it all at your age—believe me, I get it.”
“I’m on the pill. Mom made sure.”
“Blya,” he muttered. “Go get ready for your party.”
Anya took a few steps toward the door before turning back. “You know, I was thinking instead of a big birthday party for me, why don’t you and I celebrate? Just the two of us.”
Joy returned some of the missing spark to his eyes. “Is that what you really want?”
“Yeah. I love you, Dad. I do. So much.”
He allowed himself a smile, sad as it was. “I know, baby.”
Anya held his gaze for a moment longer, a silent assurance she would gladly be his baby girl no matter what. Then she smiled back and went upstairs to change for the party.
***
Anya was regretting the metallic-finish leather heels by the time she arrived at Lucas’s building, and her pencil skirt kept riding up. She texted him to buzz her in. A few minutes later, she was walking down the third-floor hallway, the atmosphere frat-like as loud music and louder voices poured from beneath the closed door of Unit 305. His neighbors were either indulgent or out of town for the holidays.
She knocked. Lucas, adorable in a casual black blazer over a plain T-shirt and gray linen pants, opened the door. “Hey. Glad you could make it. Let me take your coat.”
Anya unbuttoned her faux-fur coat and handed it to him. He darted his tongue out to lick his parted lips and drank her in from head to toe.
“You, uh…You’re very tall tonight. Come in.”
“Thanks.”
Lucas tossed the coat into a room off the hall, then returned to the small U kitchen. Several people were chatting on the other side of the pass-through; most had congregated in the living room, crowded onto the couch and drinking from red Solo cups one of the liquors lining the counter in glass bottles. The conspicuous, herbaceous scent of weed assaulted her nose.
“You want a drink? Uh, not that stuff.”
“I’m not a little girl, Lucas.”
“That has become very obvious.” He flushed and opened the refrigerator. Bottles clinked on the door shelf. “Lots of pop, if you’d like. Coke?”
“Sure.” His watchfulness was kind of cute. Ironic, how she found it so aggravating in her father.
Lucas filled the cup with ice and splashed Coke over it. His fingers lingered on hers as he passed the cup to her. “There you go. Help yourself to snacks.” With a closed smile, he wandered into the living room.
Tinsel garlands in festive colors lined the doorways, and traveling lights assisted scented candles in providing illumination to the living room. A few people were dancing in the cramped space. Anya decanted a couple ounces of Captain into her cup but stationed herself in the bright kitchen. A logjam had formed there too, wedging her in the doorway above which a sprig of mistletoe dared her to claim her due. Lucas was returning for a refill.
“There’s, like, a rule, right?”
He glanced up, then tapped his lips to her forehead.
“That’s the most bullshit kiss ever.”
“You’re not even supposed to be here, remember? And…” He jerked his head in the direction he’d come from. “There are people here I’d rather not have to explain you to. They know I’m not serious about them, but…”
His girlfriends, or friends with benefits. Fuck buddies. Whatever they were. “I need to go soon. What did you want me here for?”
A disappointment to which he had no right shaded his eyes. “Do you really have to go?”
“No, but the longer I’m here, the less I want to be.”
Lucas shrugged past her into the kitchen. “Stick around for a while. Need a refill?” He mixed gin and orange juice into his cup.
“I’m good for now.”
“All right. I’m going to mingle. I realize you don’t know anyone, but try to enjoy yourself, huh?” With his knuckle, Lucas tipped up her chin. “You look really pretty, you know.”
Her heart thudded with a bass note louder than that from the stereo. Lucas had meandered back to the living room, where the Wicked Witches hovered over him with competitive resolve. If they hadn’t already, one of them was going to sleep with him tonight. Their skimpy holiday cocktail dresses—both strapless, both above-the-knee, both bright red—and heavy makeup broadcast as much. A matter of time before the rejected one started crying and let someone else pity-fuck her. Or he was planning to live every guy’s fantasy by gifting himself with a Christmas threesome.
Either way, he clearly likes blondes. Give it up, Vampira.
As the night wore on, Anya observed the party from the pass-through. Prompted by the free-flowing alcohol, more people had begun to dance, and the sight of Lucas flirting with everyone but her soured her stomach. Good time for a pee break before she sneaked out. No point in prolonging the agony.
Anya edged into the hallway and waited for the bathroom to free up, then locked the door behind her. Should’ve brought Hailey with her; at least she’d have a consistent cover story. She did her business, washed her hands, and without hesitation opened Lucas’s medicine cabinet. Reduced to snooping as her one method for getting to know him better. Pathetic. The usual stuff—cologne, aftershave, toothpaste, deodorant. Anya mentally catalogued each brand preference. Or was he one of those people who bought based on what was on sale? Not like her father, rarely caught in any cologne less expensive than triple-digit Tom Ford. “Real men,” Dad had once proclaimed, “want to be polished and put together. Don’t date a man who doesn’t take time for proper grooming.” He knew all about that; it took him longer than her to get ready any time they went somewhere.
She picked up two amber bottles, her stomach no longer curdled with jealousy but foreboding. She had seen too many of these bottles in her house.
Trazodone (50 mg). Take one pill with food before bedtime as indicated for sleeplessness. May cause drowsiness, dizziness, dry mouth, headache, and nausea/vomiting.
Citalopram (30 mg). Take once daily for depression. May cause drowsiness or dizziness. These effects may be worse if taken with alcohol or certain medicines.
“Oh God,” she whispered.
Someone banged on the door.
“I’ll be right out! Jesus.” She replaced the bottles, closed the cabinet, and unlocked the door. In the hall, she texted Dad.
Anya: Staying a little longer.
Dad: You said you weren’t staying long.
She pursed her lips. He had to lengthen the leash sometime. She’d be in college in less than a year, for God’s sake. Almost five hundred miles away.
Anya: I’m fine.
Dad: I can’t sleep knowing you’re out doing god knows what.
Anya: Never been in trouble my whole life.
She silently congratulated herself for not following up with, “Unlike you.”
Dad: Please be careful and call if you need me.
Anya: I will. Nite.
She tucked her phone into her purse and, head down, smacked into the unyielding body of an athlete. Not Lucas. She’d studied him in her nighttime fantasies, replayed him with a film student’s rigor until proficient in all things Donovan, or as close as she was going to get.
“Hi there,” a voice slurred.” What’s your name?”
What was it with blonds tonight? This guy couldn’t have been more obviously trashed if his friends had scrawled it on his forehead in Magic Marker while he was passed out in a corner. Bloodshot, watery eyes; red nose; pores and mouth oozing the robust odor of whiskey. She’d seen old photos of her shitfaced father, frequently accompanied by allegations of substance abuse, on the internet. That she never brought it up was for his benefit, not hers. He liked to pretend some mystical internet filter sheltered her from his sordid past.
He tilted his head, his body shifting side to side in an attempt to recover its balance. “You here with someone?” His drink tipped with him, half of it onto the carpet.
“Well, Lucas invited me…”
“Lucas invited everyone.” He lurched forward and leaned in too closely. “You’re cute. You wanna have a little fun? Don’t think anyone is in the back room. Yet.” Flecks of spittle landed on her lips.
She grimaced and patted them away to avoid smearing her lipstick. “Ew. No. Thanks.” She whirled away. “I have to—”
He lumbered behind her. His fingers grazed her hair. “Hey! I’m not done talking to you, bitch!”
“Talk to her like that again, Will. I fucking dare you.” Lucas, his feet planted wide apart, filled the mouth of the hallway.
“Or what?” He squared up to Lucas, nose-to-nose and chest-to-chest. Anya darted into the living room.
Lucas bulldozed him into the wall, his arm pressed to his throat. The commotion attracted even the drunkest guests, who tottered off the couch and out of corners where they thought no one noticed them groping each other. “You don’t want to find out. Now get out.” Lucas dropped his arm and stepped back, allowing Will an exit without further incident.
Instead, Will sucker-punched him, his fist sinking into Lucas’s abdomen below his ribcage. Air exploded out of his lungs, his mouth, and as he gasped for more, Will landed a closed blow into Lucas’s eye. Another into his mouth, splitting his knuckles. Blood sprayed Lucas’s white shirt.
“Get off him!” Anya sank her fingers into Will’s arm and twisted it back. Something popped in his shoulder.
“Ow! You fucking—”
“Out! Everyone out!” Lucas straightened, wheezed, and jabbed a finger at the door. Anya let go so a couple of guys could pin Will’s arms behind his back and frog march him out of the apartment. The usual suspects lingered.
“I’ll stay,” the Wicked Witches volunteered in chorus as they stared Anya down. Why is she still here, Lucas? This is our night. She knew, because she was thinking the exact same thing.
“Not in the mood for company, ladies. Sorry. I’ll call you soon.”
“Who the hell is she? Why isn’t she leaving?” one of
them whined, exhibiting a full-blown pout. Did guys actually find that attractive on a grown woman? The other had already accepted defeat and opened the door.
“She is.” His face haggard and bloody, starting to swell in places, he narrowed his eyes. “Good night.”
“I shouldn’t have come,” Anya said after the last Witch straggled out.
Lucas’s jawline hardened. Using his tongue, he prodded his teeth for looseness. “He had no right to call you that.”
“I don’t want to leave you like this. Maybe you need to go to the—”
“I’m fine.” He probed his ribs with tentative fingers and grunted as his breath sawed in and out. “Nothing is broken. It’s not as bad as it looks.”
Liar. “I’m going to stay and help you clean up. And make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine, Anya.” In trainer mode now, Lucas disappeared into the bathroom. “Go home.”
Chapter Twelve
Anya
Anya unbuckled her shoes and pulled them off. Her feet thanked her, and she wriggled her toes. She started a pot of coffee, then rooted around the kitchen cabinets for trash bags so she could start cleaning up the cups and assorted other garbage left behind.
“You don’t have to do that.” The flesh around Lucas’s left eye was purpling, his mouth cut in the corner and swollen. He had cleaned most of the blood off, applied a butterfly bandage to his eye, and changed into a clean T-shirt. True to his claims, the drunken punches hadn’t connected with the force they’d appeared to in Anya’s adrenaline panic. “Also, I told you to go home.” He dragged a Dyson out of the hall closet.
“I don’t mind. And no.”
The Pieces Of Us (The Firebird Trilogy Book 3) Page 11