The Storm

by Tara Wylde

  “So that justifies threatening him?” Josef asks, rubbing the ridge of his hand. “Because you didn’t know him, you thought you could just intimidate him, is that it?”

  Arkady’s red eyes are round as saucers as he processes what just happened. For the first time in his life, his father actually laid hands on him.

  “I’m sorry!” he whines. “I didn’t know he was your friend – ”

  “He’s not my friend!” Josef snaps.

  “Then why – ”

  Josef grabs his son by the collar and yanks him to his feet, shaking him like a dog would with a a piece of rope. Then he puts his lips to Arkady’s ear.

  “Forget Nick Chernenko exists,” he hisses. “Don’t go near him, don’t talk about him, don’t even think about him. Is that clear?”

  Arkady nods, blinking stupidly.

  Josef loosens his grip, leaving his son’s shirt crumpled at the collar.

  “Have Mookie take you home and get some sleep,” he says with undisguised contempt. “Your mother is expecting you for dinner at five. And for God’s sake, wash that cigar stink out of your beard before you come over.”

  As Arkady stumbles out the door, Josef closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Crisis averted, he tells himself, his heart pounding as if he’s narrowly missed being run over by a freight train.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  24. STORM

  “It’s fine,” Nick soothes, rubbing my shoulder. “Just a little – you know, flat.”

  He’s doing his best to keep me from crying.

  “I wanted it to work so bad,” I moan. “You make such delicious meals for me, I wanted to return the favor and surprise you. Now it’s ruined.”

  I feel his arm trembling on my shoulder and turn to see him biting his lip under that beard of his. My eyes go wide.

  “Are you laughing at me?” I say, incredulous.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender. “It’s just that – Storm, you tried to make a cheese soufflé after making piroghis. That’s kind of like trying surgery after carving a turkey.”

  “Ugh,” I sigh. “You’re always cooking for me; I just wanted to make something special for you. It was just eggs and cheese – why was it so hard?”

  Ever since our first night together, I’ve been trying to think of ways to show Nick how much he means to me. He loves to listen to me play, and I love performing for him, but I wanted to show him I could do something else.

  “I just wanted you to have a gourmet meal. You know?”

  He kisses my neck. “That reminds me, there’s something the two of us haven’t really talked about.”

  After our post-lovemaking confessional the other night? What could we possibly have left to talk about?

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “First, I’m rich. Second, we’re close to New York City. We could just go to a fancy restaurant and have all the cheese soufflé we can eat, and we won’t have to do the dishes afterwards.”

  To be honest, I haven’t given much thought to Nick’s wealth. I mean, sure, I see it in the house and his cars, and when a dozen maids show up to clean the house, but he hasn’t really spent much money since I’ve known him. We’ve pretty much been homebodies.

  “I didn’t want to presume anything,” I say. “You’ve been too generous with me as it is.”

  He shakes his head. “Before you came here, I never had anything to spend my money on, so I didn’t spend any of it.”

  “And now?” I grin.

  “Now, my head is suddenly full of things I want to spend money on with you. Starting with a gourmet meal in a fancy restaurant.”

  “Okay. Where should we go?”

  He frowns. “Now that I think about it, I don’t know any fancy restaurants.”

  “How about Per Se? I’ve heard it mentioned by some of the society people who used to attend my concerts.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Suddenly I’m struck with a sense of unreality – I’m about to go to the fanciest restaurant in Manhattan with a handsome billionaire whose bed I’m sharing. All those nights I’d watch the rich people mingle after my shows, some of them coming up to me and telling me how wonderful and talented I am. Then, afterwards, I’d go back to my shitty apartment and eat a microwave dinner.

  Now I’m going to the restaurant that they all talked about.

  “I could wear the same dress from the dinner party!” I say.

  Nick cocks an eyebrow. “Or we could go into town early and buy you a new gown just for tonight.”

  My heart skips a beat. “Oh, Nick, I couldn’t.”

  “Oh, Storm, you could.”

  “Really?” I say, my grin so wide it feels like it’s reaching to my ears.

  “Really.”

  I embarrass myself by actually jumping up and down and clapping like a teenybopper at a One Direction concert, but Nick is beaming.

  “Who knew spending money could be fun?” he asks.

  I twine my fingers through his and lean in close. My other hand goes to his crotch and squeezes.

  “You think that’s going to be fun?” I whisper. “Wait until you see what I’m going to do to you when we get home.”

  “Okay,” I sigh. “I’ll admit it. That was a little bit better than my cheese soufflé.”

  My full belly is pressing against the silk of my new gown, and I don’t care. It was the most exquisite meal I’ve ever eaten – five courses, each one better than the last. We didn’t even have to order, they just brought us whatever the chef had come up with for the tasting menu.

  It’s the perfect end to a perfect day – clothes shopping at New York’s finest boutiques, followed by dinner at Manhattan’s swankiest restaurant, then back home for some epic sex. What more could a girl ask for?

  Nick glances at his watch. The platinum reflects the mood lighting above our secluded table. I’m so used to him wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, it’s almost bizarre to see him decked out in his tailored Armani suit.

  “Somewhere you have to be?” I ask, eyebrow arched.

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” he says. “Our limo will be meeting us out front in about five minutes.”

  “What are you talking about? We drove here.”

  He nods. “And the limo will bring us back here after.”

  “After what?”

  “You’ll see.”

  He drops a stack of hundreds on the table and leads me to the front door, where, sure enough, a man in a black suit is holding open the door of a long, black limousine.

  “After you,” Nick says, taking my hand to help me in.

  “Not bad,” I say as he pulls a sweating bottle of champagne from the ice bucket and pours me a glassful. “When did you find the time to order this?”

  “When you were trying on dresses.”

  My heart flutters. This guy. I mean, seriously, this guy.

  He finishes pouring his own champagne and we clink glasses as the driver pulls away from the curb and into Broadway traffic.

  “So where are we going?” I ask, practically giddy.

  “It’s a surprise.”

  My mind fills with ideas of what it could be. It’s a Tuesday night, so there’s probably not much going on. And, let’s be honest, Nick hasn’t shown himself to be the most imaginative guy.

  “Give me a hint,” I say.

  “Okay. There’ll be music.”

  “What kind of music?”

  “Piano,” he says with a look that tells me it should have been obvious.

  As he says it, I remember that I saw an ad online for a concert series by Evgeny Kissin, one of Russia’s greatest pianists. He’s playing Rachmaninoff at Carnegie Hall tonight. I’m sure it was sold out months ago.

  But I guess, when you have money like Nick’s, nothing is ever sold out.

  “I think I may know,” I say with a smile.

  He answers with his own smile.

  Outside, I see the familiar sight
s of West 57th Street. I never got to play Carnegie Hall – never even came close – but I’ve heard a lot about it. This should be an interesting experience. Pretty soon I see the stately façade through the limo window.

  Then I see it disappear as we drive right past it and turn right on 6th Avenue. We approach the red canopy sign for the Russian Tea Room, and I wonder if I’ve really gotten things wrong. But we pass that and keep heading west.

  “Um,” I say. “Okay. Sorry, I thought we were going to Carnegie.”

  “We are,” Nick says.

  Another right and we’re on West 56th. A couple of blocks later, the limo comes to a stop and the driver opens the door for us. I step out, confused, as Nick tips the driver. The sun has dipped below the skyscrapers, making it a little difficult to make out the sign on the building.

  “This is…?” I ask, shading my eyes.

  “The Carnegie Club,” Nick says. “Just like you thought. Sorry, I wanted to surprise you.”

  We move into the lobby and I see rich leather furniture and dark wood in a dimly lit lounge with red walls. We reach the reception area, where a young woman in a white shirt and black vest takes my wrap.

  “Welcome,” the girl says with a smile. “Your table is ready.”

  She directs us to a spot next to a small stage with an upright piano. The place is packed with people, most of them older than me, murmuring and laughing. I don’t know what we’re doing here, but I’m pretty sure Evgeny Kissin won’t be playing any Rachmaninoff on this old Steinway.

  “I asked for the best seats,” Nick says as he pulls out my chair. “I hope these are good.”

  “I’m sure they are,” I say. “But who are we here to see?”

  Nick blinks. “I thought you said you knew.”

  “I was wrong,” I say. “You’ve got me stumped.”

  At that moment, the lights dim and Nick takes his seat. On the stage in front of us, an older gentleman in a dark suit takes the microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says. “I know you all paid quite a bit of money to be here tonight, and it wasn’t to listen to me talk.”

  A susurrus of laughter runs through the lounge.

  “This is a rare pleasure indeed. Our guest tonight doesn’t make a lot of stops in our fair city, and when he does, people talk about it for years after.”

  As he talks, a silhouette walks out from stage left, and the audience cheers. More details emerge as he gets closer to the light: older man, probably in his 80s, hair slicked back.

  “The one,” says the announcer. “The only. The Killer himself…”

  I look at Nick, my jaw dropping open.

  “No way,” I say breathlessly. “No. Fricking. Way.”

  The man on stage takes his seat at the piano and starts playing the rollicking four-note progression that marks the opening of Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On.

  “Mist-errrr Jerry Lee Lewis!” the announcer cries, and the audience leaps to their feet.

  Nick puts his lips to my ear so he can be heard over the crowd.

  “Did I do good?” he shouts.

  I grab his face in my hands and give him the deepest soul kiss I can muster. It’s the only answer I can think of.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  25. NICK

  “Are you ready?” I ask.

  “Isn’t that kind of the opposite of what you want?” she says. “I mean, if I’m ready, that kind of defeats the purpose, right?”

  I hadn’t thought of that. I step away from my position behind her and walk around the mat until we’re facing each other.

  “You’re right,” I say. “Plus, this way I get to look at you in your Spandex.”

  She gives me a crooked smile. “Keep your mind on the task at hand, please.”

  “Right,” I say. “What was that, exactly?”

  “Self-defense lessons!” she says, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me.

  “Right!” I say. In that instant, I step forward and thrust my right arm under her left while pivoting my hip under hers. A simple twist and she flies overtop of me, landing on the mat with a heavy whap.

  “No fair!” she wails from the floor. “I wasn’t – ”

  “Ready?” I say.

  The look she gives me could curdle milk.

  “Very funny, comrade,” she growls, taking my offered hand and pulling herself to her feet.

  I shrug. “You gave me the opening. It’s a good lesson to learn.”

  “What is?”

  “Never trust an opponent,” I say. “Not even me. Especially not me, because I’m not going to go easy on you.”

  “Good,” she says defiantly. “I don’t want you to.”

  I’m glad we’ve gotten to this point. Storm has been studying with me for a couple of weeks now, but I’m not sure if she really understands what we’re doing. This isn’t an exercise class.

  “I haven’t practiced the technique enough,” she gripes. “Give me some time and you won’t be able to do that again.”

  Before she can say another word, I drop to my right knee and sweep her legs out from under her with my forearm. She hits the mat again.

  “What the fuck was that?!” she fumes, scrambling to her feet. “I wasn’t ready!”

  An instant later, I have both her arms trapped behind her and my lips are at her ear.

  “I don’t give a fuck whether you’re ready,” I hiss. “Neither will the guy who’s going to drag you into the alley. He doesn’t care about technique, either.”

  Storm is as mad as a wet cat, struggling against me with everything she’s got. But I don’t give an inch. Finally, when I feel her strength flagging, I let go.

  She pulls away from me, rubbing her arms and panting.

  “What was that supposed to accomplish?” she snaps. “Were you just trying to hurt me?”

  “No,” I say evenly. “But whoever attacks you will be.”

  She eyes me sullenly. “That’s supposed to be a lesson?”

  “How did you feel when I had you?”

  “Angry.”

  “What else?”

  She blinks, brows furrowed, thinking.

  “Helpless,” she says quietly.

  “Do you ever want to feel that way again?”

  She straightens up and looks me in the eye. “Never.”

  “Good. That’s the most important self-defense lesson you can ever learn.”

  “I don’t get it,” she says. “How was that a lesson?”

  I put my hands on my hips. “Techniques are fine,” I say. “But they won’t save your life. The greatest weapons in your arsenal are intention and focus.”

  My father’s words come back to me like he’s here in the room, though when he spoke them to me, they were in Russian and I was just a boy. They’ve saved my life on more than one occasion, and I want Storm to understand them. She’s been pushed around since she was a child, always doing what others told her to do. I want her to learn how to take control of her life.

  That kind of confidence comes from knowing she can handle anything that comes her way.

  “What do you mean?” Storm asks, genuinely curious now.

  “If you’re attacked, you focus on one thing and one thing only: stopping your attacker by any means necessary.”

  She nods. “That makes sense. But what do you mean by intention?”

  “You have to have the will to do what’s necessary,” I say. “You have to believe, deep down in your core, that you’re justified in doing anything it takes to survive. Ending the conflict is your only goal.”

  She looks at the floor as that sinks in.

  “So you’re saying don’t hold back. Ever.”

  “Fight with everything you have, with no thought about consequences. If someone tries to hurt you, they’ve made their choice. They have to live – or die – with it.”

  Storm nods. “I think I get it,” she says. “But it just sounds kind of… extreme.”

  “Think about how you felt when you realized what A
rkady and his friends were going to do to you at that party,” I say. It prompts a twinge in my gut, knowing that she has to relive that, but it’s necessary.

  Her eyes cloud over. Good.

  “Now think about how you felt when they were chasing you. When Arkady began firing at the boat.”

  The flaring of her nostrils makes me swell with pride. She’s thinking about it in a new way – not as a victim remembering her helplessness, but as a warrior contemplating how she would have done things differently. It’s an important shift in thinking.

  “All right,” I say, tossing a towel over my shoulder. “I think that’s enough for one day.”

  Storm collects her things under her arm and heads for the door of the dojo. As she does, I catch up and drape an arm over her shoulders.

  “You’re getting there,” I say.

  “It’s a lot to learn – ”

  Before she can finish her thought, I step behind her and wrap my arms around her waist, hoisting her roughly off the ground.

  An instant later, there’s exquisite agony as the back of her head collides squarely with the bridge of my nose and her fingernails dig into my hands. I let her go and stumble backwards, holding my towel to my bleeding face.

  “You done?” she pants. “Or do you need a little more?”

  If she had run to me apologizing and asking if I was okay, I would have attacked her again. But she didn’t. She’s standing facing me, her fists raised.

  “I told you before, you’re a natural at this,” I say, grinning widely.

  “And you’re a sick old man.”

  “How do you feel?”

  She hesitates. “Strong,” she says finally. “Confident.”

  I nod. “Here endeth the lesson.”

  We walk in silence down the hallway towards the staircase that will take us up to my – our – room.

  “Just to be clear,” she says as we start to climb. “I’m not going to attack you during your piano lessons.”

  I grin. Next thing I know, the collar of my T-shirt is in her fist and her nose is touching mine. Her intense blue eyes bore into mine.

  “Or am I?” she hisses through clenched teeth.

  Part of me wants to laugh. Part of me wants to run. In the end, I choose to laugh, and so does she.