by Tara Wylde
But the part of me that wanted to run knows that I’ve done my job.
Chapter Twenty-Six
26. STORM
“Have you ever seen the Aristocats?” I ask.
Nick frowns. “Aristocrats are what led to the Russian revolution,” he says.
“Not ‘crats.’ Aristo-cats. It’s a Disney cartoon.” I sigh. “Sorry, as soon as it was out of my mouth, I knew it was a stupid question. Might as well have asked if you’d ever listened to Justin Bieber.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. The point was trying to make is that there’s a song in the cartoon called Scales and Arpeggios. It’s about learning music.”
“Cats learning music?”
I shake my head. “Forget I said anything. Let’s just focus on scales.”
“Right,” he says. “How do I do that?”
I take his baseball mitt hands and hold them up.
“Each finger represents a number,” I say. “You thumb is one, your index is two, and so on. Same on the other hand. So your left thumb would be left one, your right ring finger would be right four. Get it?”
He nods.
“So when you’re playing scales, you use fingering charts to learn which finger goes where. Depending on the scale, you either start with your left five – the pinky – on the first note, or your right thumb, or right one, on the corresponding note on the right side of the keyboard. If it’s a major scale, you do both. See?”
The blank look in his eyes is all the answer I need. Sigh.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m used to working with people who already have some knowledge of music theory. I guess you’re starting from scratch, huh?”
“Can I just play that song you showed me? For now?”
I can’t help but smile. “Of course. Give it a try.”
He plunks out the first dozen notes of Heart and Soul, and does it with surprisingly good timing, if a little heavy on the keys.
“Perfect,” I say. “Now we can learn the next twenty notes.”
“Twenty?” The look of fear in his eyes is priceless.
“It’s not twenty different notes. A lot of them are the same.”
He nods his relief.
I take his hand in mine and show him how the notes progress, and turn back on themselves, then progress again, using his right index finger. He plays them back on his own perfectly.
“See?” I beam. “You’re a natural at this!”
“Hardly,” he says with a half-smile. “But it’s fun.”
“I mean it. You’ve got a natural sense of rhythm. You’ll have this down in no time.”
We spend the next hour introducing him to what the left hand is doing in the lower keys while the right hand is plinking out the melody on the upper ones. By the time we wrap up, he’s mastered both of them.
“Next time we’ll try them together,” I say. “You’ll love it.”
“I already love it,” he says. “Not as much as I love listening to you do it, though.”
“How do you feel when you listen to me?” I ask. “I know it’s a weird question, but I’m curious.”
Nick scratches his beard. “I guess – good? No, that doesn’t describe it. It’s like there’s emotions inside that I can’t explain, but I feel them.” He shakes his head. “I’m a real poet, aren’t I?”
I put my hand on his. “I know exactly what you meant. It’s kind of crazy that we’re both teaching each other something that’s so different, and yet so alike.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re teaching me in the dojo to find that part of me that can be hard and strong. I’m teaching you through music to find that part of you that can be soft and vulnerable.”
He looks down at his hands for a while.
“You’re right,” he says.
“I knew when I first met you that there was more to you than just that beard and those intense eyes.” I grin. “You may not have the words for it, but you have the soul of a poet.”
He frowns. “If you ever say that to anyone else – ”
I giggle, rolling my eyes. “Fine,” I say. “As far as anyone else is concerned, you’re a brainless brute who eats trees and spits out toothpicks. Happy?”
“I have a reputation to maintain,” he says.
“I think that’s mostly in your own mind, babe. You certainly don’t have Ellie fooled.”
He sighs. “You two are my kryptonite.”
Something about his look of exasperation makes my tummy tingle. I love being able to see inside him to the parts that he refuses to show the rest of the world, as much as I love knowing that he’ll never, ever let anything hurt me.
And I suddenly remember that we were so exhausted after the Jerry Lee Lewis concert that we collapsed as soon as we got home and I never followed through on my promise to him.
“I don’t know about Ellie,” I purr, taking his hand. “But I know I’ve got your kryptonite.”
My lips close on his neck, my tongue darting out to say hello to the salty skin there. His breath hitches a bit – he’s clearly surprised by my sudden affection. And judging by the bulge in his jeans, quite happy about it.
“Really?” he moans. “Where do you keep this kryptonite?”
I maneuver his hand between my thighs, thrilling at the touch of those huge fingers down there.
“Why don’t you hunt around for awhile? I’m sure you can find it. And when you do, I guarantee it’ll make you weak.”
My last coherent thought before I’m overtaken by pleasure is that I’ve somehow gone from a virgin to a sex-starved slut in less than a week. I guess that’s what happens when you have access to a man like Nick.
And I’m never going to let him go.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
27. NICK
“Go!” I shout. “Run!”
Cool, cloudy days like today are rare for New York in August, so I take advantage of the lower temperatures to push the dogs to full capacity and let them burn off their extra energy. When it’s blazing hot like it has been the past week or so, they end up listless, just wandering around the house or napping.
Storm giggles as they race past her and disappear over the cliff, where they bound down the switchbacks to the shore.
“Don’t you wish you could bottle that energy?” she sighs.
I do, especially when she comes after me like she did in the music room yesterday.
“We should get you working on commands,” I say. “They need to start recognizing you as a master.”
She smiles shyly as we amble over to the edge of the cliffs. “Wow,” she says. “That’s a pretty big commitment, don’t you think?”
“We’re sharing a bed. That means something to me.”
“Me, too.”
She slides her fingers through mine. At the cliffs, we look down to see Samson pestering a crab while Delilah barks at it.
“Let’s see if you can make them come,” I say.
“Well, I have had some practice with their master,” she coos in my ear.
I feel a hot blush in my cheeks. “Focus on the task at hand, will you?”
“Party pooper,” she pouts, letting go of my hand and cupping hers around her mouth.
“Samson! Delilah! Come!”
Instantly, the dogs abandon their crab and dart back to the cliffside and up through the switchbacks.
“Great,” I say. “Now praise them when they get here.”
A few moments later the dogs emerge at her side, and she drops to one knee beside them, ruffling their necks.
“Good dogs!” she says.
“All right,” I say. “Now back to business.”
Storm stands up and the dogs sit, waiting for a command.
“What should I do now?”
“Let’s do the basics.”
We run through sit, stay, roll over, up, off. They perform beautifully, even without any real practice. They already consider Storm a master.
“I’m a regular Ce
sar Milan,” she says proudly.
“Who?”
She sighs. “A guy who works with dogs on TV. You know, that big rectangular thing that gathers dust in your theater room?”
“Hey, I watch baseball.”
“Of course you do,” she says, shaking her head. “What else would I expect from a guy who drinks beer and has a garage full of American muscle cars?”
“My father taught me to love this country,” I say simply. “It gave me everything.”
She beams at me. “I got that,” she says. “And I think it’s awesome.”
We lean in for a kiss, which prompts the dogs to start whining, as if they’re missing out on something.
“Tsishinah,” I say as our lips part.
“What did you say?”
“I was telling the dogs to be quiet. Which reminds me: there’s one more command you need to learn.”
Storm’s expression turns serious.
“I think I already know it,” she says.
“You do?”
She puts her lips against my ear. “Shtoy?”
“You were paying attention,” I say. “Good.”
“I definitely paid attention to what it meant for that green-haired bitch.”
I call the dogs over and give them a scratch, letting them know that work time is done and they can play. Storm produces a tennis ball from her purse and throws it toward the gardens. They take off after it like they’ve been shot out of a cannon.
“Then you understand what it means?” I say.
She frowns. “In Russian? No.”
I shake my head. “Not that. What it means about the dogs.”
Storm gives me a curious look. She doesn’t quite get what I’m saying.
“These dogs are my companions, and I love them with all my heart,” I say as they come loping back, Samson jumping at Delilah in an attempt to get her to drop the ball.
“I know that,” says Storm, scratching Delilah’s ear.
“But they’re also weapons,” I say gravely. “I’m not saying you should be afraid of them, not at all. But you need to respect them and understand what they’re capable of.”
Storm nods slowly and drops her hand from Delilah’s coat. That doesn’t sit well with the dog, so she shoves her snout under Storm’s hand in an attempt to get back what she’s lost.
“I see your point,” she says. “And I will.”
“Good.”
At that moment, Samson’s harsh bark cuts through the breeze from the edge of the garden.
“That’s odd,” says Storm. “I’ve never heard him bark like that before.”
Neither have I; he knows not to bark unless he’s trying to call attention to something. But from where I’m standing, it looks like he’s barking at the ground.
“Quiet!” I holler as I make my way over to him. Samson sits at attention, but his whining means he’s still wound up about something.
“What’s the commotion?” I ask, scanning the ground. Then I see what’s gotten his attention, and my gut freezes.
It’s a black cigarette butt with a gold filter. Sobranie, the choice of rich Russians everywhere. And the scent I picked up on the clothes of Arkady Volkov and his friends. I glance around. From this vantage point, anyone standing here can see straight into the kitchen.
God damn it.
My jaw clicks as I grind my teeth. I told him. I fucking told him what would happen if he didn’t leave us alone.
“What is it?” Storm calls from thirty yards away. She and Delilah are heading straight for us.
“Just a frog,” I say, grinding the cigarette butt into the dirt with the toe of my boot.
“That’s odd,” she says. “Samson knows better than that.”
I smile without feeling it. “I think we’ve got him all riled up and playful. Time to run them some more.”
She throws the ball over the cliff and the dogs are off again. This time we decide to follow them down to the shore, maybe get them chasing the ball out into the ocean.
“Everything okay?” Storm asks, taking my hand as we head into the trail that will take us down the cliffside.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got the dogs,” I say, grinning. “What more could I want?”
She smiles and puts her lips to my ear. “Maybe another piano lesson when we get back?”
“You can read my mind,” I growl.
Thank God she actually can’t.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
28. STORM
“Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”
“Both,” he says, pulling a small black pistol from his jeans. There’s a heavy plastic bag with the words Cabella’s Sporting Goods on the side in his other hand.
“Okay,” I say, nodding. “Have to admit, I didn’t see that one coming.”
Nick asked me to meet him at the southern edge of the gardens after he got back from town, said he’d tell me what it was about when we got here. The box of ammunition he removes from the plastic bag answers the question for him.
“It’s a natural extension of your self-defense training,” he says as he thumbs shells into the pistol’s magazine.
“If you say so. I’ve never even held a gun before.”
“This is a good beginner pistol,” he says. “Ruger LC9, seven-round single stack clip, one in the pipe, chambered in nine-millimeter Luger.”
I shake my head. “Remember when I was telling you about finger positions and major scales?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s what you’re doing to me right now.”
He smiles. “Sorry. It’s accurate and has less recoil, so it’s a good gun for a beginner to learn with. Better?”
“Better.”
Ever since that day with the dogs, Nick has seemed a little off. I find myself having to repeat things I’ve said because he wasn’t paying attention. Now this. He’s still the same guy, but just… I guess distracted is the best word.
But I don’t want to bring it up. I mean, what do I know about how guys act when they start living with a woman? All this is new to me.
He slides the magazine into the handle and then pulls back on the barrel. It clicks as it springs back into place.
“Think of the weapon as an extension of yourself,” he says, handing it to me handle-first. “It’s just like your hand, or your knee, or your brain. Just another tool in your self-defense toolbox.”
The gun is surprisingly light as I close my hand around it. The matte black finish gives it a dangerous, utilitarian look, and suddenly I’m eager to try it out.
“What am I shooting at?” I ask.
Nick points me towards a dying oak about thirty yards away. Then he reaches into the Cabella’s bag and pulls out a rolled-up sheet. He unfurls it, revealing the outline drawing of a man aiming a gun back at me.
“Just get used to it in your hands,” he says as he walks to the tree and tacks the target to it. “Don’t worry, the safety is on.”
I fiddle with the pistol, feeling the weight of it, sliding my finger over the trigger. It should feel alien – I’ve never even been around a gun before now, let alone fired one – and yet it doesn’t.
It feels good.
Nick positions himself behind me and turns me to face the target.
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s start with the stance. Feet shoulder-width apart, arms at shoulder height. Now take your left hand and wrap it around the other on a forty-five-degree angle.”
He positions my hands on the gun so that both my thumbs are on the left side of the handle, pointing forward.
I frown. “That doesn’t look like how Jason Bourne holds it.”
Nick takes a breath to speak, and I realize what I just said.
“He’s a character in an action movie,” I say, cutting him off.
“Movies aren’t real.”
“Well, duh. I’m just saying this is different.”
“Who do you trust more, this Bourne guy or me?”
He’s got
me there. I stretch my fingers a bit but keep them in the same position, already feeling the weight in my shoulders. Nick points out the safety switch on the left side of the barrel, and I flip it with my thumb, ready to shoot.
“Okay, the LC9 has a long trigger,” he says in my ear. “So make sure you squeeze. Don’t pull; it’ll throw off your aim.”
“Got it.”
He slides a pair of what look like earmuffs from the Cabella’s bag over my ears, then another over his own. He follows that with a pair of plastic safety glasses for each of us. Finally he puts a hand on my hip and gives me a pat.
I hear a muffled “Let’s do it,” and I aim for the target’s head. Arkady’s face stares back at me. I squeeze the trigger like Nick told me to.
There’s a loud explosion and suddenly my hands are sailing back towards my face. The gun almost hits me square between the eyes before I catch myself.
“Shit!” Nick shouts. “Sorry, I forgot to tell you: you have to push forward a bit with your gun hand and pull back a bit with your left. It helps stabilize the weapon.”
“You’re lucky you’re rich and good-looking,” I gripe as I set myself back into the shooter’s stance. I do as he says with my hands and squeeze the trigger again.
This time the recoil is much less, like a slight jolt to my shoulder, and the gun stays relatively stable in my hands. In the distance, I see a bundle of splinters fly off the dying oak, about ten inches above the target.
Nick pulls my right earmuff aside. “That’s great for a first shot,” he says. “But aim more for the body mass. If you try for the head, you’re almost guaranteed to miss unless you’ve had a lot of training. Even then, police are trained to aim for the torso because the whole idea behind combat shooting is to stop your opponent.”
“Torso,” I say, positioning myself again. “Got it.”
He replaces my ear muff and I picture Arkady’s beating heart in the center of the target. This time my squeeze is followed by a nice little hole in the black paper of the man’s chest.
“Finish him!” Nick yells from behind me.
Without another thought, I squeeze off six more times, each one more satisfying than the last. The seventh squeeze is just a click.