Chaos, Desire & a Kick-Ass Cupcake

by Kyra Davis

  Anatoly eyed my arm. I must have looked like a child desperate to be called on by her teacher. “Let’s see what we can do about that.” He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a first aid kit before walking around and gently taking my arm in his hand again to examine it. “You can move your fingers, right?”

  I wiggled my fingers in a little demonstration of their considerable abilities.

  He smiled and leaning back against his desk before swiping an alcohol pad he had retrieved from his kit against my scrapes and scratches.

  “Ow, God! That stings!” I hissed through gritted teeth.

  “But you’re tough,” he reminded me.

  “The toughest,” I agreed, wincing again. “What were you trying to say before?”

  “I’m going to investigate London’s death.” He tossed the wipe into the trash. “You don’t need to anymore. Leave it to me and I won’t let you down this time.”

  “Oh, okay, sure,” I said with a giggle. It was kind of nice that Anatoly could joke about all this.

  “It’s obviously gotten too dangerous.” He pulled out the Neosporin. “But I promise, I will figure out exactly what happened to Aaron London. You don’t have to do anything.”

  I studied his face for a moment. There was sincerity, concern, but no humor in it. I immediately pulled away and got up from my chair. “You’re serious? You really think I put myself through this hell just so I could let a big strong man step in and finish the job for me?”

  “Sophie, you were almost killed today.” He dropped the Neosporin back into the kit. “Someone delivered a threatening message to our front door and that message wasn’t directed at us, it was directed at you. You’re the one in danger now. You’re the one who needs protecting. And I will protect you. But you have to help me by taking a very big step back.”

  “The only place I’m stepping is up!” I put my hands on my hip. God, my arm really stung but I didn’t allow myself to grimace. I was improving on my tough act by the second. “When London first walked into this office you were pissed at me for inserting myself into the case. But then you tossed the case. I’m the one who picked it up. It’s mine now. I’m inviting you to help out--”

  “Inviting me?” Anatoly asked, incredulously. “You’ve been insisting on it for days.”

  “I’ve been insisting that you acknowledge that I’m not crazy.”

  Anatoly lifted his eyebrows.

  “I mean that I’m not crazy for thinking London was murdered,” I clarified. “And now that you’ve finally figured that out you’re welcome to help me navigate this thing. But it’s my ass in the driver’s seat. And you do not fuck with the driver while she is driving. Got it?”

  “You’re suggesting I sit back and let you put yourself in harm’s way?” He shook his head and cut a large strip of gauze from the roll he had in his kit. “You know me better.” He tore off two pieces of medical tape, stepped forward and grabbed my arm, yanking it in front of me.

  “Damn it, Anatoly, that hurts!”

  He pressed the gauze against my wound and impatiently taped it down. “You got lucky tonight. We’re not going to rely on luck. We’re going to be practical.”

  “I’m sorry, have we met?” I snarked. “My name is Sophie Katz and I am not a practical person. I’m an interesting person. I’m a person who gets things done, the things that boring, practical people refuse to do!”

  The gauze and tape were now firmly in place but he didn’t let go of my arm. “If I have to lock you in our room, I’ll do it. You are not going to get yourself killed.”

  Patronizing. The very word makes me feel violent and being on the receiving end of it makes me close to homicidal. But I checked myself, preserving my dignity as I stood up a little straighter. I rolled my shoulders back and looked directly into his eyes. “You’re not the boss of me.”

  “I’m not the…” Anatoly blinked a few times in disbelief. “Are you twelve?”

  “Do I look twelve?” I snapped.

  “No.” He stared at me, his eyes moving over my messed up outfit, my still fabulous, but undoubtedly tussled hair…and then to my lips.

  It took about two seconds for us to move from the middle of the room to his desk, where papers and the first aid kit were immediately shoved to the floor, a small tube of Neosporin rolled along the bleached hardwood surface. My stinging arm wrapped around his neck, his hands moved up and down my back, one moved under my shirt, grasping my waist, the other placing delicious pressure against my upper thigh.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” I put my hand up between us and Anatoly pulled back, confused and concerned. The golden lighting of the room gave his jet-black hair an almost supernatural dark glow.

  “What is it?” he asked. His Russian accent was now every bit as thick as the low hanging San Francisco fog. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No, I just…” I reached out and held his face in my hands and stared deep into those big brown eyes, searching for the courage to ask the crucial question. “Do you think…I’m as cute as I think I am?”

  For a moment he fell silent. The only detectable sound was the low humming song of the street. Cars, people, distant sirens, all a backdrop to our quiet breathing. And then, finally, he spoke. “Is that a serious question?” He pulled back another inch so he could better examine my expression. “Your charm is that you are even cuter than you are infuriating. And Sophie,” his voice dropped to a seductive murmur, “you can’t begin to fathom how infuriating you are.”

  I gave a curt, satisfied nod. “Okay, let’s have sex now.”

  And with that his mouth was pressed up against mine again, his tongue tasting me as his fingers deftly unfastened the button on my jeans. I leaned back as he pulled them off then drew me to him so there wasn’t a centimeter of space between us. I felt his desire pressing up against my thigh and I couldn’t help but smile. Dena’s dildos had nothing on this guy.

  His hand moved up my back. When I felt his fingers moving through my hair I gasped. “That’s forbidden!”

  “Marcus will never know,” he murmured as his other hand slipped under the elastic of my panties. And then he had me gasping for another reason. I couldn’t catch my breath, I didn’t want to. All the chaos and frustration and tension of the last few days seemed to be bundled up in this one encounter and I wanted nothing more than the delicious release he offered. His lips found my neck and his fingers found my core and I gently bit down on his shoulder to keep myself from crying out. And just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore he unfastened his own jeans and in an instant, he was inside of me, joined with me. And we were Sophie and Anatoly again. Crazy, passionate, argumentative and absolutely fantastic: that was us, that was now, that was everything. I arched my back and allowed him to support me as he pressed into me again and again. I absorbed his desire for me, his need.

  And when he called out my name even as I murmured his in a gasp, that’s when I knew he must be right. I was so much cuter than I thought I was.

  “Sex and marriage is like a 7-11. There’s not as much variety as you would find in a bigger store, but if you get hungry at two in the morning, it’s there.”

  --Dying To Laugh

  Sex is a funny thing. People diminish its importance with words like, “It’s just sex.” But when sex is great, it’s monumentally important. People don’t forget great sex. Once you’ve had it your standard for what you expect out of a relationship completely changes. I’ve yet to meet anyone who has ever walked away from a partner with whom they have great sex. I’ve met people who have left relationships in which the sex used to be great, those troubled alliances in which the betrayals and irritations has made intimacy an unfortunate chore rather than an act of desire. But you do not walk away from a person who can turn your bed into your own, personal disco inferno.

  Where the cynics have it right is that sex doesn’t actually solve problems within relationships. In those moments when the chemistry feels perfect, the entire relationship feels perfect. And
given the choice between a long, painful conversation and a quick intense orgasm the latter will always be the winner. Or at least it will until the problems become more intense than the orgasms. And then what do you do?

  Fortunately, sex was not the solitary basis of my relationship with Anatoly. I was reminded of that now as he accompanied me on the long walk back to my car, holding my hand firmly in his, his proximity simultaneously exciting and comforting. No, if anything our foundation was made out of something a little more rare--passion. Heated arguments, hotter sex, a lust for adventure, fiery convictions…it was fantastic. I had once told Anatoly that living with him was like living in Hawai’i Volcanoes National Park. It was beautiful, exciting, primal, smoldering and yes, dangerous.

  The most beautiful things in the world are always at least a little out of our control.

  We finally reached my car and Anatoly stopped, looking left, then right, scanning the street for Zipcars and men in black hats. “If you’re being followed they’re being very discreet about it,” he noted, speaking the first words since he had button his pants and I had refastened my bra.

  The prospect of a discreet stalker wasn’t exactly reassuring. But aloud I said, “I’m sure it’s fine. I seriously doubt we’re being watched.”

  That was a lie. Not only did I not seriously doubt it, I suspected it. But the truth seemed unwelcome at that moment, as it so often is.

  Anatoly smiled wryly. “It’s best if you wait here in your car for a little while. Give me time to get to my bike and get home first, just in case there’s someone waiting for you there.”

  “Why don’t you call me the minute you get to your bike and then we can arrive home together,” I replied, glancing up at the charcoal grey sky.

  He hesitated and then leaned over and gave me a sweet, lingering kiss. “A compromise I can live with.” When he pulled away I let myself into my Audi, taking my place behind the wheel.

  “You’ll wait for my text?” Anatoly asked, insisting on assurance. “I had to park quite a ways from here.”

  “I’ll wait.” I watched as he closed my driver’s-side door and strode off purposefully down the sidewalk.

  I leaned back against my seat and closed my eyes. I wasn’t going to step away from this case. I was absolutely sure Anatoly knew that. But I was equally sure he was going to push back against it and make it difficult for me.

  My phone vibrated in my bag and I fumbled for it, reluctantly opening my eyes again. The number on the screen was unfamiliar. “Hello?”

  “Sophie Katz?” asked the bored, sexy voice of Gundrun Volz’s assistant.

  Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. “Speaking,” I confirmed. I sounded so calm. Like I had no problem being called by the assistant of the man who may have tried to kill me a few hours earlier. As if I didn’t have to remind myself on how to breathe while I waited for her to put her dreaded boss on the line.

  “Hi,” she said, suddenly sounding unsure of herself. “This is Mr. Volz’s assistant, Charity. You, um…never gave me that information--”

  “Exactly what information does Gun think he’s entitled to?” I interrupted.

  “Oh no, not Mr. Volz. Me,” she corrected. “I was hoping you might be able to share your hairstylist’s information?”

  I blinked, taken a bit off guard. “That’s…why you’re calling?”

  “I’m sorry, is it a bad time?” she sounded genuinely apologetic. “I know I’m being pushy. It’s not as if you know me. But since I moved here I’ve been to four different hairstylists and none of them have really improved my situation.”

  “Uh-huh.” I was still feeling a little disoriented. Tonight I had confronted a potential murderer, been forced to dodge a speeding car, had a knock-down-drag-out with my boyfriend followed by some amazing problem-avoidance-sex and now I was talking about hair. The night was on a weird trajectory.

  “My hair’s a little different,” she was saying. “Not everyone knows how to deal with it. The hair toward the front of my head has these loose, defined curls but the hair on the crown of my head is a frizzy mess and the rest of my hair is so out of control I don’t know what it’s doing. I…I need help.”

  She was singing the curly-haired girl’s anthem. “Yeah, of course, I get it,” I assured her. “Should I just text you…” but I cut myself off. I was being handed a huge opportunity here. This was my chance to talk to this woman about her boss, Dr. Evil. “The thing about my hairstylist,” I said, beginning again, “is he’s very…in demand. Everyone wants to see him but he obviously can’t see everyone.”

  “Oh.” For once her voice sounded more disappointed-sexy than bored-sexy. “I mean, if I have to wait a long time for an appointment, I could do that,” she offered.

  “Four months?” I asked. “Because that’s the average wait.”

  “Oh.”

  “Actually average isn’t really right.” A couple of giggling teens walked by, adding a muted laugh track to my conversation. “Five months is more like the average.” That was probably a stretch but she didn’t need to know that.

  “Oh.”. Each oh got a little lower in tone and a little more tragic in inflection.

  “You know,” I pushed my seat back, stretched out my legs, “I might be able to speed things up for you a bit.”

  “Really?” She asked. The sound of hope in her voice was the sound of my hook catching.

  “Yeah, let me call him. He’s a really close friend of mine and we have plans to hang out tomorrow night.” That was another fib. “But maybe I could just hang out with him in the salon while he does your hair?”

  “Wait…do you mean you think you can get me in to see him tomorrow night?” she asked, excited now.

  “Would that work for you?”

  The answer was a clear and definitive yes. Less than one minute after getting off the phone with her I called Marcus.

  “I can’t help you,” he said emphatically as soon as I explained the situation.

  “Yes you can.” My phone made a little buzzing sound and I pulled it away to see I had a text from Anatoly telling me I should wait another five minutes before heading home. How far away had the man parked? I could have been curled up on my couch by now.

  “Sophie, I’m not just booked, I’m overbooked,” Marcus explained. “Everybody wants to get their hair done for their holiday parties. And I’m not going to stay late into the night to tame some stranger’s curls. I have a life.”

  “Marcus, you are the one who pushed me into looking into London’s death,” I pointed out, banging my palm against the steering wheel. “It’s because I took your advice that Anatoly and I have been arguing non-stop.”

  “In that case you should be thanking me. I know how much you like your make-up sex.”

  “And it’s because I’ve been investigating this thing,” I continued, ignoring his snark, “that I was almost killed tonight.”

  There was a long silence on the phone as a bicyclist zipped past my car. “You want to run that one by me again?” Marcus finally asked.

  “Today I went to Gundrun Volz’s home--” I began.

  “I’m sorry, you what?”

  “He invited me there,” I explained. “He wanted to thank me for the article I did about him in the Chronicle.”

  “But you didn’t do an article on him for the Chronicle…did you?” he asked, sounding really confused now.

  “No, I didn’t but he didn’t necessarily know that and he said he thought I did and I didn’t realize that he knew I didn’t until I got to his house which he invited me to in order to thank me for writing the article.”

  “Wait--”

  “And then ten minutes after I left his house,” I went on, thoroughly done with waiting, “a car, a Zipcar no less, tried to run me down. Seriously, it turned the corner, aimed and then barreled right toward me. It was pure luck that I was able to get out of the way in time.”

  “Oh my God,” he whispered. I relaxed a little bit. Oh my God was the right react
ion. He would help me now.

  “So that’s why I’m asking you to see Gun’s assistant after hours,” I explained as I pulled onto the street. “I need you to clip her hair so I can pick her brain. Is your answer still no? Say it’s not.”

  “It’s not,” Marcus said, definitively.

  I sighed in relief.

  “It’s hell no,” Marcus finished.

  “What?” The brake lights of the car in front of me flashed, blinking a red warning.

  “Honey, I know I’m the one who told you to pursue this thing but that’s when I thought you were being crazy. I simply couldn’t picture a homicidal, Macbeth quoting, maniac signing up for a Zipcar account.”

  “You thought I was being crazy?”

  “Zipcars are just adorable. They should be driven by adorable people!” he explained. “Murderers drive BMWs, Mercedes and Toyota Corollas. That’s just the way of the world, or at least it should be.”

  I gripped the steering wheel a little more tightly. This conversation was not going the way I had planned.

  “But now that some motherfucking Zipcar enthusiast is trying to commit vehicular homicide…Sophie this thing may actually be real.”

  “Of course it’s real!” I shouted, banging my palm against the wheel again. “I can’t believe you went all motivational-speaker on me without actually believing in the cause you were advocating for!”

  “You needed an adventure!” Marcus protested. “I thought this would be a good one, a safe one for you! But girlfriend, this London Bridge is falling down so you need to do a U-turn and find a different route to happiness.”

  “If someone wants me dead I have to stop him.” I came to an abrupt stop at an intersection, making my brakes squeal in protest. “You showed me the way into this mess now you’re going to help me find the way out. That starts with figuring out what the fuck we can do with this woman’s schizophrenic curls. You understand me? You will make time for her and you will let me sit with you two so I can extract the information I need. And what the hell does Macbeth have to do with any of this?”