Sex, Lies & Nikolai

by R. J. Lewis

  It’s not easy when I’m lusting after pussy.

  I nearly laugh at myself.

  This girl…

  There’s something about this girl that makes me want to undress her, fuck her, pin her beneath me, wrap my hands around her neck until she’s struggling for breath as I make her come time and time again.

  I shake my head. The girl rejects me, looks at me like I’m filth, and it just makes me lust after her more.

  It’s funny because it’s so fucked up. I usually spend this time empty and emotionless, like my father before me. I know why that is. I know why I made myself this way.

  I was fourteen when I first saw my father slam his fist against my mother.

  She wanted to leave him.

  He couldn’t be without her.

  She tried to sneak out with nothing but the clothes on her back when he caught her. We’d just come back early from a meeting with the Sokolov and she was there at the gate, getting ready to leave in another man’s car.

  I’ve never seen my father erupt the way he did. He always remained in charge. Suit was always ironed out, hair always slicked to perfection. He never hesitated for a second in his life, and he never gave away his emotions.

  But he broke when he saw her on the other side of our black iron gates getting ready to slip inside a car with a man behind the wheel. Instead of getting out, my father accelerated the vehicle and slammed it into the gate, bending it so it wouldn’t open. Then he got out, and I stayed put in the front, watching as he slipped between the bent bars of the gate and came barrelling at them.

  I’ve never seen him like that. Never seen him lose his control. He was an animal. A crazed being. A man I feared now more than anything.

  He slammed his fist into her and she fell to the ground, sobbing at his feet. Father then grabbed at the man behind the wheel and dragged him out of the car. The man had pulled out a knife from his pocket.

  “Father!” I screamed. “He’s got a knife!”

  He stabbed him in the leg, but that didn’t slow my father down. I would soon learn why that was. When the adrenaline overtakes you, when anger is so thick you can taste it on your tongue, you become numb. You don’t feel as quick as others. You become a machine, bent on raining down hell on your enemies.

  He pulled the knife out in an instant and he threw it as far away as he could. Looking down at the man, he slammed his foot into his face, knocking him unconscious.

  Then he turned to my mother, and I’ll never forget the way he kneeled down before her, spitting in her face before grabbing at her hair and forcing her to look up at him. He shook, cursing at her, raising his hand to strike her again. I got out of the car, about to scream for him not to, when he dropped his hand and collapsed to the ground, growling words at her instead.

  I heard bits of them from where I stood.

  I gave you everything.

  You never went without.

  How could you?

  How could you do this to me?

  My mother lay bleeding, but she never cried. She never begged for forgiveness. She stared at him instead, her eyes filled with hatred, uttering four simple words.

  Because you’re a monster.

  My father just stared at her. He wanted to kill her, but he loved her too.

  He had his men pick the unconscious man up and take him somewhere. I never saw what happened to him. I never learned who he was, though I quickly learned he was her lover. My father would have taken his time killing him.

  When he saw me later that night, his face neutral, his suit and hair back in place, he icily turned to me and said, “This is why we don’t love, Nikolai. It is weakness. It is madness. It will soften you, and men are not created to be soft.”

  I followed his advice.

  I became him, until becoming him turned me into the very thing my mother – and I – loathed.

  Chapter Twelve.

  Nikolai doesn’t leave my thoughts for the rest of the ride home.

  We get to the apartment and I’m immediately cautious at the sight of my violent neighbour from last night out front of his door, stroking it as he coos drunkenly, “Come on, baby, open the door for me. We need to talk. I love you.”

  I steer Scarlett with an iron grip past him and to our door. I feel his gaze shift to me and I’m immediately drenched in anxiety as I shakily stick the key in and open the door. Scarlett isn’t dumb. She senses my shift in demeanour and hurries inside the second it’s open. Ignoring his eyes, I hurry inside too and shut the door behind me, resting my back against it.

  The man unnerves me. It’s not just last night that’s put me on edge. It’s his eyes, dark and beady, looking me over with sick intent. I’ve had eyes like those staring me down and I can’t help but form images in my head of him over top of me, forcing himself on me and me trying to fight him off – a task I would fail at because he’s that much bigger than me. It’s a possibility I have to consider living here, even though I cringe to think of it.

  I hope to God the woman next door doesn’t open up for him. I hope she kicks him out and he stops coming back.

  Scarlett turns to me, her brows pushed together in worry. I try my best to steel myself and a fake smile begins to form when there is suddenly a fist pounding against my door. My back feels it, and I jump away from it.

  “Hey, can you open the door?” I hear him call out, his voice deceptively friendly.

  My heart is pacing at a million miles an hour. I turn away from the door and grip Scarlett by the shoulder. “Go to our room,” I whisper to her. “Play with Rumple.”

  I push her gently in the direction of our bedroom, and she moves urgently, her new shoes lighting up with every step.

  He bangs on the door again. “I need a phone,” he says. “Can I borrow yours? I need to make a phone call.”

  I ignore him and quietly lock the door. There’s no way in hell I’m going to open up for him. If I do, I lose all power.

  I stay by the door the entire time he’s banging on it. Sometimes he’ll move away and bang on the neighbour’s and then Roberta’s, but nobody opens up for him.

  He gets shittier as the minutes go by.

  “I know you’re in there!” he shouts, kicking at my door. “Stop ignoring me, bitch.”

  I keep my mouth shut, and at one point I lean into the peephole to look at him. He’s red in the face from anger, his body uncontained as he storms up and down the hallway, kicking and banging at everyone’s doors as he goes. But he always comes back to my door, and he alternates between being friendly, to being pissed.

  “I know what you look like,” he growls. “I know where you live.”

  The words give me chills.

  “Open up and help me out. I don’t got a place to stay tonight. Let me stay with you, blue eyes.”

  I shake with paranoia, wondering if he’ll break my door down if I keep ignoring him. I go to the kitchen and pull a knife out of the knife block, and then I sink to the floor beside the door and hold it to my chest, listening to him rage on for over two hours.

  He diverts his attention back to the neighbour and he kicks wildly at her door, telling her he’ll never love her again if she doesn’t open up. I don’t think she’s home, though, because I can’t hear her. Or she might be playing quiet like me, I don’t know.

  All I do know is I have truly had enough. I have reached my last straw. I live in a shithole and I’m tired of it. I’m so fucking tired of it.

  Closing my eyes, I try to fight the fear inside of me. I feel like I can’t catch a break. Everywhere I turn I’m faced with obstacles. Now I can’t even live in my tiny unit in peace! It’s just one thing after the other. Over and over and over again. A slog up a mountain that is kicking me down.

  When will enough be enough?

  Why is this our normal?

  Why didn’t we come from warmth instead of this cold depravity?

  Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he leaves, stumbling down the hall, the probability of him heading out
to the nearest pub high. When he’s gone, I still feel this immobilizing pressure inside of me. I’m too afraid to open the door in case he’s hiding in some corner, and I’m so tense with fear, I can barely move to go check on Scarlett.

  My heart won’t slow down, and my breathing speeds up as spots form behind my eyes. I think I’m having a panic attack. The anxiety is so strong, it’s like a noose around my neck. Why am I feeling like this?

  I’m losing my fucking mind.

  Scarlett comes out later. She’s changed into her night gown, but she’s still wearing her shoes, and they’re lighting up with every step. I drop the knife down and she crawls into my lap, her warmth invading every corner of my being. Her tiny hand runs over my cheek, and she whispers, “It’s okay, Alina,” over and over again.

  Tears fall from my eyes, hitting her head as I nod over and over again, my throat too clogged up to respond. I don’t feel alright.

  “It’s okay,” she continues.

  I’m supposed to look after her. It’s not meant to be the other way around. But I can’t lie, it feels good to be reassured, even if it’s from a five-year-old.

  “I love you,” she tells me.

  “I love you too, Scar.”

  I squeeze her tightly. She’s all I have. I’m all she’s got. But right now it’s not enough anymore.

  *

  I read this paragraph from this book once in school when I was younger. It was a stupid book, I can’t remember what it was about, but the passage struck a chord in me. I don’t remember it word for word, but I got the gist of it, and I can’t stop thinking about it right now as I sit in the doorway of my bedroom, knife still in my hand, staring at the front door in the early hours of the morning because paranoia has eaten its way into my subconscious.

  Desperate people will do what it takes to give themselves hope. They’re not trying to hurt others. They’re not making choices they would have made in a stable life. They’re just doing what it takes, one foot after the other, on a journey to a better life.

  You can’t judge someone until you’re in their shoes.

  You can’t give a desperate person advice when you’re not faced with the same hardships as them.

  You simply don’t know what it’s like.

  Seeking insight, I asked Mother what it meant when I got home. She told me it was stupid dribble for the intellectuals to figure out. “Some pretty people put together some pretty verses and now other pretty people have to figure it out,” she’d drawled.

  She’s brilliant, isn’t she?

  What a classy mother.

  I stopped asking her for insight after that because she’d become a bitter hopeless twat that never wanted to move forward.

  And now sitting here, Scarlett asleep in bed behind me with Rumple to her chest, I wonder if I’ll become Mother. She stayed put in her lifestyle. She never changed or did anything to improve our situation.

  Is that what I’m doing by not going to Nikolai? Am I passing a chance to improve my life, even if it’s just a little bit?

  I don’t want to be bitter and hopeless. I don’t want to look at people who are far better off than me and hate them just because they were given different things in life. It’s not their fault they were loved and spoiled and never got to go to bed hungry.

  What if I could change all this? I can feel motivated. I can be driven. I’m a hard worker and I have a hunger to learn.

  I just need money. And his words…his words hold the key.

  “You give me something, I pay. Think about it carefully.”

  I just don’t think I can do it yet.

  *

  I stir at the sound of light footsteps nearby. I’m stiff and sore, my body curled on the ground with my back against the bedroom door. I’m halfway dreaming when I hear something else clinking, and it sounds like it’s coming from the kitchen.

  This time my eyes shoot open. It’s dark and still in the apartment, but my spine tingles as I direct my line of sight to the kitchen entrance. There’s a dim light coming from there but there shouldn’t be. I’d turned everything off just before I began my pathetic attempt at guarding Scarlett from the drunk pounding on my door.

  Thinking about him makes my gaze flicker to the front door. I immediately sit up when I see the lock isn’t in place. I scramble for my knife but it’s gone and a sinking feeling forms at the pit of my belly. But just as panic begins to encroach on me, I hear someone whistling a familiar tune, and my shoulders instantly drop.

  Grant.

  It’s ironic because I feel relief, even though I shouldn’t be.

  On cue, he steps out of the kitchen and begins to walk in my direction, but when he sees me his boots stop mid-step.

  “I didn’t wake you, did I, precious?” he asks, his scratchy voice making me cringe with bad feelings.

  I glare up at him. “Where’s my knife?”

  He chuckles. “We know what happens when little girls carry pointy weapons.”

  I don’t respond to his dig, but fear floods me and I look over my shoulder, searching for Scarlett.

  “She’s still in there,” he tells me. “I wouldn’t wake my beauty up. You should come join me in the kitchen. I grabbed breakfast.”

  He disappears inside the kitchen, but my gaze is still trained on Scarlett. I get up and make sure she’s still in bed. When I see her form I don’t feel any less dread. I leave her there and shut the door, hoping to God she doesn’t hear Grant.

  He’s in the kitchen, two mugs out on the counter in front of him. There’s a kettle on and a bag of McDonalds. The clock on the oven reads 4:37am. In deed it’s breakfast time for drug dealers.

  He tears open the bag and throws hash browns and an egg muffin on two plates, still whistling joyfully like he still lives here.

  “Where do you wanna eat, precious?” he asks me. “Balcony still got our chairs?”

  My nose flares in disgust as he turns to look at me. He’s got a light blond beard and the filthiest dark eyes I’ve ever looked into. Those eyes look me over. He has a way of making me feel naked, no matter what I wear, and it makes me ill and slimy.

  “Why are you here?” I demand, ignoring his question.

  “I came to see your ma,” he replies.

  “She’s not here.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “So there’s no reason for you to be here too.”

  He chuckles and moves to me. He’s wearing his signature black jeans and a white tank. His biceps look huge and his chest is wider like’s been working out more. It takes extraordinary will power not to move as I scowl at him.

  Do not be afraid, Alina.

  “I wanted to see my daughter,” he tells me.

  My body goes rigid. I want to tell him she might not be his and remind him that Mom’s a slut and Scarlett can be anyone’s. But that would be like dangling meat to a lion. Grant is violent and aggressive. Catching him in this kind of mood is a rarity, one that requires extreme patience, but not the kind he can take advantage of.

  “She sleeps in late,” I say.

  “That’s alright. I can wait.”

  I fume as he turns back. My gaze flickers to the knife block, but every hole is empty. The stupid fuck hid them. When I look back at him, he’s staring right at me, smirking knowingly. I mask my anger and turn away, jerking my head to the living room.

  “We’ll eat in there,” I tell him quietly.

  He makes coffee and sets the plates down on the coffee table. I sit on the far end of the couch, and he sits right in the middle. The plate is on my lap, but I don’t eat.

  “I got something for Scarlett. You don’t need to starve, Alina.”

  I don’t buy the kind tone he’s using at all.

  “So where’s Sandra? I need to see her.”

  I shrug. “No clue.”

  Grant watches me as he chews loudly. “Find another dick to run off with?”

  “No clue, Grant.”

  “Well you have to have a fuckin’ clue about it, Alina. Y
ou live with the cunt, after all.”

  I turn to him and lock my jaw as I reply, “She robbed me and took off.”

  Those pale brows shoot up. “Robbed you?”

  “Yeah, robbed me.”

  Grant breaks out laughing, and cold rage zips through my veins as I watch the food come flying out of his mouth and landing on the couch. How many times have I cleaned this couch after them? Too many times. Way too many times.

  “Saying she robbed you implies you had money in the first place,” he cackles.

  “I did have a nest egg and the bills put aside.”

  “You sound real vulnerable right about now.” His eyes brighten as he looks at me. “You need help, precious?”

  I grind my teeth together. “I’m not vulnerable enough to be your mule, Grant.”

  “Well, you don’t have many options available.” He shrugs in that casual way again, the kind that makes me want to break his shoulder blades with a hammer. “I can put in a good word for you, like I did your mother. You can get some good returns and all you have to do is deliver some snow.”

  “No.” I say that firmly and I don’t expand.

  He stares at me for a while, his chewing movements slowing. “Don’t say no to me, precious,” he says lightly, but there’s really nothing light about his words. “You remember what happened the last time you mewled no.” His eyes drop to my legs as he swallows audibly. “Let’s not start repeating the past, okay?”

  And what did I do to you when you tried? I want to retort.

  I don’t know where I get the strength from, but I stare back at him without hesitation. The worst thing a girl like me can do right now is look away, appear weak, and be taken advantage of. The second a wolf knows he has to work for his food – and I mean really work for it – he’ll move on to easier prey.

  Plus, I’m not scared. I’m really not, or at least I keep telling myself that as I narrow my eyes at him. He doesn’t dare drop his gaze to my legs again, because he knows. He knows what I’m capable of.

  Turning away from me, he shrugs again with more reservation. He’s backed down. “You can go to Franko, too. He’s probably the better option. He’s all wrapped around Natasha’s finger, and you two have an old friendship. She’ll put you through.”