Fearless 2: a Sports Romance

by Amarie Avant

  “Oh, I thought I knew you, too,” the Aussie chuckles, with effort, while regaining air into his lungs. “You’re the fighter, Karo?” Now, he’s gripping a frying pan in one hand. I brace my forearm, but he slams the damn thing right over my left shoulder. It sends another man clear out.

  In seconds, all three of us have taken out the guys in the kitchen.

  “I’m the fighter.” I shrug, taking a deep breath, licking the blood from my busted lip.

  “Okay, wanker, can I get your autograph, and mind telling me what had you acting like a fuckstick?”

  His choice of words goes over my head. I was in the wrong and this is as close as we get to an apology on my part.

  “Sure.” I shrug, grabbing a tab and a pen from the apron of one the servers Yuri just put down.

  “Dah, I’d like to know, too?” My cousin smooths the lapel of his suit.

  We chat for a few minutes as the Aussie tells me his girl is in their hotel room sick, so he came down for a drink, at least I think he said that. He tosses words out like spiffed and chockers and I pat his back.

  A waitress heads into the kitchen and she stops in her wake, sees all the guys on the ground, and then glances at the three of us. She grabs a plate on the counter and goes back to her business.

  “We better get the fuck outta here, before they wake up,” Yuri says.

  “It was fun, mates,” the Aussie heads for the door.

  I start for it.

  “Brat, I’m not gonna waste my fucking breath again, but tell her that Anatoly is coming around.” Yuri’s shoulders lift in defeat.

  Without responding, I press my hands against the kitchen door, and allow it to swing open.

  Nothing, aside from my marriage, is off topic. Yuri always understands where my head is at. He was a little bitch when I told him to stay away from Zariah, but in the end, he respected that. And he was right, Zariah did love the family—the half that Anatoly uses his fucking puppet master antics on from across the ocean. My uncle’s side of the family is closer to me than anything. Malich has always been more like a father to me. His sons, especially Yuri, are more brothers than that of the football team of half siblings I have.

  For the longest, I couldn’t give a fuck about my father. Anatoly held me under the same regard. But after losing my belt to Gotti, my father wanted to intervene. And I haven't told Yuri the extent to Anatoly's interest in my life these days.

  It has nothing to do with him.

  And it sure as hell doesn’t have anything to do with Zariah because unlike her willingness to meet and greet with Malich, Yuri and the rest of them, she will never be crossing paths with my father. I won’t allow it.

  I just have to get Anatoly Resnov out of my fucking face.

  Zariah

  A week Later…

  Mom’s right. We honestly don’t mix at all. Like bad pancake mix that you try to make crepes with but in the end, it results in something even worse. That’s the first analogy that came to mind the instant we returned to our reality. Los Angeles.

  Planning Natasha’s first birthday was a horror story before we left for Brazil. Heck, the seven months leading to Vassili’s smackdown on the Brazilian, Tiago, trumped any season of American Horror Story, and I actually like it. Vassili hates that show. Nevertheless, every season, I lay on his chest and watch every episode, clutching him in fear or spilling popcorn on him when the gore is too good to turn away.

  We simply don’t mix. He likes Russian food, I have my certain favorites. However, most of it I loathe. He loves squeezing the forearm conditioner when we are arguing, and that’s pretty much how we got to Brazil. His jaw tensed, mine set in a line too, sitting in silence in first class.

  Now, it’s the perfect first day of summer, a Saturday morning, to be more precise. And the icing on the cake? Two cakes that is. We’re celebrating Natasha’s first birthday. I don a colorful maxi dress and Vera Wang sandals with gemstones, while Vassili is stepping out of the shower. “Damn, girl, bring that ass over here,” he tells me, as I stand in the bathroom, fixing my hair.

  Dang, now there is no problem with my husband glancing me up and down while water glistens over mounds of muscles and tattoos. I woke up earlier than him, and got dressed because there are a few surprises for Natasha’s birthday that in retrospect will be quite the surprise to Vassili and his pockets soon.

  One, I might have blown the bank for Natasha’s first birthday. Two, there’s a petting zoo on the way to our home, with the clown he and I compromised and nixed, with Vassili in my face when I called to cancel. The instant he left my side, I called back and got the damn clown, including a few ice sculptures that I was told were on sale.

  While brushing the waves in my long weave, I start off with a little deception, saying, “Um, I’m going to finish getting dressed.”

  Vassili opens the glass door and steps out of the shower. “Good, good, you can do that after I get you undressed.”

  I make the mistake of looking at his body. The impeccable art that was carved into his chiseled chest. The way his abs stop at a V-shape which brings my eyes lower.

  Before I can make a mad dash to the exit, he wraps his arms around me, his cock hardening by the second. “Damn, Vassili, whether it’s a shower or sweat, you just love to screw with me.”

  “I do.” He nips at my earlobe. “You had my baby, Zariah. And I have to show my appreciation.”

  “Mmmm,” I moan as he turns me around in the mirror, my ass pulled against his hard rock. His hand slithers into my low-cut dress, tugging at my nipple. “I hate you, Vassili, don’t do this to me…” I groan.

  “I miss your pregnant belly.” He says planting my hands on the counter. “Those titties full of milk use to fucking spill out of your bra when I fucked you from the back.”

  The lips of my pussy are dying for him.

  “And when you had my daughter, shit, Zar, no woman in the world could touch how beautiful you were that day. Not before it, not since. You are my queen.”

  “You are trying to play me for a piece of ass,” I chortle, although he has me precisely where he wants me. All the sneak purchases for our baby girl have flown from my mind. The second he commands me to be wide open for him, that is exactly what I’ll do.

  He starts to descend to his knees behind me. “Girl, you and this long ass skirt, I don’t like it,” he says.

  I chuckle as he stops ‘gaming me up for some ass’ to argue with me. “Whatever, Vassili, I have stuff to do.”

  His face is against my ass, and he holds me there. Damn it if I don’t want to come out of my panties and this maxi for him. I can feel the warmth of his breath through the material. My thong is drenching with each exhale. All he has to do is issue a command—

  DING. DONG.

  My eyes close instantly. My head falls back.

  “That was nothing,” he says, voice muffled as the wetness of his tongue starts to seep through the material and leaves me breathless.

  “I have to go, baby,” I murmur. He’s wrong, it’s a whole lot of something. Like I said, it might be the clown and the zoo, but it may very well be bayou princess Tiana. The Princess and the Frog themed birthday was what Vassili agreed upon. He isn’t aware that I chose a celebrity chef and hand selected the food, and even though I’m in a lot of trouble once the party is over, our baby is worth it.

  People say that planning weddings brings with it stressors, as much tension and irritation as tears of joy, but I swear, planning Natasha’s first birthday rivaled that strain. Yet, we’ve managed to come home from vacation, and right now life is good.

  So, I hustle away, leaving the sexiest man alive on his knees, naked in the bathroom.

  ***

  My mom has been given the task of ushering the various vendors to the different parts of our vast backyard. There’s a cart, which was quaintly decorated in the appropriate Princess and The Frog theme, with a baker handing out freshly made beignets and other similar desserts. But that’s not to be confused with the
tier rolled fondant cake or the much tinier, princess shaped one that Natasha will get to dig in all on her own.

  With the pony ride area forced to the farthest corner of the backyard, children of all ages are seated before a movie screen, almost as nostalgic as an outdoor movie theater, watching clips of Princess and the Frog.

  There’s a canopied section with linen tables and a DJ, and Natasha is in the photo booth with friends and cousins from my side of the family and Vassili’s who all want to share the special day with her.

  “So why didn’t I get the memo?” I nudge my chin to my husband who is talking to his uncle while I stand next to my mentor and employer, Samuel Billingsley. They’re both wearing t-shirts with Natasha’s photo on them. Heck, my mom’s zipping around the backyard and I could’ve sworn she had a shirt in her hand, the last time I saw her, too. Yuri is fixing my best friend, Taryn’s, silky straight hair, as Taryn places a shirt over the tiny tee she was just wearing.

  “C’mon, you’re a designer girl, besides your outfit matches cutie pies,” Samuel chuckles. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him that Taryn is even more about the labels than I am, but he reads me so well, inquiring, “You still worried about your dad making it?”

  Damn, my father has been in the back of my mind for a while. “You can tell?”

  He nods.

  I sigh. “We’ve been at odds for long enough. Heck, I don’t care if we continue to clash, but today is about Natasha, not us or his dislike of my husband.”

  “Call him already,” Samuel begins to back away. “And whatever his response is, breathe.”

  I sidestep a few happy children heading to the petting zoo, and pull out my cell phone. My father answers the call on the first ring.

  “Good afternoon, princess.” His voice is contrite at best.

  “Dad, you RSVP’d last minute to the party, and I didn’t even argue with you about bringing Berenice.” I keep my eyes on Yuri and Taryn. He’s like a polar bear next to her thin, model type body. They’re glancing into each other’s eyes as if there isn’t a gang of children running around them. Be happy is what I tell myself. I cut my monologue short with, “So, are you coming before the cake is served? This is your granddaughter’s first birthday.” Feels like mention the obvious is required.

  “Zariah, I do not need the reminder. There was a bank robbery on Century and Normandie.”

  “So, what? You are the Chief of Police, and very capable of delegating assignments to the proper unit.”

  “Due to your current employment I am not sure if you keep up to date on current events.” My dad never fails. When he can toss shit in your face he will. Maxwell Washington has so much to be disappointed in me for that it’s a wonder we were engaged in conversation this long without him going in. Samuel Billingsley is one of his oldest friends, and ex-Chief Deputy District Attorney. My childhood mentor was the reason I chose law school, yet, let my father tell it, and I chose to become a lawyer and follow the DA route as homage to my father. It must’ve busted his bubble when I chose to work at Billingsley Law firm, which is a family law, after Samuel switched career routes a few years ago.

  I scoff. “I work for your best friend.”

  He disregards that statement and says, “This robbery seems similar to the one which occurred two months ago, Zariah. And therefore, it’s necessary for the department to be on one accord to determine if this is an isolated incident, or should we have the public complaining? Princess, putting work first is exactly how I raised you. Or attempted, rather.”

  “Oh, it’s an election year isn’t it. Let’s not piss off your friends who want an office repeat and have helped you get to where you are. Do them a solid, since they’re good as family.”

  I click the off button. Samuel walks over with a beignet. “We cannot allow others to ruin our mood, but we can allow food to pick it back up.”

  I laugh at him, and shake my head. I’m still unable to fathom how Samuel became friends with Vassili. Although he resigned from the district office, the first encounter with them together, Samuel warned me to steer clear of riffraff like Vassili. But Samuel gave Vassili a chance and learned that he’s much more than the last name Resnov. A name I once feared. Samuel is the greatest father figure anyone could ever have. Sucks that I have a willing father, Maxwell Washington. He is willing to welcome me home with open arms, if I divorce my husband.

  Vassili comes up to me, holding out my shirt.

  “Oh, you are awful. Made me wait until last.” I shake my head. “This shirt is awesome!”

  “That pose was supposed to be mine,” Samuel says. “Love that photo.”

  “Sam helped me choose the photos for each shirt,” Vassili says.

  Each of our shirts are different, but all have Natasha’s gorgeous photo on them. Mine also has the writing, “The bully’s mama.” I recall the exact moment this photo was taken. Natasha stood for the first time, for a fraction of a second. Her hands were balled into fists. In retrospect, it looks like she was ready to go to war, cute face to boot.

  Just as I slip the shirt over my head, Vassili kisses me. “Now, I have something for us all. The people who design my Karo gear, and these shirts, put together a video. You promise not to cry if I show it?”

  I mock pout, though my eyes are burning with happy tears. “Oh, baby.”

  “Nah, don’t ‘oh baby’ me, girl. No crying. Can I use the large screen you snuck and rented?”

  My face breaks into a smile. “Dang, you knew I’d go behind your back and rent it anyway!”

  “I did. And instead of it just sitting there with clips of a movie we have seen a trillion times, I have something in my email that I need to pull up.”

  The tears of happiness continue to swell in my eyes. My husband beats strong men into submission, he is someone to be feared, but he is incredibly thoughtful, too.

  Vassili pulls me to him. “Girl, you better dare not cry.” He kisses me hard on the lips again, before walking away.

  Vassili

  I head over to the attendant manning the big screen. Children are seated before it, watching the scene were Princess Tiana turns into a frog. They have those theater bags of popcorn in their hands.

  “Where’s uncle?” I ask Yuri as he catches up with me. My uncle, Malich is all about family, so this will be the highlight of his day. He’d gotten his t-shirt and went to change, but I haven’t seen him since.

  “Igor was eating everything in sight,” Yuri says of his brother. “Dad took him home. Anna is staying here with their kids.”

  I shake my head. Why does it take Malich to keep his grown ass son from trying to kill himself? The idiot, Igor, has diabetes. His wife, Anna, is good at keeping him on track. The different attractions around my home must have kept her entirely too busy with their children to watch her husband.

  “Are you putting that video on now?” Yuri asks.

  The email app on my cell phone pings with a new message. I start to click on the one titled “Baby video,” when I notice a new email, the title in all capital letters.

  FRANK GASPAR.

  I’ll never forget the name.

  The sea matched the pitch black of the night. My heart rate was at a resting pace as I jogged through the sand. My gaze narrowed, a dark figure was standing at the stairs that lead up to my Venice beach house. He stood in the shadows of the wooden pillars, blending well with the stair. Pretending to be oblivious, my eyes shaded somewhat, and I caught sight of a badge. It was one of those “to protect and serve” motherfuckers.

  With a hard frown, I played stupid, continuing at my current pace.

  The outline of a baton went to his side. In the last second, the cop lifted it, saying, “A message from—”

  The baton slammed against my palms so roughly, it broke the skin on my palms as I grabbed it from my skin.

  “You're gonna fucking hit me?!” I whacked him across the head with the stick determined to break the damn thing. Then I gripped him by his neck, slamming him against a p
illar. His feet dangled.

  “Next time you’re given an assignment, back your shit up,” I squeezed until he was dead weight. Fuck, what have I done?

  I reached down and check his pulse.

  Weak.

  “What is it?” My wife’s concerned voice breaks through the memory. Where did she come from? I glance around. Children are running around with cotton candy and parents are chomping on beignets. Balloons fly in the wind. I rationalize where I am.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, she can’t know about him. Zariah and I have our secrets. Big ones. The first died by the name of Sergio. I murdered him slowly just to get Zariah’s attention.

  In a fraction of a second, I’ve deleted the message without opening it.

  Yuri catches the slight look in my eye. “Um, the email, maybe it was sent to me instead of you?” He catches on. “Don’t worry, kazen, let me check.”

  Zariah sighs, “Oh no, I hope you guys find it soon.”

  Yuri pulls out his phone, toggles the apps for a second and then says, “Nope, don’t see it. Let’s go make a call, Vassili. This is my god baby’s birthday. The director had better come through.”

  Director? My cousin sounds like a liar. I shake my head, and we head to the sliding glass door.

  I cock my head and he follows me to the downstairs office. Inside is memorabilia from my previous MMA fights. My first shirt with the Killer Karo symbol is framed above the back of my desk. I head to my leather chair, claiming it with a heavy heart.

  “We need water?” Yuri asks, hesitantly.

  I nod. From the inside of his suit jacket, he pulls out a bottle of Resnov vodka, and opens it.

  After he takes a swig, I grab the bottle and toss it to the head, downing much of it. Wiping my mouth, I ask, “Do you remember maybe two years ago or so, I called you over after a run near my old home in Venice?”

  “No.”

  “Some cop came out of nowhere. It was night, and he started to tell me who he was about to beat me up for, but I got him first.”