by Amarie Avant
“Samuel Billingsley,” I call out. Samuel was the district attorney, when my father made lead detective. He excelled at his job before switching gears and becoming owner of Billingsley Legal, the up and coming family-centered firm I chose over the fully established Levine and Son.
His white teeth pop against skin the color of black licorice. His hair is cut into a taper and more salt than pepper than I remember since he attended my graduation from Spelman. He’s offered a wealth of information via email and phone calls during my time in law school, but he had a big case and was unable to travel up north to attend my graduation at Berkley. He appears to have just begun jogging and we hug.
“Last night I arrived home from D.C.,” he strikes up a conversation as if we spoke just yesterday. “I had plans of taking you to lunch this afternoon, when my niece texted me to cancel, said you’d taken a very brief sabbatical.”
I bite my bottom lip. I had texted my supervisor, Connie, his niece, yesterday evening while packing my bags that I was skipping town for the weekend.
“Yeah, I uh…”
“Oh, don't tense up on me, Zariah. Maxwell and I have argued about you since you were bright-eyed, watching me throw down in the court room. He said you’d become a cop like all Washingtons should.” Samuel’s tone dips. My entire parentage was cops, my dad disowned Martin for not becoming a cop, and Samuel is still disgusted by my father’s antics. “My old friend settled for you to join the prosecution team.”
“Well, I had a very good mentor who decided to get out of the game.” I shrug. Although, I would’ve followed Samuel anywhere, when he chose to leave the DA office, I’d grown fond of family law. “My dad will get over it. Somehow, I’m still his favorite child or the only one he’s willing to stomach.”
“You’re his baby girl, of course. But Maxwell had strong convictions about you choosing my team instead of joining those Levines. They are the start of greatness in his eyes.”
“Sheesh, I’m guessing my dad bragged to you when he took it upon himself to secure a job for me at Levine and Son.” I almost smile at the dig. Israel Levine is a handsome man, but I've been told he's more of a wild card than his predecessors. Albeit, the worthier choice in my father’s eye if I chose not to work my way up to prosecutor.
“Yeah, well, look, I believe in work and play. Maxwell should have insisted you took a vacation prior to returning to the workforce. So during the lunch we were supposed to have today, I had intentions of mentioning how I’d prefer you study for the bar exam instead of mindlessly filing papers or waiting for a fieldtrip to court with one of the partners. My niece is a pretty good study partner. The exam is fresh in her mind too.”
“You'll pay me to clock in at work to study with Connie’s help…”
He pats my shoulder. “Call it an investment. I’m a man who gages potential. Pay into you and once you've passed the bar, I've added an indispensable team member. No, family, rather. Maxwell was always like a brother to me even though he …” Samuel pauses mid-sentence as he stairs up the shore.
His gaze is focused, narrowed somewhat, and I turn to follow it. Vassili. He’s noticed Vassili, who is standing about twenty yards away. Vassili is like a perfectly tagged cement wall; all the tattoos on his chest glistening in the morning light, with only a pair of compression pants tugging at the thick muscles in his thighs, legs and calves. While I’m gawking lustfully, Samuel eyes him wearily.
Samuel glances away, shakes his head, and he captures his train of thought. “Maxwell is a greedy old man, but together the firm will explode. We will leave those Levines in the dust.”
“Wow!” My admiration returns, “That's very considerate of you.”
“So I'll see you Monday.” Samuel backs up, jogging in place. “Make it Tuesday. Enjoy somewhat of a time off first. We will polish you up for the bar exam, all right?”
“Yes, sir.” I grin.
“Now, do you have some sort of pepper spray,” he asks.
My face tilts in confusion. “No.”
“Watch yourself. There are some unsavory people in the area.” He nudges his chin toward Vassili before jogging on.
My bottom lip literally drops. I watch Vassili pull a cigarette from behind his ear and grab a lighter from his pocket. He places the cigarette at his beautiful lips and offers a long puff. It's easy to gather my bearings while desiring his gorgeous body. Samuel’s morsel of wisdom about awareness of bad guys goes through one ear and out of the other. Though I doubt he assumed we were together, Samuel always had a father figure stance about him. It came naturally when I’d spend countless hours at the precinct, and he spoke with victim’s families—even when he had to empathetically advise them of plea deals for the criminal who had hurt a beloved son or mother. I’ll never forget this wailing cry coming from a caregiver granddaughter who’d learned that her grandfather’s murderer was offered a lighter sentence due to a technicality. Everyone in the precinct could hear her heart shredding in half. Samuel tried his best to comfort her. He was the best attorney the City of Angels has ever known.
I saunter over to the wolf that I should steer clear of. A faint wind mixes the seaweed scent, coupling it with the natural cologne of his muscular, testosterone and sweat. It’s a delicious fragrance.
“Mr. Billingsley, that mudak,” Vassili says under his breath, giving his cigarette a puff, before blowing the air away from my direction.
“Nope.” I reach up, pretend to kiss him and grab the cigarette. Tossing it to the shore. Well, damn that was littering, but I give a damn about his lungs.
“Really? Fuck, Zariah, I just rolled that cigarette.”
“In your occupation, you shouldn't smoke. Dare I ask how Samuel knows you?”
“Samuel?” His thick brows come together. “Oh that svolach—bastard. My unc—my family lawyers toughened him up when he played the DA. Someone tried to put him on payroll but apparently, he is by the book.”
“Well, let’s change the subject,” I mumble. Samuel said I needed a vacation before the bar, Vassili has offered just that. Everything about him breaks the monotony… just have to keep our lives separately. Damn, last night I brushed off his comment about how he purchased his beachfront home on a whim. Criminals have it like that. I almost glance away from Vassili while realizing this internal motto means that we have no future. If our family isn’t in the cards, then all we have is memories, and the present, until it crashes and burns. With the way he sexes my body, I’ll gladly gain thirty, maybe even forty pounds from stress eating, and crying in tubs of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.
Vassili places his palm on my collarbone, thumbs massaging the pulse at my neck. Then his head lowers. I expect one of those mind-blowing kisses to extract the selfish thoughts from my mind.
No future. Just for fun.
Vassili’s breath is on my forehead. His mouth traces across my skin. “You can ask me anything.”
“And prepare myself for what?” I chortle. Damn, I’ve an attitude for no reason. We don’t have a damn future, Zariah, stop it!
“The truth, Zariah. It’s all I will ever give,” he assures, not matching the aggressive look in my eye, when I know he does anger so very well. Vassili’s tone is soothing when he adds, “Only the truth, sweetheart. If you just ask.”
He's imprinted on my heart, so soon. It's too damn soon to love him. “Vassili, that's unnecessary.”
“Unnecessary, Zariah, you fucking serious? You aren't just a bitch I'm screwing. Are you?” His lips that offered endless amount of pleasure up until the early morning is set in the hardest frown I've ever seen.
I push his chest. “Don’t you ever call me a bitch, Vassili!”
“I’d never do that. You place yourself in that category if we can’t be honest. I was honest about my association with that motherfucker you just spoke to. But listen to me, and listen to me good. I own a lounge, The Red Door. That damn house a half mile back didn't come from a dollar of dirty-ass money. I have sponsors when I fight, beautiful. I probably wo
n't be anywhere near as rich as most Resnovs or even Mr. Billingsley, but I…” He pounds a fist at his chest, “I am legit.”
“Chill out, Vassili. I'm not placing my hands in your pocket, but,” I shove a few strands of flyaway hair from my face, “big ass but, though. Your family isn't comparable to leaving the Crips or Bloods. Evidently, Samuel knew you without introduction. So it isn't like being jumped in or out of a gang.” How does Samuel know you? Don’t do it, Zariah, don’t ask it!
He chuckles, “I just told you that I'm motherfucking legit. No protocol necessary to leave, Zariah, because I've never had my hand in the family business. Mr. Billingsley is aware of me when I came to pick up a kazen from the precinct, that he was unable to toss the book at. I'm clean.” He holds out his hands. “I might look like a dirty motherfucker—tats everywhere. I can go into a five-star restaurant in another country and I'm either asked if I’m a NFL player or some other damn sport.”
“You live for MMA, which is a sport.” I shake my head and half smile as I look up at him. “That's far from making your point.”
“The point is, I'm judged by my looks across the nation. And judged by my family when I open my mouth or if I’m around one of ‘em who just so happened to have a run in with the cops.” He huffs. “I will not be judged by my woman.”
My eyes sting with tears. I reach onto my tippy toes, lingering. Because he’s so angry it’s scorching hot. And because something tells me this isn't just a fling before life and career consumes me. Genuinely feeling him, I say, “I’m sorry, Vassili.”
Vassili
Why the fuck am I already offering to tell her whatever she'd like to know again? Zariah apologies, wrapping her arms around my neck. This time, instead of using that mouth to argue, her mouth is soft against mine.
“I'd love to know more about you. I feel hypocritical, damn, like I’m part of the group who’s stereotyped you.”
“Nah, you aren't a hypocrite. You’re just slow to warm up. That’s why it took us seven years to get to this. You've got to trust me. I swear I would've never bothered you if I were really a bad guy.” I’m legit, I tell myself that it's true. The only drug I've ever touched was cocaine, and just enough to catch a celebratory high. Nothing more. I’d rather vomit than lay a hand on Malich’s most esteemed bitch. I. Am. Legit.
“I trust you,” Zariah utters before my tongue soars into her mouth, searching for her sweetness. We kiss until our lungs burn for oxygen.
“Mmmm…” She inhales deeply, spinning around before me like she's drunk off the taste too.
“Now that you see things my way, let’s jog to Vadim’s,” I paw her ass, offering a hard squeeze. “We’ll see how much this ass can lift.”
“How far is Vadim’s?”
“Did you drink breakfast?”
“Drink breakfast? What a very confusing phrase. How about I catch a Lyft to Vadim’s? What's with the killer face? I'll even do a light stretch during the ride, get myself all hot and bothered for you.” Her giddy little grin is heart-stopping, but I glare at her.
“Run now or pay later,” I order. My growl in her ear prompts her to move. My lips twitch as I follow her and then lead the way to the gym.
###
“You brought meat!” shouts one of the loyalist at the electronic machines in Vadim’s Gym as Zariah opens the bottle of water I just grabbed from the industrial refrigerator at the lobby.
“Don't get your ass handed to you, brah,” I snap.
The guys at the weight station all mention how beautiful Zariah is, calling me a lucky fuck.
“Where's Vadim?” I tell him.
“Dayyyum,” Zariah presses her face into my bicep. “Is that the Sergio… Sergy,” Zariah corrects herself, “that I came to beat up. Some of those other faces look familiar too. They were all like wolves, offering him to me. I never apologized to him.”
“Yeah, that’s Sergy, but we call him the Three Head Monster. I'd never let you apologize to him, no matter how wrong you were.” Tell her. “Don't look in fear, you can probably beat his ass right now. He's all steroids and salt. We're going to make it so that you can takedown any of these cunts on the weights.”
We make it toward the oxygen where Vadim is shouting a two sparing. He's dressed in a collar shirt, jeans and a golf cap on his head, to cover that balding spot these days. He steps down when noticing us, never taking his eyes off Zariah.
“Old man, meet my woman.”
“This mudak has himself a real gorgeous one. And you're smart too!” Vadim shakes her hand.
“Thank you.” Zariah grins.
“No more eye-fucking. Vadim, you’re half blind until a krasavitsa—beauty—comes around.”
“Yeah, yeah, Vassili. I can still bring you to the canvass,” Vadim says.
“He wishes,” Nestor steps down out of the cage, in sparring gear. The rookie in the cage glares at me, I glare back. We have a rule of not cutting in on anyone's practice time.
“Zariah, I'll show you the ropes in a few. Rhy has about thirty minutes to go.” Vadim eyes me wearily. “You're early.”
I watch Vadim retreat toward the cage. I smile at the rookie, who will ensure that every second of my interruption is accounted for, once Vadim gets back. And then I tune into Nestor as he flirts with Zariah.
“Oh you know my name already?” His eyes brighten, and she slides her hand away from his grasp.
“Yes, it's very nice to meet you, Nestor.”
I place my hand against the soft meat along his shoulder blade, applying hard pressure. Nestor’s face contours, and he winces in pain as I speak. “This is my ace! Nestor is always in my corner when I hit the cage.”
“Oh, he is? You should probably be a lot nicer to him,” Zariah admonishes, eyes twinkling
“Yeah, well he didn't catch the fact that you're mine.” I let go of his shoulder. Now, he cusses up a storm.
“Shit, Nestor, if I knew correctly, you're talking about me!” I wag a finger.
Zariah’s eyebrow lifts. “You don't speak Russian?”
“This mudak is Ukrainian.” I shrug. My voice rises, in order for the undercard to hear me. “All right, Nestor get back in the cage with Rhy. Teach him to strengthen those lungs. He makes Vadim look bad in ten weeks, we all look bad.”
“Fuck you!” Rhy points a finger at me.
I toss the middle finger over my shoulder, and escort Zariah to the mat area.
“Wow, Vassili, it's like pulling teeth to get you to smile. Now, I see you reserve those sexy smiles for mockery,” she turns away from Rhy, “What happens in ten weeks?”
“I defend my belt as usual. Rhy is the undercard, his first pro televised fight, and he'll get slap boxed to the ground and probably strangled to death. I want you to come. We fight in Vegas.” I nudge my head to the rope. “Pick it up, beautiful.”
“There’s other, more appealing, workout routines we can be doing right n…” her seductive voice drowns out as she tries to pick up the ultra-thick conditioning rope. “Damn, Mr. Cocky Pants, I’m not trying out for a triathlon.”
“Cocky? You should've stuck around seven years ago. I was the spitting image of Rhy in demeanor, not looks, that face of his is like the rear end of a bitch in heat.”
“So you were out of breath easily.” She tosses back exactly what I told Nestor to assist Rhy on, while struggling to hold up the rope.
“Fuck, no. I'm a bull, baby.” I place myself behind her, ass so fat against my cock that I have to remind myself we are training her. Making her better. Her best. I can’t keep tabs on my woman at all times, and I don’t believe in a woman unable to defend herself. My teeth grit as I realize that Anatoly will learn about her in the future. He’ll ask to meet her. For all his politeness and my outright denials, he’s relentless. It’s a good thing we both are.
I place my forearms along hers, and my hands engulf the back of her hands, steadying her hold on the rope. I kiss the nape of Zariah’s neck, and pray that God always keeps her safe when I’m not
around. My voice is surprisingly steady as I continue with our conversation, “But I was all about power, knocking a motherfucker out.”
“Damn, how much does this weigh.” She grumbles. “TKO’s were your main motivation. Hello, isn't that what you're supposed to do unless the judges call it?”
With the flick of my wrist, I help her position the rope to move. “Not entirely. I’ve never had to win through decision. However, what’s better than a TKO, is submission, ultimate control. TKO is power, nice and quick. Submission is a mentality, setting that shit up, and waiting to kill.”
Zariah
“Watch your hips,” Vadim orders, as Vassili practices with Nestor in the cage. He is standing on the ledge just outside of the fence, gripping onto it. For an old man, he’s pretty agile on his toes, stepping into the cage whenever he needs. He also has included me into the fold. I’ve learned about Jujitsu when he had Vassili completed a few sets, then a few wrestling moves. I was unaware that Mixed Martial Arts encompassed a wide variety of strategies, regardless of the obvious, it being “mixed” martial arts, I have been in the dark.
Every move Vassili makes has me caught up in the rapture of him. I squeeze my legs shut as a new feeling of lonely trembles along my lady lips. My panties are moist, and my mouth is just agape as I watch.
After a while, Vadim keeps me in the loop by explaining that one of the items he brought out was a grappling dummy, and I watched as Vassili hit the ground, and beat the daylights out of the inanimate object, feeling myself becoming hot, bothered, and hornier by the second.
There’s no chance to become bored, as I’m enthralled by his raw power. I sit at the edge of my seat, as he does a combination of a left hook, right low kick that seems to be lethal.
My cell phone vibrates in the pocket of my sweats. Just to stop myself from salivating, I answer the phone. “Hello?” My eyes are locked onto Vassili as he alternates from punch, elbow, knees against the red-padding thingy Nestor is holding up while Vadim encourages or argues.