by Meg Jackson
“Uphill battle, Beebi,” Cristov said with a shrug and used her momentary distraction to sneak a salted caramel from the bowl beside the register, unwrapping it and popping it into his mouth before she turned back around. She caught him mid-chew, a boyish grin on his face.
“God, may I be reincarnated out of this blasted family,” she said, raising a pleading look towards the ceiling. “Get out of here, Cristov. Isn’t it enough that you help yourself to everything in my fridge at home, you gotta pilfer from my store, too?”
“You want your favorite nephew to starve to death?” Cristov asked, mock horror in his eyes.
“Shoo!” she said, flapping her hands. “I got customers who’ll lose their appetite from watching you talk with your mouth full.”
“Only if you promise to make me that world-famous baklava tonight,” Cristov said. He couldn’t get Ricky to accept his flowers or compliments, but no one could resist his aunt’s baklava.
“We’ll see,” Ana said. “Now get out of here. You’ve got your own business to run.”
“Love you, Beebi,” Cristov said as he left. He and his brothers had made a concentrated effort to dote on their aunt ever since her husband’s death. She’d taken the loss with her trademark resiliency and steel will, but she was also grateful for their attentions. Death, for gypsies, was best met with togetherness.
Mid-October in Kingdom was warm in the sun and cold in the shade, and Cristov tried to keep himself in the sun’s good graces as he strolled towards his own shop. Halloween decorations were emerging on store windows, and banners hanging from the streetlights advertised the Halloween parade planned for later that month.
He mused, as he walked, on the difference that Kim had made in the town in her short time as mayor. When he and his brothers had first arrived, Main Street had been a sad and lonely-looking place. Some of the changes had to do with the businesses the kumpania had opened, and the increased foot traffic and money that resulted, but a lot of it had been Kim’s doing, as well.
The Halloween parade, for instance, had been her idea, reinstating a tradition that had fallen to the wayside in the town’s leaner years. The farmer’s market which took over a small park every Saturday had doubled in size due to Kim’s outreach efforts to regional farmers. She had prioritized maintenance projects and beautification of the town based on the Broken Windows Theory. People cared more about their town when it looked like it was worth caring for.
Thinking of Kim made him think of Ricky. The two sisters seemed like polar opposites. It was clear, in the way they spoke of each other, that they were close, but if they weren’t family it would be hard to imagine them being friends.
Kim was focused, driven, and worked more than she played. Ricky was tireless when it came to an article or story she cared about, but otherwise she could be scatter-brained and downright lazy. Kim was sweet and sensitive; Ricky’s humor had a sharp edge, and she came off as cynical most of the time. Kim dove into paperwork and accounting with a smile on her face. Ricky read poetry in her underwear, stomped around to punk music, and couldn’t balance a checkbook to save her life.
And Cristov loved every last one of those things about her. Even the parts that had her denying his affections, because without those parts she wouldn’t be…Ricky. No one had ever been wrong in calling Cristov a hopeless romantic.
He breezed into the tattoo parlor with a smile on his face. He still had a half hour to kill before his client would show up. He knew the man, a repeat customer who wanted Cristov to finish a design he’d started the month prior, a brilliant chest piece of a stag in an evergreen forest. The coloration and shading had been tricky. The client wanted it to be extremely realistic, and Cristov had left the final details unfinished to give the skin time to heal and the ink to take.
“Got a message on the machine for you, boss,” Tina said. The girl was young, only twenty, but her skills were impressive and Cristov had been happy to bring her on as an artist. She had her own small following that kept the shop in good business, and was gaining a reputation at various conventions in the region. Cristov happily paid all expenses for his employees to go to conventions, knowing that a little money spent could turn into a lot of money earned. “Sounded personal.”
“Dandy,” Cristov said, letting himself into the back office. “Tell me when my client comes in.”
“Will do,” Tina promised before returning to her sketchbook.
Cristov leaned back in the old office chair he had found on the curb that summer. Just because he and his kumpania made good money at their various endeavors didn’t mean they weren’t as thrifty as their less-fortunate ancestors. Cutting corners by taking what was free had helped them become successful in the first place, and old habits die hard. He was in such a good mood that he barely registered what the message meant until it was over.
“If you don’t know who this is, you’re dumber than we thought,” the voice coming through the speaker said. “We’ve given you some time now, and we expect you’ll have come to a decision. For everyone’s sake, we hope it’s the right one. Either way, we don’t like waiting. Expect a visit today at 6pm. Don’t try anything funny.”
And just like that, his good mood was gone.
14
“See ya tomorrow, boss,” Tina said as she slung her messenger bag across one shoulder, her sketchbook protruding from the top.
“See ya,” Cristov answered, glancing up from his own sketchbook, his hand tracing a delicate line of a lotus. It was 5:45, and their last client had come and gone for the day. There was only time between him and the fated meeting, time he chose to spend with his pen and paper, his soul’s truest balm.
As a kid, Cristov gravitated towards drawing. When he showed promise, he’d been taken under the tutelage of Kurd Surry, a tattoo artist of some renown who’d inked most of the bodies in the kumpania. The old man died before Cristov was 16, but he’d left the tools of his trade to the young boy with the earnest hope he would continue the legacy. Cristov, young and eager to prove that he was more than just the sum of his older brothers’ parts, was eager to take up the helm.
His talent grew the more he practiced, and since drawing gave him such peace, he found the time to practice no matter what hoopla was going on in the gypsy’s rushed lives. He did most of the work on his brothers, their bodies walking canvases. Kim, when she studied Kennick’s ornate geometric tattoos, could see the evidence of Cristov’s growing talent, the earlier tattoos hidden underneath his expert retouches and covers.
Cristov personally favored traditional Japanese designs, but they weren’t his forte and most of the designs covering his body – the vibrant, brighter-than-life koi fish across one shoulder, the sprouting lotus across his chest, the dragon twining around his bicep – were done by other artists he admired, often as a trade for his own work on their flesh.
There were times, though, when Cristov felt this singular talent was not enough. He looked at his brothers and saw in them all the things he would never be. Damon, the enigmatic man of many talents, the fighter and musician and (unbelievably) cheese monger rolled up into one sturdy, stoic package. Kennick, the arbiter and businessman and steadfast leader, who saw the whole forest and the trees. What did that leave Cristov? The kid brother who drew pictures and grew weed and cracked jokes.
He was so lost in his drawing that the ringing bell over the door of the shop surprised him enough to jump in his seat, something he immediately regretted for its indication of fear. The thugs of the Steel Dragons didn’t need to know that they were dealing with the lesser Volanis. He straightened his spine and slid the sketchbook to the side, rising to greet the man. It was the same one, Rig, who’d sat so patiently a few weeks prior as Cristov inked his body. If he could have turned back time, he would have laced that ink with arsenic.
“The answer is still no,” Cristov said, not letting the man get as far as the counter before speaking. Rig offered a wan smile, stopping in his tracks. He shook his massive head, looking at the floor
as though considering his words. Over his shoulder, through the painted window, Cristov could see a car, and a shadowy figure behind the wheel.
“That’s a damn shame,” Rig finally said, lifting his palms as though to say that things were out of his hands. “I don’t like doing things the hard way. What kind of man does? We could have made this nice and easy for ya, kid.”
The word stung, but Cristov kept his face still.
“Now, I want you to understand, we can still make this work, you and me. Let me take all that stock off your hands, and you get to walk off free and clear into the sunset with a fat wad in your pocket.”
“I said no,” Cristov said.
“And I heard ya, son,” Rig said, chuckling. “But I don’t think you’re hearing me. When I talk about easy ways and hard ways, I ain’t talkin’ about trying to undercut your deals or steal your customers. I’m not a businessman. I’m a goddamn nightmare, and I don’t play games. You got ‘til I walk out of this room to change your mind. You don’t, and life’s about to get mighty hard for you and your little family and all your little friends.”
Cristov’s muscles bunched. What he wouldn’t give to launch himself over the counter and lay into the man. If it weren’t for the car outside, and the unknown driver behind the wheel, he just might have.
“You know what a nightmare is, kid?” Rig asked, rocking back and forth on his heels like a man trying to pick the nicest bunch of celery at the store. “You’ve had ‘em before, I’m sure. A nightmare is when the thing you want and need and love the most gets taken away from you, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Think on it. Some people dream like they’re at school with no clothes on, and that’s about being powerless, right? And some people have dreams like they’re trying to save their Ma from drowning but no matter how fast they run, the lake never gets any closer. Right?”
“Save it,” Cristov seethed, hating every loaded word from the man’s mouth, the sight of him churning up a vile storm in Cristov’s stomach. “I don’t give a shit about your little lecture. Save it for someone who’s afraid of you.”
“All I’m sayin’ is, you get to wake up from nightmares most of the time,” Rig said, turning. “But I’m standing here right now, and you’re dead awake, aren’t you?”
The man turned his back, showing off that blasted patch on his leather jacket, and placed one hand on the door.
“You wanna wake up now, you say you’ll play it my way before I open this door,” Rig said, looking over his shoulder. Cristov didn’t flinch, kept himself still as a stone, his eyes blazing fury. Rig shook his head slowly. Almost sadly, though the smile on his face said otherwise.
“Too bad,” he said, and pushed the door open with a whoosh of cold air, the bell ringing with sweet sarcasm as he left. Cristov watched him walk to the car and open the passenger side door. Right before getting into the car, Rig turned and offered Cristov a cheeky smile and a wave. Only when the door shut and the car disappeared down the street did Cristov feel like he could breathe again.
Except, he didn’t have time to breathe. Now, he actually did vault himself over the counter, and didn’t stop to lock the door behind him as he scrambled to get into his car. Speeding from the curb, he leaned forward, as though to better see the road before him in the dwindling light. The car was out of sight, but he pressed on. He’d follow the bastards to whatever rat trap they were hiding out in and show them, in no uncertain terms, just what they were dealing with.
But, as the night wore on and Cristov drove aimlessly, gunning down the main road before backtracking to explore the sparser countryside, he realized he wasn’t getting any closer to finding them. If anything, he was farther away. Cursing them, himself, and everything that luck had given him just to be ripped away, he turned back to the trailer park.
He loathed the discussion that would come. Kennick would want to tell Kim, and that would bring new troubles. He’d have to start harvest early, try to get rid of their stock in a hurry. Why, when things seemed to be turning a corner for him, did they have to suddenly plunge downward?
He returned to the trailer park and found Damon alone in the trailer, Kennick probably off with Kim or perhaps making the rounds of the kumpania to see what was up with the various families, smoothing out some rumples in the gypsy’s daily life.
“Call Kennick,” Cristov said, collapsing on the couch beside his brother, too tired to make the call himself. He’d tell his brothers and let them figure it out. That’s the way things always went. Kennick and Damon made the decisions, and Cristov helped implement them. For once, Cristov was weary enough to be happy for that. “We need to talk.”
15
“I am not going on a double date,” Ricky said, her voice bordering on hysterical. “What are we, teenagers?”
“Aw, c’mon,” Cristov teased, his arms firm around her waist, his lips tickling her bare shoulder. Sheets tangled around and between them, the pillows damp from sweat. They’d both had a good workout the night before. “I have a really, really, fun idea…”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Ricky said, her eyes widening. “Especially not if it’s the sort of idea that involves incest!”
“You’ve got a dirty mind, Ms. James,” Cristov said, biting down on her flesh until she squirmed and giggled away from him. “Trust me, I’d never share you with anyone. I don’t care if it’s my own flesh and blood, any man so much as looks at you, they’re getting a knuckle sandwich right to the nuts.”
“A knuckle sandwich? You should write pulp fiction,” Ricky said, sighing as she settled back into his arms.
“What I was thinking was that we should bait ‘em. Get ‘em riled up until they’re in a knock-down drag-out brawl. I wanna see that sister of yours let the claws out in public,” Cristov said.
“Trust me, you don’t want to see that,” Ricky said. “Especially if you’re standing anywhere near Ground Zero.”
“Really? So you’re not the only ticking time bomb in your family?”
“I’m not a time bomb. I’m a perfect angel. Never hurt a fly, never even thought about using a curse word. Why, if my voice ever rose to a yell, I think my throat would collapse,” Ricky said, batting her eyelashes up at Cristov. A long moment passed between them. And then they burst out laughing.
“Baby, I’d never trade you for a church mouse in a million years,” Cristov said when the laughter finally dissolved to giggles. He nuzzled the warm space between her ear and hair, kissing the flesh there, feeling her skin vibrate against his. He’d learned that it was her weak spot, her Achilles Heel, and never missed a chance to exploit it.
Leaning up, he brushed a strand of hair from her forehead and lowered himself until his lips covered hers, his tongue pressing against her mouth, begging sanctuary in her warmth. Ricky moaned and squirmed beneath him.
“I’m sore from last night,” she said when he pulled away to look at her.
“As well you should be,” he said, growling as he pressed against her once more. This time, she parted her lips for him, and when she moaned it vibrated through his mouth and down his throat and all the way to his manhood, ready as ever to spring to life. Ricky’s eyelids were drooping, but her hands pressed against his chest until he rose once more.
“I’ll be gentle,” he promised, and she narrowed her eyes, testing him for the truth. But then she moved beneath him, her thighs parting, his hardness sliding between them until she groaned and her hips rose to meet him. They had both been tested, and Ricky was on birth control, so there was no need for anything to come between them. Cristov buried himself inside her, feeling the now-familiar folds of her center embrace him, clench around him, hold him tight.
“God, baby, how do you stay so tight?” he moaned as he slid himself into her, feeling the pulse of her stomach underneath him. She dragged her teeth over the flesh of his shoulder and lifted her thighs to wrap around his waist.
“A woman has her ways,” she murmured, eyes closed, losing herself to the sensation. Her soft
pussy felt like it was made for him alone. When she rocked her hips back and forth in time to his thrusts he had to hold her down to keep himself from coming too soon inside her.
He wanted to watch her mouth open in that perfect circle it made when she clenched around him. He ground his hips down so that her clit brushed against his stomach, rewarded by the tensing of her thigh muscles.
“Yeah, baby,” he growled, “take it like that. Just…like…that…”
Like clockwork, her body shuddered around him, her pussy constricting to massage his dick as she came, neck long and prone as he covered her in kisses, waiting until the last moment before thrusting into her with everything he had, filling her with his cum and drawing her climax out to a shuddering completion. She panted and opened her pale blue eyes, her hands on the back of his neck, her thighs falling open as he eased himself out.
“Mmmm,” she hummed, letting him roll away but keeping her arms around his neck. “That’s better than a brewdriver any day.”
“I should hope so,” he said, one hand on his chest, feeling the fast beat of his heart. “But I’d like to say they both leave you wanting a little bit more.”
She let out one loud laugh and rose, stretching.
“Shower time,” she said. Padding across the room towards the bathroom, Ricky heard the sheets rustling behind her and knew what was coming. She jumped and squealed when Cristov landed a friendly spank on her bare behind.
“You’re a monster!” she shrieked as she darted out of the way of a second assault, into the hallway. She shut the door behind her and smiled her way into the bathroom, across the cold tile, and into the shower. She smiled as the water began to steam and patter around her, as she washed the sweat and sex off her. She smiled as she thought about last night, and the night before, and Monday night and the Saturday night before that.