by Sara Hubbard
I don’t hear the crowd anymore. Emanuel drops to his knees, tears—real tears—fall from his eyes as he grips his side. I spy my father who makes a swipe with his finger across his neck. Finish him. I walk toward Emanuel, ready to deliver a massive blow, when somewhere inside of him, he pulls out the strength to move to his knees. I haul my arm back, but before I can connect, he manages a blow much harder than any others. I get air before falling back onto the mat with a dull thud. In the movies, people see stars when they get hit. I thought it was bullshit because I’ve been hit a lot, and I’ve never seen them. I see them now, circling in my vision.
He stands over me with a wicked smile and raises his foot above my face. I roll over quickly and get to my feet. Then the dance starts again. Fuck me. He has more energy than I assumed. Was he playing like he was tiring? Now, I’m really pissed. I don’t care if he hits me or how hard. I march toward him and punch and punch and punch, and I don’t stop until I find myself on the ground, over him, still hitting him as he lay unconscious. That’s when arms find my waist and yank me back. I spin around, blood still in my eyes and, through it, I see Niko.
“That’s enough,” he says firmly.
I swallow a lump in my throat and wipe the blood and sweat from my eyes.
“It’s enough,” he says again softer.
I nod as I toss an arm over him, and he helps me get out of the ring and back to the small room I was in before this fight started.
* * *
I can’t drive because I can barely fucking see. Yuri sits in the driver’s side of my car while I sit in the passenger seat. There’s a bag of ice on my whole face. Everything stings and burns, and I still taste blood in my mouth.
The radio is on low, playing some fucking country song I’ve never heard of before. Yuri’s choice, not mine. A Russian who loves country music. How does that happen?
I lower the bag and hold it in my hand against my thigh.
Yuri looks over at me. “I don’t know who wore the swollen face better? You, Yara, or Luna. What do you think?”
“How is Yara?” I ask. I carry guilt for not missing the fight to pick her up. I’d hoped she would be discharged earlier so I could get her myself, but no, it had to be around the same time as the fight. Part of me wanted to say fuck it and just get her, but I knew I couldn’t. There would have been hell to pay. And I couldn’t handle people thinking I’d punked out. Some would have thought that.
“Fine. She’s got a nurse to look after her, right?”
That’s no small miracle. I thought she’d be long gone.
Last night, I watched on the cameras as she went to the front door multiple times. Each time she walked out the door and started down my long driveway. Each time, she marched back before finally slamming the door and going up to her room. I told her she could leave, and I meant it. But could I let her? My guts twisted up, and it’s worse than the pain in my face. I know I couldn’t. Because if the police got to her, everyone who was at that warehouse would be in trouble. And if she testified, she’d be dead before she ever made it to the stand. I know Luna. She may have promised she’d grab her mother and run and never come back, but that’s not who she is.
So what should I have done if she left? Dragged her back and killed her to avoid the trouble? I guess I hadn’t thought that far ahead because, deep inside, no matter how much I need to mistrust people, I trusted her to do what was right for everyone.
And she did.
“She looks better without the swelling,” he says.
“I suppose.”
He grins at me. We both know she’s a fucking angel.
“I still don’t get it,” he says. “There’s a million girls who look just like her. You could have any of them.”
I nod, but I disagree. No one looks like her.
He pulls up to the front door to drop me off and lets the car idle. “I’ll bring the car around in the morning, and you can drop me off at home. I’ve got some errands to run for Sergei, so it’ll be late.”
“Whatever works. I might take the morning off.”
“Wow. How hard did you hit your head?”
I roll my eyes at him and get out. He calls me back, and I peek my head back in. “I like her,” he says, “if that matters at all.”
“It doesn’t,” I say with a weak smile that hurts as much as I expect it to.
He chuckles to himself as I shut the door. As he drives away, I give myself a minute on my feet. Man, Emanuel hit hard. I feel it more now than I did during the fight. Maybe it was the adrenaline or my anger tamping it down. Above me, dark clouds slide over the moon, and a trickle of rain falls from the sky. I won’t lie. The cool, wet drops help my face.
I wait a minute and then find my footing. Upstairs, I find Yara and Luna together, asleep in the same bed. Yara on her back, mouth open wide, lightly snoring. Luna, on top of the sheets, turned in toward Yara as she lay on her side, her hands neatly tucked under her angelic face.
Something happens inside of me when I see the two women who matter to me most together like this. It’s like a balloon in my chest inflating, getting bigger and bigger, and there’s no room left inside of me for it to expand any more. I’m overwhelmed—it’s a foreign emotion and not a welcome one. I swallow hard and approach the bed. At the foot of the mattress, there’s a blanket that Yara knitted for me as boy. I take it and pull it over Luna. Then I stare at her for a long time.
For me, this house, which never felt like a home, suddenly does because the two of them are in it. I tear myself away, not willing to let myself feel this way. Knowing all good things eventually end. I’ve had a good life, and I’ve had everything I’ve ever needed. Money, clothes, a big house, family, and friends. I never felt like I was missing anything. Now as I think about losing these two women, I feel incredibly weak and vulnerable. It’s like something inside of me is fracturing.
And I’m helpless to it. No fighting, ignoring, or running can change it. My only choice is to accept it and fight for it, not against it.
I wish I knew how.
Chapter 17
Luna: A noise startles me and rips me from my sleep. Laying on the bed in another room in Maxim’s house, I pop up onto my elbow and blink through my sleepy eyes. Beside me, Yara still sleeps soundly, snoring lightly, in the same position she was in when Yuri left us earlier. There’s no one else here, so I lay back down, yawn, and scratch my head.
Yuri surprised me tonight. I expected him to be consistent with the man who brought me here, but he was nothing like the man I remembered. Instead, his calm, scary demeanor was replaced with a warm, dry-humored man. He doted on Yara in a way that Maxim doesn’t. Yes, Maxim cares for Yara—that’s perfectly obvious—but Yuri lets it show on his face and in his words. I wonder if she was as much of a mother figure to him as she was to Maxim.
I hear another noise. I should be alarmed, but how can I be when his home is like a fortress. It’s likely just Maxim. Then I notice the knitted blanket over my lower body, tucked in around my legs. I stroke the soft yarn as I smile. I’m still upset with him, but when he does things like this, especially when I don’t know he’s doing them, it’s very difficult to stay mad at him.
What time is it? I sit up and find it’s nearly two a.m. He had a fight hours ago, and I’ve been worried about him. In my dreams, the fight played out in my mind, and when he lost—badly—I cried.
I move the blanket and get out of bed. He’s not in his room so I look for him downstairs, first in the kitchen. He’s not there either. A gasp escapes my lips as I see the silhouette of a man in the living room. I lay a hand on my heart and feel it racing before I reach my hand out to flick on the light.
“Turn off the light,” he says. He holds an arm over his head to block the light out.
“Why are you sitting in the dark?”
“I like it this way.”
“Bullshit.” I march into the living room and sit on the coffee table in front of him. He still won’t move his arm. There’s blood on hi
s sweatshirt and on his hands. “Please let me see you.”
With a sigh, he lowers his arm. The second I see his face, I clasp my hands over my mouth. His forehead is swollen and so are his cheeks and his jaw. I can’t even see the color of his tan skin through all the bruising. A bag of ice sits next to him on the couch. In his free hand, he holds a glass of amber liquid.
“It’s not as bad as it looks.” He takes a long drink, and the ice cubes clank together as he lowers it to his thigh.
“Do you have a first-aid kit?”
He nods to the staircase. “Upstairs.”
I attempt to take his glass, but he downs it first. Scowling at him, I snatch it and put it on the table. I take his hand in mine and pull him up to his feet. He teeters, and my chest squeezes. He’s such a big, strong man, so seeing him struggle affects me to my core. I lead him upstairs, moving slowly. If he fell, I couldn’t hope to catch him. When we get in his room, I sit him down on the edge of his large bed. “Where’s the kit?”
“The room in the closet.”
I nod and hurry to it. Using my fingerprint like he showed me, I enter the room and find the kit on top of the filing cabinet. A couple of the screens are on, and I see a view of the driveway, the backyard, and the front door. When I return to Maxim, I open the kit and rifle through it. There isn’t much in here.
“Do you need something for pain? Yara is barely using her pain medication.”
He shakes his head. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re stubborn. Look at you, Maxim! Why do you do this to yourself?”
“It feels good.”
I whisper to myself, quietly admonishing him while shaking my head. I dab some wet gauze on his fresh cuts. They don’t need stitches, thankfully. “No wonder you’re so messed up.”
His grin is wide, and with his fat lip, it almost looks comical, but I’m not in a laughing mood. This is when he smiles wide at me, when he’s amused at something like this. “You should go to the hospital. You took some big hits.”
“You should see the other guy.”
“Did you win at least?” I tease.
He nods, smiling still.
“Well, then, I guess it was all worth it,” I say, my voice laced with sarcasm.
His hands reach out and grasp on to my hips. He caresses me, while looking down. His touch is gentle and hesitant. And then he holds me tighter and pulls me forward. He looks up at me, and I watch the Adam’s apple in his neck bob as he swallows. A lump grows in my throat, and I stop breathing. I know where this is going.
Only I don’t.
Instead of testing me and moving his hand over me to explore, he lowers his head to my stomach and wraps his arms around my waist, hugging me close to him.
I’m frozen.
“I don’t know how to be close to you,” he says softly.
My bottom lip drops and then quivers. I knew he still wanted me because of how he reacted to me last night. And yes, I assumed he still cared because I’m not sure I’d be alive otherwise. I put him and others at too great a risk. But to have him let his guard down and admit he’s struggling with his feelings for me? It rips me apart. He doesn’t strike me as a man who fails at anything. Yet, here he is, apparently trying…and failing. And he’s asking for help. I can only imagine how much it’s taken for him to utter those words. Is it the alcohol? The pain? Maybe both.
With my arms out at my sides, I struggle to find words to help him. I don’t know what to do myself. I’ve seen my mother love someone her whole adult life who was wrong for her, and I saw how that love ate her away from the inside out. I don’t want that for myself, and yet, I don’t know if I’m strong enough to stay away from this flawed man. I don’t know if I want to. Because if he’s willing to try…if he wants to try… I want to give him that chance.
Slowly, I lay my hands on his head and stroke his soft hair. “I know,” I whisper.
He looks up at me through one bloodshot eye and another that is barely visible through his swollen lid. He loosens his hold on me and twists his hands into the hem of my shirt, like he’s cementing his hold and has no intention of ever letting go. There is desperation on his face and in the lines around his eyes and on his forehead.
I take in a shaky breath as tears brim my eyes, and I’m as sure in this moment as I was two years ago that I could fall for this man. In a way that is absolute and all-consuming. And I’m scared to death.
“Why did you stay?” he asks me.
I let go of a long sigh. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. Tell me.”
I reach down and touch his fingers. He lets go and threads his through mine. The bed gives way as I sit down next to him. “I was ready to leave,” I tell him. “I did several times. And then…I thought about what could happen. Where would I go? What would my life look like? I don’t want to run forever.”
He nods, looking down at our still intertwined hands.
“And I also thought about you.”
He looks up then.
“Max, I didn’t want to leave you two years ago. You know that, don’t you?”
He makes a face and shakes his head. He won’t even look me in the eye. I blow out through pursed lips as my emotions kick in. I won’t cry. “I was scared.”
“Of me?”
I shake my head. “Maybe I should have been, but no. You saw my dad and the choices he made in the end.” My sadness chokes me up, and I clear my throat to continue. “He made a lot of bad choices over the years that ended up breaking my mother’s heart over and over again, and she just kept taking him back.”
“I’m not your father,” he says angrily.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“Did I hurt you?” he asks.
“No, you didn’t.” I touch my hand to his jaw, trying hard not to touch him anywhere that could cause him pain. He stills winces, and I drop my hand. “You might never have hurt me. But that’s why I left. I didn’t want to give you that chance because I was afraid that you would. If you could hurt other people so easily, then what would stop you from hurting me?”
“I would never.”
“But you almost did.”
“We’ve been through this. I never thought you’d pull that trigger. Not for a second. When you did, I was sure I meant nothing to you. And I was angry.”
“What if you get angry again?”
He sighs.
“You’re not a normal guy, Max. Like not even a little bit. We’re so different, and I didn’t know how we could ever work together. Even now, how do we work?”
“I don’t know the answer to that,” he says quietly.
I slump my shoulders and roll my head to the side to rest on his shoulder. He kisses my hair and lets his head rest on the top of mine. I start to cry. Quietly. “Why did you tell me to leave,” I say, trying hard to keep my voice even.
“I thought it’s what you wanted.”
“I miss my mom and my life, but I would miss you. Even though you make me crazy, and you don’t talk to me, there’s something about you I’ve never fully been able to get out of my system.”
“I know this feeling.”
“Yet you said you’d forgotten all about me.”
He scoffs at that. “I lie. I’m very good at it.”
“Don’t lie to me. If you don’t want to answer me, fine, but don’t lie. Okay?”
“I can try.” He touches his hand to my cheek and gently draws my face up to look at him. My cheeks are still wet, and as his gaze washes over the entirety of my face, he frowns.
“You look like you’re in so much pain,” I say.
He nods. “So do you.” He leans forward and stops with his lips inches from mine. I watch him carefully. I see the uncertainty in his eyes. It’s like he’s asking for my permission tonight. Last night when we kissed it was like a collision, the two of us crashing into each other and bracing from the impact of unresolved feelings. It’s different now. It won’t be based on instinct, but a decision. In this moment
, I’m sure of mine.
“Yes,” I breathe. I lean in to meet him, and my lips yield as he kisses me tenderly. I ache for more as the muscles in my thighs and pelvis awaken and the blood running through me ignites.
He captures my face in his hands and deepens the kiss, exploring my mouth with his skilled tongue. I release a throaty moan, and he responds with lowering one of his hands to my hip and gripping me tightly. All the chaos, the grief, and the pain in my life fades. In this moment, there is only him and me, connecting in a way I’ve craved for much too long.
He pulls me into his lap, and I straddle him, adjusting myself until I’m settled on his erection. I grind hard on him, delighted in the delicious pain it brings. I gasp, nearly reaching orgasm, and I toss my head back as he runs his hands over my breasts and kisses me over my sweater. Then, feverishly, as if he can’t stand the barriers between us, he rips my shirt off me and tosses it aside before removing his. I love the feel of his skin on mine, the delicate, sparse hair on his chest brushing against me.
He reaches between us and palms my breasts before grabbing the fabric and pulling the cups down to push my breasts up higher. I feel his cock grow harder yet as he nips, suckles, and tastes me, and when he leans back and gently blows on my nipples, I grow hotter. My nipples respond, too, hardening to pebbles before he gently bites one. I cry out his name, struck with how pain can feel so sinfully good.
He cups my ass then, his fingernails digging into me, and he guides my pace, slowing me down. I want faster, harder—just more. But he wants control, and I'm glad to give it to him, knowing how eager he is to please. I fumble behind my back and unhook my bra, freeing my breasts. He suckles on them for a moment before he begins a trail of licks and kisses that lead up to my collar bone, over my neck, to the sensitive spot behind my ear lobe.
“Please,” I say. I want him inside of me already. It can’t come fast enough. I grind harder now that his hands are in my hair. I slide my hand in between us and reach into his sweatpants, wanting to touch and appreciate every inch of him.