by Colt, Elodie
Circling my desk, I flap back my jacket to take a seat. “What can I do for you, Carl?”
He clears his throat and sits down opposite me, opening the first button of his shirt. “I’m looking for an engagement ring.”
An amused smile seeps through my lips. Guess I won the bet, Nick. “As far as I remember, I sold you the last one two years ago.”
Carl throws up his hands in a what-can-I-say gesture. “This lifestyle of the rich and shady is getting boring, you know? I’m a collector. I thought I’d start an engagement ring collection.”
“An excellent idea. Yours is slowly getting bigger than mine.”
Letting his head fall back, he barks out a loud laugh. “A pity all the women tend to run off with my rings. I’d be a rich man if I got them all back.”
“You are a rich man,” I correct him.
“True.”
His eyes drop to the framed picture on the shelf behind me. It’s one of those happy-honeymoon selfies where Aiko laughs at the camera while I press a sloppy kiss onto her cheek.
Carl huffs. “You have one fucking picture in this office, and it’s one of your ex-wife?”
I scrape my hand over my five o’clock shadow. “Yeah, well, my selection is limited. It was either this or Vincent’s mug shot.”
Carl shrugs. “As long as you frame it in gold, he won’t complain.”
“Probably.”
“Speaking of Vincent, how is he?”
The smile wavers on my face as I search for a response. “Still alive, I guess.”
He tilts his head, his eyes twinkling in amusement. “I’ve known him for a long time now. He’s one of my oldest friends. Vincent Crawford is—”
“A con.”
“—a complicated man,” he continues in a gentle tone, ignoring the interruption, “but he’s loved you ever since Brooke took you under her wing. He saw your potential and shaped you to become the man you are today. Strong-willed, smart, successful. And look at you now—CEO of Crawford Crescent and one of the most sought-after art and jewelry dealers in the US. He left you a great legacy. You, and not Nick.”
“Legacy,” I scoff. “I’m sitting on this throne because Vincent decided gems were worth more than his family.”
Carl regards me for a moment with a grave expression on his face while I try to keep mine blank. Flattening my tie, I nod to the company logo on the wall—a row of elongated, golden letters nestled in between a silver crescent.
“Do you know why he chose the crescent as a symbol to represent the company?” I don’t wait for his answer, knowing that Vincent never told him the truth. “Back in the day, Vincent’s father was a weapon’s collector. He had a thing for the medieval stuff—axes, halberds, swords, pistols, you name it.” I swivel my head back to Carl. “There was a knife missing in his collection, one that took him years to find, but the owner didn’t want to sell it, so he stole it. The owner hunted him down and… chopped off his head with a sickle.”
Yeah, the weapon used to murder Vincent’s father is part of our corporate branding. Very fitting.
Carl pushes his round glasses up his nose. “He never told me that his father was killed.”
“He never told me, either. I found some newspaper articles shortly after they locked him up.” I rub two fingers over my forehead. “I’m not doing this for money, you know that. I’m doing this because I’m damn good at it. Because it’s all I’ve ever learned. All I’ve ever known. I don’t crave this legacy.”
“What do you crave then?”
Everything I had.
Everything I’ve lost.
Everything I will never have again.
Carl sighs when I remain silent. He fishes out a business card from his breast pocket and places it on the desk. “I thought you might be interested in this.”
Picking it up, I peer down at the black and golden lettering with a red flame underneath. “‘Silent Sins?’”
“We’ve expanded our portfolio,” Carl says with a smug look.
I huff, looking up at him. “Oh, can I date pets now, too?”
There’s a twinkle of mischief in his eyes as he leans forward and folds his hands on the table. “We’re promising you the perfect match.”
I can’t help but shoot him a scowl. “If I recall correctly, you promised me the same when I signed up for eNtimacy all those years ago.”
“And you met Aiko.”
“And I signed the divorce papers six months after I married her.” Hardly Carl’s fault, I know, but I can’t help my bitter response.
“Silent Sins is not eNtimacy,” he says. “In fact, it’s quite the opposite. No emotional attachments, no courtship rituals, no friends with benefits. Just the benefits,” he adds with a smirk.
Chuckling, I cock my eyebrows. “What, is your company teaming up with Tinder now?”
“Silent Sins has been tried and tested in various countries,” he says, ignoring my comment. “We’ve had incredible success all around the world and are currently trying to win over the US market. It’s been running for a while in Vegas, and now we’re starting a test phase in New York.”
Huffing out a laugh, I toss the card onto the desk. “No offense, but your dating agency made me a divorced man at the age of thirty. I think I’ll pass.” I rise from my chair, and Carl follows suit. “Now, let’s find a ring for your future bride.”
He plucks up the card and stuffs it into my breast pocket. “This will be the adventure of your life, trust me. The first six months are free.”
As if money were an issue for me...
He pats my chest, throwing me a cocky smirk. “What do you have to lose?”
Nothing has felt like home for a long time, but this place does.
The hum of the motors and the bubbles cascading through the tanks never cease to comfort me. I draw in a long, settling breath, the familiar scent of algae and chlorine water tickling my nose.
I remember the first time Dad took me to a pet store like this one, back in Belgorod when my world was still full of cotton candy and big dreams and endless opportunities. With my tiny hands and nose pressed against the glass, I would stand there for hours watching the turtles seeking refuge in their shells and the fish zigzagging through the corals until my eyes became bleary.
My lips break into a smile as I stroll down the aisle, and I halt in front of a fish tank housing a swarm of Green Neon Tetras. They were always my favorites with their red patches and shimmering blueish-green scales. I had twelve of those in my aquarium and would feed and watch and sing to them every morning.
Until the day Zoya and I fought over my favorite doll, and it escalated. I shoved her so hard she crashed into the table, and the aquarium toppled over. I can still hear the glass shattering and the water splashing as I stood there, paralyzed, watching the fish flapping their fins on the floor. By the time I managed to toss them back into the tank, they were all dead. Dad bought me a stuffed Clownfish the same day to comfort me. It became my favorite toy, and I cuddled it every night.
I ripped it to pieces when I cleared out the house last year.
My throat closes up, and I shoo away all memories of that time… That time being my two years of hell before I finally got my shit together, pulled out all the stops, and moved to the other end of the world.
“Can I help you with anything?”
Startled, I whirl around to find myself face-to-face with a guy who looks like the real-life version of the know-it-all-kid in Polar Express.
“Did I ask for your help?” I snap.
His eyes pop out at my rude tone.
“No,” he stutters, and it’s only when I put a scowl on my face that he takes the cue and scuttles away.
Must be a newbie. Every salesclerk and groomer here steers clear of me. A pity the dude had the misfortune to cross paths with me on his first day at work.
I wished I’d inherited Mom’s cheerfulness, but that gene got lost somewhere on the way. My bluntness against the opposite gender is a self-defense m
echanism that developed at that time. A tactic to keep them out of my personal space. Men frown at me, shake their heads, call me names. I don’t give a fuck as long as they don’t breathe in my direction. And that also goes for the eighteen-something guy who just stood so close, I could smell his bubblegum.
Wary as always, I flash a furtive glance over my shoulder, ensuring that no one is paying me any attention. All clear. The few customers in the store are busy cooing at kittens and rattling bird cages, oblivious to me.
Moving on to the end of the aisle, I collect a bag of gravel, a bottle of algae control, and a few packages of mosquito larvae, blood worms, and tadpoles. I’m about to leave when I remember that there’s one more thing I need.
“Dammit.” Turning tail, I hurry down the aisle of fish tanks. “Hey, you!” I yell when I spot baby-face arranging fish food on a shelf.
He throws a look around before he realizes that I’m talking to him.
“Get me a sucker fish from the last tank on the left side,” I instruct with a nod to the section behind me.
The guy hesitates before he surrenders under my glare and hurries to fulfill my order. A minute later, he presses a water-filled plastic bag with a gray-dotted sucker fish into my hand, not uttering a word. A fast learner. I grace him with a curt nod, pay for the items, and slide down my Ray-Bans as I venture out, reluctantly joining the crowd of people on the boulevard.
The sun shines brightly today. No clouds obscure the sky. Inhaling the crisp air, I don my jacket, but not because I’m cold. Cold doesn’t exist on the east coast—at least, not for me.
Each layer of clothing is like another layer of safety—one of the many reasons why I’m a winter type of girl. I never get cold, not here in Brighton Beach where you need a jacket once in a blue moon. The coldest winter days here are like summer days in Belgorod.
So, no—I didn’t move here to get a tan or to become a part of the American culture. Truth be told, I’d feel more comfortable in a shack in Antarctica, but my sister lives here, and she became my lifeline after I decided to leave Russia.
I let my gaze swerve over the people and shops, my sunglasses allowing me to observe my surroundings in private. Saint Petersburg bookstore. Skovorodka—a nice restaurant that serves Eastern European food. It’s all there. Really, who am I to complain? This town is like a teeny-tiny Russia in the middle of the US.
Paranoia kicks in again as I pick my way through the people, and my fingers curl around the pepper spray inside my bag. A shitty habit I can’t shake off… The hypertension. The wariness. The flashbacks. Never relaxed. On constant alert.
This is who I am.
This is who he made me.
The anxiety leaves my system the moment I reach my bike. I take out my helmet and shove it over my head before I plop down on the leather seat and start the engine. My apartment is only a few blocks away, but I take my bike each time anyway. It just feels safer.
After a very short tour through the city, I park my bike in the garage and take the stairs up to my apartment, pulling out my phone. The soft click of the smart lock resounds, opening the door and inviting me inside.
A pent-up sigh passes my lips as I set my helmet and the bags on the countertop before I yank off my jacket.
“Hey, boys. Mommy’s home.”
I cross the room and lean down to check on the six dragonflies I keep in my twenty-gallon aquarium tank.
Crawly and Buzz—already fully developed—slouch on a stone while Spidey, Skitters, Hopper, and Bitsy—still nymphs and half an inch long—drift in the water. It will take a few more months before they come up to the surface and use their wings.
“Tomorrow, I’ll set you free, guys,” I tell Crawly and Buzz with a smile and put the sucker fish inside, watching its plump mouth latching onto the glass.
After feeding my pets with the larvae and worms, I make myself a mug of coffee and enjoy a moment of solitude perching against the window, my gaze straying over the outside world.
No matter how many Russian shops they jammed in between the ice cream parlors and bakeries, no matter how many Russian immigrants live here, no matter how many matryoshkas I put on my windowsill…
This will never be Belgorod.
I miss the view at the Seversky Donets River. I miss the pretty parks with their little ponds. And I miss the real winter days where the streets are covered in sheens of ice and the air is so cold, it’s like a stab in the lungs.
Taking a sip from my mug, I watch three women gossiping and cackling on the tree-lined sidewalk. I can see why Zoya loves it here—the warm climate, the open culture, and the people’s nerve-wracking habit of smiling all the time.
Will this ever feel like home to me?
My phone pings, and I pick it up to see a notification from the motion-activated camera outside the door. It’s the postman with a package in his hands. Pushing a button on my phone, I unlock the door remotely to let him in.
“A package for you, Ms. Jenkins.” The guy, all clad in red, presses an Amazon Prime package into my hands.
I nod and give him my scrawly signature before I close the door.
Ella Jenkins, the address label reads.
I grit my teeth. I doubt I’ll ever get used to that name. Zoya says it’s ridiculous I changed it. Says I’m a coward for throwing away my identity. She doesn’t know I didn’t have a choice. I made her believe that Luka dropped off the radar a long time ago. That I moved here because I needed a change of scenery.
She has no clue that I just wanted to escape him.
My phone rings, dragging me out of the dark pits of my past. No idea why I bother to check the caller ID. Only a handful of people have my number, and only one of them gives two hoots about me. My lip lifts at the corner as I pick up.
“What are you up to, sister?” Zoya’s voice comes through the speaker.
“Just came home running some amends and now about to do some yoga, I think.”
“You can do your stretching poses later,” Zoya says. “A customer canceled his appointment, so I’m free for the rest of the afternoon. Wanna drop by sooner for your tattoo?”
I down the rest of my coffee. “Sure. How about in an hour?”
“Perfect. See you later, then.”
I set my phone aside and rip open the package. After a quick scan over the user manual, I install the new window sensors in my living room and bedroom and connect them with my security app. If Zoya saw them, she’d ask me if I had a screw loose installing window sensors when my apartment is on the sixth floor.
Or maybe she wouldn’t. She knows I’m a lost cause.
Plopping down in front of my computer, I go through my weekly routine of changing all my passwords. Crazy, I know. To say I’m cautious when it comes to safety would be a clear-cut understatement, but if you knew what Luka was capable of, bulldozing into my life and tearing down every single wall that shielded my privacy, you’d understand my vigilance. Even if thousands of miles separate Luka and me now, I won’t leave anything to chance.
After I’m somewhat satisfied with my security status, I amble into the bathroom to make myself presentable. A glance into the mirror confirms my fear that no brush could tame my hair. Not that it would make any difference. If you’re a biker like me, you have to get used to the frizzy hairstyles that come with a helmet.
Tilting my head to the side, I inspect my boring-as-fuck brown hair from a different angle. I used to dye it black like Zoya, but I let it wash out. Committing to a new identity means starting with a clean slate. Shedding everything you are. Becoming someone else.
Jutting out my chin, I give my reflection a defiant glare.
You are someone else now.
You are Ella Jenkins.
Elenka Jendarov is dead.
~~~
By the time I slide my bike to a halt in front of the tattoo parlor, the sun is already setting, and I take a moment to scan the shadows before I remove my helmet and march up to Holly’s Ink.
The crunching of my c
ombat boots announces my approach when I enter. Holly, a petite woman with a flaxen pixie cut, lifts her head from behind the counter.
“Ella,” she says with a beaming smile and rises to her feet, her necklaces and bracelets jingling as she glides toward me with the grace of a diva. “It’s good to see you.”
“Good to see you, too, Holly.” I greet her with an air-kiss to the cheek.
Holly is a saint. Even a callous person like me can’t resist her charms. With a body clad in Lolita skirts and skin covered in fairy tattoos, she looks like a doll you want to cuddle all day. A pity she’s already taken—married to my sister dearest.
“Zoya said you already know what tat you want?” she asks as I peel off my biker jacket and place my helmet on the counter.
“I do. I’ve got a picture.”
“Great.”
Holly leads me past the seating area where a few customers slouch on the worn-down couches, and into one of the curtained-off rooms. The scent of paint and disinfectant is heavy in the air, and the rock music from the sound system mixes with the buzz of tattoo machines.
Zoya sits in a rolling chair, arranging her supplies on a table.
“Honey, Ella is here,” Holly announces.
Zoya swivels around, her spiky, black bob bouncing with the movement. Save for her flawless face, her entire body is a canvas of ink.
“Hey.” I wink at her.
“Hi, Ella. Come on, sit down,” she says as Holly floats out of the room, rolling a pair of gloves over her hands.
I plop down on the tattoo chair next to her and fish out my phone to show her the picture I’d taken of Crawly. “Can you do this?”
Zoya leans in to take a closer look at the dragonfly and cracks a smile. “The green darner. Your favorite, right?”
I nod.
“A beautiful animal. It has amazing shades of green and blue. Where are we going to put it?”
I roll up my sleeve and tap the inside of my left forearm. “Here.”
“You’re sure? How about a tattoo on your tit? I could make its tail curl around your nipple.”