Burying Water

by K. A. Tucker

  There’s really nothing he can say: agree with me and kick me while I’m down, or try to argue with me, knowing I won’t believe him.

  He tucks the pen into the spine and closes the book.

  Probably the best option.

  I quietly watch him get up and stoke the fire with another log, opening the vent to let more heat in. I’m expecting him to grab his shoes and jacket and say good night, but he doesn’t. Instead he lies back down beside me, but closer this time, the itchy checkered blanket that I have cocooned myself within the only barrier between us.

  He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

  “Why did you punch that guy at the bar?”

  “I didn’t like the way he was touching you.”

  I watch, waiting for him to say something else. I watch until his chest begins to rise and fall at a lower rate and his full lips just barely part. Until I realize that the damn boy from next door has fallen asleep in my apartment.

  It takes me a few moments to realize that I’m no longer on the floor. The last thing I remember is listening to Jesse breathe. I guess I fell asleep.

  That means Jesse carried me to bed.

  Thanks to the pre-dawn light streaming in through the sliding door, I can see that he’s not here now, though the fire is burning bright, as if someone just fed it. My alarm clock is flashing big bold red numbers at me, so the power’s back on.

  And my journal sits beside it.

  I reach over and open it to the last page, with Jesse’s narrow scrawl, his last entry:

  Scar = Resilient.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Jesse

  then

  “What the fuck are you doing, Jesse!” Boone hisses, his eyes darting from the living room to my bedroom, where I left Alex with her bags.

  “Did you not just see her face?”

  “Yeah, I did. I also know who did that to her. Make her go to the hospital, the cops. Convince her to ditch the asshole. But don’t shack up with her in our apartment. Jeez . . .” He pushes his hands through his gelled hair, sending his perfectly styled long waves into disarray.

  “I tried. She won’t do any of that. But she is going to leave him.”

  He blows a mouthful of air out, his hands resting on his hips. “I hope you’re right. For both your sakes. And mine, since I’m your roommate and it’ll be hard for me to deny that she was here if Rust ever hears about this.”

  “No one’s going to hear about this. She’ll lay low. It’s just for the week, man. I promise. We’ll figure something out after that. Just . . . no visitors during that time. Especially not Priscilla.”

  “Fuck, you think?” He shakes his head and goes to his room, Licks on his heels.

  When I open the door to my room, I find Alex standing in front of my mirror, her pants and shirt pulled away as she inspects the fresh tattoo on her pelvis. “It’s not too much, is it?”

  My heart begins to race at the sight of her long, slender torso, bruises and all. “No, it’s definitely not too much.” I step in close behind her, my hands covering hers where they hold her clothing back. “Do you like it?”

  “I love it.”

  And I love the way her tongue curls around that word. The way her eyes flicker to mine in her reflection when she says it. The way she’s watching me in the mirror now.

  I hate bringing it up, but I have to because I’m still worried. “What do you think Viktor’s going to say about it?”

  She turns toward me, her hot breath skating across my neck. “He’ll never find out.” She’s making it damn near impossible for me to restrain myself around her, especially when she does things like that. Still, I keep my hands firmly in place.

  “I like what you’ve done with your room.”

  I know she’s teasing me. “You know that saying, ‘I rolled out of bed’? Well . . . I do, every day. Literally.”

  Her eyes skate over the small, sparse space—white walls, a single dresser, a mattress on the floor. Just like my above-garage apartment, this place is perfect for a twenty-four-year-old guy who needs a bed to fall into. Thinking back to the small part of Alex and Viktor’s home that I saw—designer-decorated and custom everything—almost makes me laugh now.

  But she says she wants me. And right now, this is me.

  The question is, will she still want this when she’s free of him?

  “Damn . . .” Boone moans, leading our way through the door and tossing his keys on the rack. “I could get used to this.”

  I chuckle as I kick the door shut behind me, the delicious smell of whatever Alex is cooking today—beef and herbs and definitely Italian—making my stomach growl. We step into the kitchen to find her stirring a pot of tomato sauce on the stove. A strainer full of limp spaghetti sits over another pot. If the pile of dishes is any indication, that sauce didn’t come out of a jar.

  “Hey, Alex,” Boone and I chirp in unison.

  This is the third night we’ve come home to a set table and Alex in the kitchen, Licks faithfully waiting at her feet. And all I did to deserve it was make a grocery run with a list on Sunday night. Boone’s right—I could totally get used to this.

  “I finally see how Licks earned his name,” she announces with a giggle, sticking a sauce-covered wooden spoon out for the bulldog that sits by her legs. He goes after it immediately, his long tongue slurping up every last drop until it’s just wood. “I think he’d lick the grain right off the wood if I let him.” She tosses it into the sink.

  “Time for a run,” Boone announces, slapping his thigh on his way to his room to change into his running gear. The dog doesn’t move. I have to nudge him away with my leg as I step up behind Alex.

  “You know you don’t have to cook and clean for us, right?” I wrap my arms around her waist and dip my face into her neck to inhale the scent of her skin. I’m addicted to the smell and feel of her. It’s what gets me through long days at work, just waiting until I can come back and be with her again.

  “I know I don’t. But I like doing it, and I know you two appreciate it.” Shutting the stove off, she twists in my arms to face me with a smile. Her lip is back to its normal size and the purple in her cheek is fading to green. “Besides, I had enough of my schoolwork and reading.” Alex has had to skip her classes this week, on account of her face, but she’s made a few friends who she’s been emailing for assignments.

  Taking a deep breath, I look down at that mouth. Wanting to kiss it so badly. “I’m going to jump in the shower, ’kay?” And not just to wash off the garage. Sleeping next to Alex for the past five nights has been both heaven and hell. And a lot of cold showers.

  I feel her eyes on me the entire way down the hall to the bathroom, passing Boone on the way, leash in hand.

  “Licks!” The dog’s collar jangles the way it always does when Boone’s hooking the leash around him. “Come on, Fatty.” I glance over my shoulder to see the dog hanging from under Boone’s arm, having refused to abandon Alex’s side. “You’ve ruined my dog!” Boone hollers, throwing a wink at Alex before heading out the door.

  I’m still chuckling in the shower when Alex steps into the bathroom and shuts the door behind her. I watch her through the glass shower enclosure as she flips the lock. “Is everything all right?”

  She pulls her shirt off and tosses it to the floor with my clothes.

  We haven’t so much as kissed up until now. I wasn’t expecting this.

  I’m instantly hard.

  Her jeans come off next, followed by her lacy black bra and underwear. And then she climbs into the shower behind me, a shy smile touching her lips.

  Before I have a chance to fully turn around, she edges up behind me, sliding her arms around my waist. Soft lips land on my tattoo.

  And then her delicate hand reaches down.

  With a low moan, I close my eyes and tip my head back, letting the shower spray hit my face.

  “Look at me,” she whispers.

  I turn to face her, and within seconds she’s on her knees an
d taking me into her mouth. In the back of my mind, I worry about her lip but, peering down at her, her heated eyes locked on mine, I don’t see any hint of pain there. All I can see is how much she actually wants to do this for me.

  It’s not even a minute later that I’m balling my fists to keep from grabbing the back of her head as I ride the waves of pure fucking ecstasy. I’m barely coherent when she stands, close enough that her chest presses against mine.

  Trailing kisses from my throat to my mouth, she murmurs, “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

  My fingertips skate across her belly, across the scab forming over her tattoo, until my hand rests on her inner thigh. But I hesitate.

  “I have three more nights with you, before I have to face reality.” She reaches down and guides my fingers in for me. “I know what I said, but I can’t wait. I’ve never been this happy before, Jesse,” she whispers against my mouth.

  Neither have I. I punch the faucet, shutting the shower off. I need to be inside her tonight but that’s not going to happen in the shower. With towels draped around our dripping bodies, we stumble across the hall. I ease her down into my bed and then, pulling the towel away, I take a moment to just drink in the sight of her perfect, lean body. The bruises on her body are mere yellow spots now. Barely noticeable. But that tattoo . . . it’s downright sexy.

  Her eyes graze over me as I drop my own towel. I’m already hard again. With her, I think I always will be.

  She’s right. We have three more nights together before I have to let her go. Even if for only a day or two, before she comes back to me. I’ve seen what Viktor can do to her and the thought that letting her go long enough that he might do it again makes my stomach churn.

  He fucked up. This is on him. He was given an angel and he tried to break her wings. But she’s strong. Resilient. And now she’s all mine. I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks about that.

  “You’ll tell me if it’s too much, right?” I say, slipping a condom on.

  She lets her legs fall apart in answer.

  I don’t hesitate again.

  “We’re meant to be together,” she whispers into my ear, moving with my body, our arms and legs and heated breath a tangled mess.

  There are no tears tonight.

  “Miller actually asked me what was wrong with you. Like, he wanted specific details.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  Boone shrugs, his eyes flickering over Alex, leaning into my side on the sectional. “Told him you had a stomach thing.”

  I smirk. I know what that means. The jackass told the garage that I had the shits. I’ll be the butt of Tabbs’s and Zeke’s stupid jokes all of tomorrow. Totally worth it, because I spent an entire day in bed with Alex, memorizing the sound of her giggles as my fingers slid over her curves, her freckles. Kissing away her fading bruises. Falling deeper into this swirl of emotions with every minute that passed. Her sweet, caring, strong spirit is an intoxicating fog; it’s so easy to get lost in it and dismiss the reality that looms.

  And that’s exactly what we did. We got dressed only a couple of hours ago, after Alex insisted she wanted to make dinner and then study for an upcoming test.

  “Okay, Alex. You ready for the next question?” Boone’s been flipping through the reproduction chapters in Alex’s anatomy textbook, reading out random quotes to make her blush and me laugh. I’ve caught myself forgetting who Boone’s uncle is and his connection to Viktor several times tonight, instead picturing the three of us living here together. It could work, I keep fooling myself.

  He frowns. “Alex?”

  She’s staring at the television, her mouth parted slightly, her face white as snow. “I know her.”

  Boone and I share a glance. “Who?”

  “That woman.” She points at the news broadcast where a picture of a dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties sits next to a picture of a man. “I mean, I’ve met her. She came to our house last summer for that garden party. Her husband is one of Viktor’s friends.”

  I wasn’t really paying attention to the TV before. Now, though, all three of us are glued to the screen, listening to the reporter’s monotone voice as she explains that this woman and what the police believe to be her lover were found shot to death in a hotel room, her wedding ring still on her finger. Police have detained her husband as a prime suspect, with evidence that places him at the scene of the crime.

  When the camera flashes to a picture of the suspect, a tall blond guy with the same hardened look as Viktor, Alex gasps.

  I reach out to smooth a comforting hand over her back. “I’m sorry, Alex, I—” The reporter’s closing remarks freeze my tongue:

  “Authorities suspect Pavel Federov of having ties to Russian organized crime; however, this particular incident appears to be a case of domestic violence.”

  Russian organized crime.

  Holy shit.

  Boone quietly sets the textbook down and then heads to his bedroom, Licks on his heels.

  But so am I, kicking his door shut behind me. “Tell me that Viktor isn’t with the fucking mob.”

  He doesn’t turn around.

  “Boone!”

  “I don’t know for sure, all right!”

  “No. Not all right! Are you fucking kidding me? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He spins on his heels to face me. “That’s not exactly the kind of thing you talk about. And it’s not like they carry around business cards to announce themselves.” He lowers his voice. “Look . . . I’m just starting to work my way into Rust’s circle. You don’t just stroll in there, unannounced and uninvited.”

  “Rust’s ‘circle’?” I make air quotes around the word. “Are you telling me that Rust is Russian mob? What the hell have you gotten me mixed up in? What are you getting mixed up in?”

  “No! Rust is not with them. He’s got several businesses—two that are legit, one that technically isn’t . . .” This is the first I’m hearing that Rust may not fully be aboveboard either. “And he’s making a ton of money that I want in on. That’s all. Some of his connections may be to guys like Viktor.”

  “And Viktor is mob.” It’s not a question.

  “I don’t know one hundred percent, but it’s probably a safe bet to assume so. Look, I hear shit! They have a lot of business conversations around that table and they have no fucking clue that I might understand what they’re saying.”

  Nausea burns my stomach as panic sets in. I rebuilt a car for the damn mob. I’ve had the wife of a Russian mobster in my bed for the past six nights. Dropping my voice, because I don’t want Alex to hear, I ask, “Is he capable of something like that?”

  Boone’s mouth opens but he doesn’t speak right away, like he’s trying to choose his words. “I’ve heard that he has a bad temper.”

  Would finding out that his wife is leaving him set it off? How about for the twenty-four-year-old gearhead who he hired to fix his engine? “Why wouldn’t you warn me?”

  He shoots a finger at me. “I did warn you. More than once, remember?”

  “No. Not about this, you didn’t.”

  “Dude, what the hell was I supposed to say? I told you about the stolen cars, didn’t I? That should have been fair warning that Viktor’s not some office chump who will roll over for the guy screwing his wife.”

  “Fuck you, Boone. You’re an asshole.” I march out of his room, slamming his door on my way.

  Alex is sitting on my bed, her cheeks wet with tears. “I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t. I’m so sorry.”

  I drop to my knees in front of her, taking her hands in mine. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

  “What have we done?” she whispers, her eyes pleading with me. “He’s going to kill us.”

  “No he’s not, because he’s never going to find out. That couple on TV—they were probably being stupid about it. That’s why they got caught. We’ve been careful. You haven’t even left the apartment since Sunday. No one knows you’re here except Boone, and he’s
not going to say a thing.” Boone’s the one who brought me into the fold. I’m sure he doesn’t want to go down with us.

  She dips her forehead into mine. “He’s not going to just let me leave, is he?” The defeat in her voice squeezes my heart.

  “We’ll figure it out. We’ll get you away from him. I promise.”

  That night, I hold her tense body against mine as we both stare out the window, not speaking, not sleeping.

  And I feel it.

  Everything has changed.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Water

  now

  “The usual, Water?” Lauren asks with a smile, reaching for two large Styrofoam cups.

  “No. Not today.”

  The short, apple-figured cashier and daughter of Poppa—the owner of Poppa’s Diner—freezes midway. She prides herself on knowing what the regulars want. Now she’s looking at me like I’ve thrown a wrench into her weekday routine and irreparably damaged her flow.

  “The usual for Dakota,” I quickly correct. “But can I have a large with,” I cringe, “two-and-a-half milks and one sweetener?”

  She cocks her head. “Honey, a what?”

  I have to repeat my order three times before Lauren gives up and slides a carton of milk and a few packets of Splenda across the counter with a black coffee. “I’ll just screw it up.”

  After paying, I shift over to an open table to mix my coffee, inhaling the delicious scent of bacon and home fries. Everyone and their children and their grandchildren have eaten at Poppa’s, a staple in Sisters for sixty years this summer. The white-haired man behind the grill opened the place when he was twenty-two years old and still works seven days a week, double-time on weekends, when the town packs the small place. Even now it’s buzzing with light chatter, half the tables occupied by the retired population.

  “Excuse me.” I look up to find an older woman with short auburn hair standing opposite me. “Are you Ginny Fitzgerald’s cousin?” Her blue eyes glance over the right side of my face and I can see her mentally adding a check mark next to “giant scar.” Whoever gave her my description didn’t neglect to mention that. I wonder where it was on the list of my identifying features.