Chapter 16
VAL
“She’s so mean!”
I snort as I follow Naomi into the women’s locker room, with Milena right behind me.
It’s pretty late, but Madame Kuzmina, our artistic director, considers anything less than literal perfection to be a personal affront.
Tonight, that Stalinist drive meant she kept Naomi, Milena, and I late to hammer down the pas de trois from La Bayadère, a Russian ballet involving a love triangle between Solor the warrior—that would be me—the princess Gamzatti, Naomi, and the temple dancer Nikiya, Milena.
And trust me, I feel hammered the fuck down.
“I want to just say it’s her Russian nature,” Milena groans, glancing at Naomi, who’s slumped on the bench by the lockers. “But she takes it to another level.”
“It doesn’t help that you fucking antagonize her, Val,” Naomi grumbles, shooting me a dark look.
“Moi?” I give them my most charming smile, framing my face with my hands and fluttering my eyelashes dramatically.
“Yes,” they mutter in unison, glaring at me.
Milena turns away, peeling off her tights and leotard and wrapping a towel around her.
Again, these girls are like sisters. Or utterly—and I do mean utterly—platonic pals.
For a while there, the other guys in the Zakharova had a habit of leaving directly after rehearsal and showering at home or at their gyms or wherever, and honestly, it got lonely and boring being the only one in the guys' changing room.
So I just started using this one instead. It’s one hundred percent not a sexual thing, and I’ve bent over backward to make sure I’m not making anyone uncomfortable. If Dove’s around, for instance, I use the guys' room, because I can tell she’s not down with sharing the space with me.
“Maybe I’m just trying to charm my way through her icy exterior. She should thank me: it might actually get her a date before she hits the retirement home.”
I’m kidding. Magda Kuzmina has this way of appearing much older than she is. Part of it is her take-no-prisoners approach to her work. It’s also her fondness for flowing black dresses and shawls, with the silver rings covering her fingers giving her the appearance of a Roma fortune teller.
The general thinking is that she’s in her late forties. But I’ve had her right in my face scolding me enough times that I know better. If she’s even thirty-five, I’d be surprised.
I let Milena and Naomi hit the showers first. While they’re in there, I plop down on the bench and open my texts.
Me
we missed you today!
Evelina
Thanks! It felt so weird not being there!
Me
Everything all good, though?
Evelina
Yeah. I mean, I think? No one tells me freaking anything!
“Freaking anything”. She’s not trying to be funny. She just literally talks like that. The girl can’t even swear in a text when she’s annoyed. This is why I love her.
Me
what happened?
Evelina texted us all this morning as we were showing up in the alley out back to let us know she wouldn’t be at the theater today.
At first, we were all joking about her hangover, but then she sent another text mentioning that her absence was due to “dumb mafia crap”. Translation: she was being kept home.
Naturally, I asked Milena if she knew what was going on, given that her father, Marko Kalishnik, helms the Kalishnik Bratva. But she had no idea.
I even texted Roman—against my better judgment, given the way he got all pissy and “bUt i’M sTrAiGHt” after what happened at Doomsday last night—but he never messaged me back, just left me on read.
Asshole.
Evelina
I have no idea! Papa and Roman came home at like four in the morning, and all the yelling woke me up.
Evelina
Papa’s clothes looked burned or singed, but he wouldn’t tell me anything! WTF!!
“WTF” is as close to vulgarity as you’re going to get from that girl. She probably thinks the F is for fudge, anyway.
Evelina
Now I’m a prisoner in my own home. Papa’s men are armed and walking around everywhere, and there are THREE of them who are supposed to follow me if even step out of my room. So I’m not, lol.
Then she sends a gif of a cartoon dog sitting at a table, the one where it and the room is on fire and he’s saying “this is fine”.
Me
Shit, I’m sorry. You want us to come rescue you?
Evelina
lol I’d say yes, but someone would probably shoot you all.
I frown. Evelina missing rehearsal never happens. And the thing about her dad and Roman coming home at four in the morning, with her dad’s clothes “burned and singed”? And now armed men patrolling the Nikitin mansion?
I switch to another text conversation.
Me
Just checking again to make sure everything’s ok. Evie says that shit is a little wild at your house rn.
No reply.
Me
Dude, you could at least answer…
My texts switch from “delivered” to “read”.
Then nothing.
Motherfucker…
Me
I can see you leaving me on read, you know
Me
RUDE…
Me
Or are you still trying to recover after the best head of your life last night?
Me
I get it. I’ve had complaints about being “too good” before. It happens.
He reads those, too. Still nothing.
Me
if I didn’t mention it last night, you have a GREAT dick. Solid A+. Huge fan of your balls, too.
Me
Answer my goddamn texts in the next century and I might even suck them into my mouth again.
Me
Don’t pretend you didn’t love it when I did that. Guess none of the girls you’ve been with knew what they were doing, amirite?
I glare at the “read” notification and the complete lack of response.
Me
Dude, I can SEE that you’re reading these. So either you’re being an ass, or else you’re so turned on by these texts and remembering last night that you’re too busy jerking that gorgeous dick to respond. In which case, A) rude, but B) send pics :P
He reads that one too. And of course, there’s no response. Okay, this is getting old real fast.
Me
I actually refuse to believe you’ve never sucked a guy off before.
Me
WAY too fucking good at it. You blew my fucking mind, wreckage.
I almost don’t send the next one. But fuck it, why not.
Me
you’re such a good little cocksucker, and you look so fucking hot on your knees.
Message: read.
Message: unreplied to.
God. Dammit.
An idea pops into my head. I half peel down my tights, positioning my phone to take a tasteful, artistic shot of my semi to shock Roman into responding.
“Oh, hell fucking no.”
I wince when I hear the voice behind me, pull up my tights and lock my phone before I turn to grin innocently at Naomi. “What?”
“What?” She glares at me, towel tied around her, her hands on her hips. “Don’t fucking what me. If you want to send dick pics to one of your little fuck buddies, do it somewhere else.”
“Eww!” Milena laughs as she steps past Naomi, also wrapped in a towel. “Dude, you do that in here and you are permanently banished. For real. Also…” She shakes her head. “No one wants a dick pic.”
“I beg to differ,” I grin.
She rolls her eyes, trying not to laugh as she turns around to open her locker.
“Besides, it wasn’t a dick pic,” I say indignantly. “It was a tasteful, artistic nude.”
“Jesus,” Naomi sighs, laughing as she turns away from me and starts pulling on sweats and a hoodie.
“Please,” I smirk. “A hundred bucks says if I went through your phone, I’d find plenty of up close and personal shots of Nico’s pierced little buddy.”
Naomi whirls toward me, her mouth falling open.
Milena giggles as she buttons up her shirt. “Girl, you did let the piercing thing slip when we were drunk, remember?”
Naomi groans, burying her face in her hands briefly before shooting me a look. “Well, you’re not getting your hands on my phone.” Her lips curl into a slightly hidden grin. “And FYI, there’s nothing little about the situation.”
Milena and I both burst out laughing as our friend blushes.
“That’s my girl,” I grin, shaking my head and turning away to wrap a towel around my waist. I strip off my tights and head toward the showers, grinning to myself. I didn’t really have this before I joined the Zakharova: the friends, the camaraderie.
And the thing is, I need it. I need these girls, this sense of belonging, almost like a family. It’s not necessarily a mask, more like a security blanket. But there’s no question: this closeness is something I need to survive.
To drown out the echoes of my childhood.
The abuse.
The fights.
The amnesia.
The irony of my memory loss is that the real horrors in my life came after that. The shitty early childhood and the absent parents? Yeah, I’ve forgotten all that and them. But there’s no escaping the hell that came later, at night in foster care.
Amnesia hit too early for that.
I absently let my hand drift over the chaotic ink on my left arm before I flinch and pull away. I dry off in the now-empty locker room and get dressed. Then I glance at my phone. Completely unsurprisingly, there’s not a single fucking reply from Roman.
I contemplate sending that dick pic, but then decide Roman doesn’t deserve to be rewarded for his radio silence leave-me-on-read bullshit, so I don’t.
I’m the last one here as I walk through the empty theater to the back door. It’s dark when I step outside and turn to make sure the door locks behind me.
That’s when I get hit from behind and my face gets slammed into the door.
I grunt, wincing, but this isn’t my first time getting jumped, and it’s far from my first fight.
Picked the wrong guy, motherfucker.
I grin savagely and drive my elbow back, hitting soft flesh and eliciting a snarl of pain. I do it again and then whirl, tackling the fucker and knocking him on his ass.
What the fuck.
I stare in shock as Roman picks himself up off the ground, his face furious as he squares off with me, his eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Dude, what the fuck are—”
I grunt again when he slams into my midsection, doubling me over and tackling me to the ground.
Oh, it’s fucking on now, bitch.