Chapter Twenty-Three #2
Staring out the window, I’m quiet and still on the outside.
But within me is a storm. Harsh winds and rain and thunder, rumbling me down to my foundation.
The angst of the unknown sits like a hundred pounds of weight on my shoulders while my mind whirls around a memory, of a purge from two years ago.
The first time I saw Dascha Reznikov…
On a purge, two years ago. I was at home with my wife… when a newspaper article, and more specifically, a picture, caught my attention.
Dascha Reznikov, 23, was released yesterday from the seventy-seventh precinct in Brooklyn after insufficient evidence was found to tie the Kings County resident to a string of local robberies…
He’s just so… pretty. Not in a slender, androgynous kind of way. He’s very masculine. But there’s something about him that just looks… sweet. Dangerous, but highly tempting.
This man, though… He’s way too beautiful to be in prison.
My mind is running away as I read the article again and again, all the while with Dascha Reznikov’s surly scowl aimed up at my face. I run my thumb over the picture and shift in my seat.
God, he’s hot. So so sexy…
Snapping my eyes shut, I shake my head. Stop it. We’re not doing this right now. We are not getting swept up in this guy. This potential criminal…
The Brooklyn boy with the perfect lips…
But I wish I could take him with me.
Snatching up the paper, I tear out the article with his mugshot, folding it up and tucking it away in my pocket. Then I leave the house, heading back to purgatory.
Someday…
Maybe someday I’ll meet him.
And we could burn together.
This day is dragging.
They all do, but this one more than usual.
I just finished bringing food to the inmates in solitary, and I’ve decided that it’s a good time for a break.
Slipping into the upstairs break room, I go to the fridge for a can of Coke.
Cracking it open, I sip slowly, letting the fizzy liquid give me something.
What am I searching for here? Energy? Distraction? Serotonin??
Probably all of it, on some level, because I’m a recovering junkie who’s perpetually bored, and curious… Whatever it is, I don’t think I’m gonna find it in this damn can of pop.
That’s likely part of what’s gotten me into this situation. Being impulsive and obsessive are just a few more facets of my addictive personality, I suppose.
Choosing to distract myself from the endless nonsense in my brain, I take out my phone and pull up a text to Nikki. Chewing the inside of my cheek, thumbs hovering, I consider what I’m considering… And how she might react.
I’m running out of ways to do this. Running out of excuses.
Sucking in a breath, I go for broke. And I fucking lie to my wife, again.
For the millionth time.
Hey babe… I have to go out with the guys tonight. Velle has something planned.
My heart is thumping quickly, though it still feels weak. It’s dying, I know it is. Slowly being strangled by the hands of my denial.
Nikki writes back in less than a minute.
That’s fine. Bebe invited me out anyway.
Me: Cool yea go have fun. I’ll bring breakfast over before we leave.
Nikki: Sounds like a plan :)
Raking fingers through my hair, I swallow the lump in my throat.
This isn’t working.
You know it isn’t.
Stop pretending you’re not making both of you miserable with this fallacy you’ve created.
Ignoring my internal berating, I saunter over to the table where today’s papers are always scattered and sift through the pages.
Searching, almost like a reflex, though I know there won’t be anything in here about him.
There’s nothing on my phone, and Google gets you news faster than the old-fashioned way.
That said, there’s just something nostalgic about a physical newspaper article.
I have a few I’ve cut out and saved. I keep them in a shoebox in the back of my closet, and I swear to God, I’m not trying to seem like a fucking serial killer, or some stalker who hides in the bushes outside his house waiting for him to go to sleep so I can peep through the window and watch.
I don’t know where he lives or anything… Well, not his address. I do know he lives in Gravesend, but that’s about it. For all of the Dash-obsessing I’ve done over the last two years, he is still very much an enigma.
No social media presence, no blogs or family information, or random embarrassing shit from high school.
The only thing I’ve been able to find about him are the occasional articles and arrest records.
Hence why I seek them out, despite not really wanting him to get himself into the sort of trouble that would warrant such things.
I just want to feel close to him. I want to know more…
In my mind, in my fantasies, I know him very well.
But it’s not real, and I know that. I’m not crazy.
I’m just a little… infatuated. With someone I’ve never fucking met.
Jesus, somebody call a shrink.
Brushing the pages back into place, I notice something different at the bottom of the pile. It’s glossy, and colorful, unlike the flimsy black, white, and gray of the newspaper.
At first, I assume it’s just some marketing mailer or book of coupons. But when I lift it up and flip through, I find that it’s a travel brochure. For a resort in Mexico.
Tulum.
Slumping into the seat, I absorb the details with wide eyes. I’ve never heard of Tulum before, but it looks gorgeous. Palm trees, crystalline ocean, delicious food and vibrant sunsets.
So… full of color.
I have no idea why this brochure would be here. It seems intentionally taunting, given where we are. It probably just came with the paper. The mailing address on the front just says Resident, but it has an address in Vegas. That’s weird…
The place looks purely stunning. Tropical luxury; exotic and lavish, but tranquil.
No children allowed. Perfect.
“Abre Tus Ojos…” I read the name out loud, fingers brushing the shiny color.
“Si… por favor.”
My face springs to the doorway. “Huh??” Dropping the booklet, I stalk over to the door, peering out into the hallway. Left, right. “Hello…?”
I don’t see anyone…
Who the hell was that?
I heard a voice…
Okay, I need to get back to work.
I’m leaving the break room as my phone buzzes again. Pulling it out, I’m expecting another text from my wife. But it’s not.
It’s a Google alert.
There are instant, concurrent sizzles of thrill and mortal dread weaving through my stiff muscles as I read…
Governor’s Niece Killed in Robbery Gone Wrong.
My heart stops. Comes to a crashing halt in my chest.
Suspect is Dascha Reznikov, 25, of Brooklyn…
Holy fuck…
Eyes wide and stuck to the screen, I’m quaking all over. So many things are siphoning through me, way too many feelings I don’t understand. Inevitably, I go numb.
I’m blank inside as I read on. It says that the police were working with an informant at some bank in Flatbush… Municipal Credit Union. When the suspect, Dascha Reznikov, was tipped off to the presence of SWAT outside, he took an employee hostage… Twenty-two-year-old Karly Clayton.
Clayton is the niece of Governor Antonio Russo.
The governor’s niece…
The goddamn governor’s fucking niece.
Holy shit, he’s fucked.
Governor Antonio Russo is on the board of Alabaster Penitentiary. He’s our biggest source of funding, and it’s widely known and accepted that anything Russo wants from Manuel Blanco as far as this island is concerned, he gets.
If Dash killed his niece… He’s more than just fucked.
He’s dead.
My spine stiffens.
Oh… shit.
Wait a minute…
My fingers are shaking, scrolling to read the rest. Searching for more, eyes burning eager. That’s when I see it…
Reznikov was killed when police attempted to take him into custody.
Shot and killed by police.
I feel like my legs are going to give out. I can’t breathe… I can’t think. I’m just… aching inside. Aching for someone I don’t even know. A criminal… A killer.
A cold-blooded murderer.
I don’t know him… And he’s clearly… evil.
I swallow hard. I shouldn’t be fucking bleeding inside the way I am. I shouldn’t be crumbling… But I am.
Leaning up against the wall, I close my eyes tight and struggle to pull in ragged breaths.
I’m in pain right now, and it makes no goddamn sense.
How can you mourn the death of a killer you’ve never met??
Fuck, this hurts.
A pain reminiscent of the time my father threw me down the stairs…
Like a reflex, my fingers brush the scar on my collarbone. My hand grips my chest, like I’m trying to apply pressure to a fresh wound.
Objectively, it’s sad. He’s just so young… No one deserves to die young.
Not Karly Clayton.. Not Dash.
Fuck, Dash…
Why’d you have to go and die before I could… Before we could…
Scoffing, I shake my head at how foolish I am, and how pathetic this reaction is. I don’t know Dascha Reznikov, and even if I did, I’ve never so much as smiled at a guy I thought was hot, let alone spoken to one.
Let alone tracked one down after seeing his picture in the paper.
It’s not something I ever would’ve done, whether Dash was still alive or not.
I haven’t made a move on a guy since high school—when I kissed my best friend and was nearly killed by my father for it.
I’ve gone through my entire adult life only ever dating dudes in my mind, and it’s exhausting. Miserable. But it’s also safe, and comfortable.
Just like my sham marriage.
That’s why I married Nikki. Pretending is easier than pain.
Running and hiding is easier than the fight that comes with courage.
Sniffing, I tuck my phone away, wiping my eyes. So what if my crush is dead? It doesn’t matter, because nothing matters.
Honestly, he’s better off dead. Because killing Governor Russo’s niece sounds like something that would earn you a first-class ticket to…
I blink hard. A forceful shiver rushes up my spine.
Shit…
I can feel my throat closing as the world around me spins.
Killed by police… when they attempted to take him into custody…