CHAPTER FOUR #2
I let out an unexpected laugh. “No, like Johnny Depp’s character from the movie, Chocolát. What’s your cat’s name?”
“Her name is Edie,” he replies. “As in, Scissorhands.”
I still my hand on the cat’s back, frozen with astonishment.
He also named his cat after a Johnny Depp character?
“She scratches everything,” he mutters with a quick glance to the side.
I follow his eyes as they move down to the floor.
Everything else in this space is immaculate except for the corner of the sectional, which is all but shredded, with threads hanging in wisps from the frame.
I’m not sure why, but I find this incredibly amusing.
Maybe because Sergei has such a menacing presence, but a little black cat named Edie Scissorhands can shred his furniture without a second thought.
But isn’t that why cats are so wonderful?
They don’t give a fuck.
I run my hand over Edie’s back one more time and rise as she turns and scurries toward the kitchen, hearing the familiar clatter of her food hitting her metal bowl.
“How long does it usually take for the airport to open after a storm like this?” I ask, gazing around at the house that looks like it belongs in Scandinavia, with its clean, sharp lines and minimalistic décor.
There’s a wood-burning stove in the corner, much like the one at Brett and Colson’s house, which fills the house with a cozy warmth.
“A couple days,” he shrugs, “and maybe another one or two for the roads to be cleared.”
My eyes round. “Four days?”
“Depends.” He’s so nonchalant about it. “The power usually stays on here, but I have a sat phone for work and emergencies.”
I’m about to ask why he’s so calm about this when it dawns on me that this probably isn’t anything new for someone who’s lived and worked in the Arctic.
I can’t remember exactly what he and Colson do, but I think it pertains to security, which also probably explains his total lack of concern.
Other than Brett mentioning that it’s Sergei’s company, that’s about as much as I know about it.
Soon, it starts to sink in that even though I’m not stuck at the airport, I also can’t leave this house until the snow clears.
And I’m here with a man that seems utterly indifferent to my presence, which is shocking, considering what he said to me on my first night in Gunnison.
I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been thinking about it—a lot.
That is, after I picked my jaw up off the floor and gathered my wits.
What the hell was that? I am never caught off-guard.
I listen to some of the most heinous stories all day, but, somehow, Sergei’s casual admission rendered me speechless.
Regardless of how inappropriate it was, I’m still intrigued by the Russian leviathan who’s incredibly reserved until he lets something wild slip.
Then again, maybe it wasn’t a slip. He doesn’t seem like the kind of person who makes mistakes or lacks impulse control.
It makes me keep my guard up, though. Part of me thinks I should’ve stayed at the airport.
I don’t need to deal with another unhinged man on such short notice after Caleb’s unsettling reaction to the end of our relationship.
But, also, the thought of staying in the airport in limbo overrode my apprehension at the time.
Sergei glances up from the counter. “You can sit down.”
I forgot I was still standing in the middle of his living room. And his invitation sounds more like a command.
“Thanks.”
I slip my boots off next to the front door and make my way to the dining table next to the kitchen, surveying the massive flat screen TV and variety of gaming consoles and controllers neatly tucked onto the shelves below.
The windows stretch from floor to ceiling, but there’s nothing but a hurricane of snow visible in the failing light.
Between the stormy sky and all the trees, I still can’t get over how quickly it gets dark here in the winter.
“Do you like ramen noodles?” Sergei asks as he moves through the kitchen.
“Uh, yeah, I guess so.”
I know I’m not one to complain right now, but please tell me he doesn’t survive on ultra-processed, pre-packaged meals.
Sergei’s pretty fit, though. Based on the triangular shape of his back and the size of his arms, he must not subsist on total trash. He also has a nice jawline…with short, manicured facial hair…and a darkness around his eyes that make them pop when he looks up…
What was I just thinking about?
Oh yeah…ramen.
“So,” I take a deep breath, trying to focus on something else, “did you finish your book?”
“Yes,” he replies, not looking up as he continues back and forth from the pantry and refrigerator. “It was a quick read. Very engaging.”
I suppose feminine rage resulting in a bloodbath tends to have that effect.
“Thoughts? Criticisms?”
Sergei pauses at the counter, gazing across the living room thoughtfully. “Women are supposed to be comfort and security. But if a woman becomes violent, like a man…there’s something wrong with a woman like that.”
God, here we go again. This was most definitely a mistake.
“Even if it’s a result of the violence perpetrated against her?”
Sergei picks up a knife and begins chopping. “A grizzly sow can kill a male twice her size. Lionesses live together and kill invading males.” He stops chopping and looks up with irreverence. “More men need to be afraid.”
“In what way?”
As in leave women alone or just work harder to silence them?
Sergei goes back to chopping. “Isaac Asimov said that violence is the last refuge of the incompetent, but men who subjugate women don’t understand anything but violence. Indoctrinate the women and not enough of them will believe they have any power. It’s easier to punish a few rather than all.”
“Alright,” I nod, starting to relax a bit, “so, is violence the most effective response or a last resort for a woman at the end of her tether?”
“I will tell you a story,” he replies. “A long time ago, a man and a woman married their daughter off to the mayor of the neighboring town when she was 14, thinking it would improve their status and they wouldn’t lose their failing farm.
This man—Morozov—was a horrible person. And what pedophile isn’t?
But for four years, the girl waited, enduring brutality day after day.
Then, one night, Morozov came home after a night of drinking with a bureaucrat and his son and beat her like he always did.
But that night, after he fell asleep, she took out a 10-inch knife from under the mattress and stabbed it straight through his throat and into the bed.
Then she walked out of the house with nothing except the clothes she was wearing, a half a mile to a car where the son of the bureaucrat was waiting for her.
They disappeared, she changed her name, married my father, and everyone thought one of Morozov’s enemies broke in, murdered him, and kidnapped his young wife. ”
This has to be one of the most intriguing stories I’ve ever heard.
Sergei pours the boiling noodles out of the pot and looks up at me through the steam. “If more women rolled over and slit a few throats, they wouldn’t have to write books analyzing normal human responses to injustice.”
Wow.
I’m still mulling over his response as he picks up two bowls and heads for the table.
He sets one down in front of me and my brow immediately arches in surprise.
An intense savory aroma hits my nostrils as I survey the wide bowl brimming with dark broth, curly noodles, sliced pork, Bok choy, and a soft-boiled egg sprinkled with scallions.
Oh. When Sergei said, “ramen,” he meant ramen.
We begin eating in silence, the only sound the whistling of the wind outside.
Sergei has a perpetual look of contemplation, glancing up at me every so often.
This only piques my curiosity. I can easily sit in silence, whereas it makes other people’s skin crawl.
But there’s not a shred of discomfort in his demeanor.
He only eyes me from across the table, squinting ever so slightly as if studying me.
Even after dinner, the only words he utters are in regards to my suitcase sitting next to the sofa.
“You can sleep in my room.” He nods behind him. “It’s down the hall.”
“No!” I furrow my brow with surprise. “I can’t take your room. That’s too much. You’re already doing enough by letting me stay here.”
“It would be highly inappropriate to make you sleep on the sofa when you have nowhere else to go.”
That’s another thing I’ve noticed about Sergei; he doesn’t debate, he makes statements. And as much as I’m prepared to do the polite thing, it also wouldn’t be the worst to sleep in an actual bed—in this cozy little Scandi house in a veritable snow globe.
I glance over at the hallway, chewing the side of my cheek.
“A shower would be nice,” I admit. “OK, as long as it’s really not too much trouble.”
Sergei gives the slightest of nods, considering the matter closed.
And I’m right; a shower is nice, especially when the water is scalding hot while an icy hurricane is raging outside.
The bathroom reminds me of a spa, with its stark white tile and wooden accents.
I keep the lights off, save for the one just outside the shower, because it makes the room feel like a steamy cave.
Once I finally leave the shower, I spend another inordinate amount of time standing in front of the mirror, wrapped in the softest towels I’ve ever felt, and enjoying the thermal flooring under my bare feet while I dry my hair.
Even my pajamas feel better after I finally slide beneath the crisp white sheets.
As soon as I feel the weight of the down comforter on my body, I don’t feel so bad about taking Sergei up on his offer.
It’s only for one night, maybe two…I hope.
If nothing else, maybe this will turn out to be a good story.