Chapter Eleven
Adriana
Goddamn, he’s big. Like, really fucking big.
I’d heard there can be some shrinkage when a man’s been in a fight.
That shrinkage isn’t just something that happens in a pool or an episode of Seinfeld.
It happens when the body pulls blood from the dick and shuttles it to other, more important parts of the body in order to facilitate survival.
Of course, considering how men think and act and the priorities they have, even when lives are on the line, it also rarely happens.
Most of the time, even when men are about to do something stupid, reckless, suicidal — in other words, typical — the blood stays put, loitering in their cocks, instead of going to other, less-used parts of their anatomy, like the brain.
But right now, seeing Ricky, seeing the concern and care in his face, the definition in his muscles, the tattoos, the scars, the dangling and large erect cock, I can see, maybe, what Vanessa saw in him. Even without that charming, roguish smile.
And as far as blood goes… with a cock that big, I’m sure he’s got more than enough to spare.
Still, I open my mouth and take the issue on. Orally. With words.
“Can you take your erect cock out of my face, please?”
He blinks, blushes — an act that’s both cute and shockingly out of place — and then places both hands down to cover himself.
Both hands are barely enough.
“Oh, fuck, sorry.”
Then he stands, whirls, hunting for a towel.
It gives me a superb view of his ass.
I like this view.
I liked the other, too. It just wasn’t the right time, being in pain, bruised, head ringing from a sucker punch, and with multiple dead bodies lying around me; the vibe’s more morgue than bordello, and the only wet I’m feeling is the blood on my knuckles.
Wrapped in a towel, he’s a lot less distracting.
“Better?” He says.
“Yes.”
He’s still blushing; his eyes are on the ceiling. There’s hesitation — nerves — shaking his voice. Blood slowly streams from the cut across his shoulder. “I wasn’t hard because of you, just so you know.”
I blink. “You weren’t?”
“No. It wasn’t you.”
“So what was it that got you hard?”
“What?”
“What got you hard?” I look around. “Was it the dead ugly Russians, the living ugly Russians that were beating you, or was it just the blood that got you hard?”
“It’s not important.”
“No, it’s really fucking important. I want to know if I’m trapped in a small room with a man who gets erections from dead bodies and blood.
” He shifts from side to side, his eyes still on the ceiling.
There must be something really interesting up there.
I look and see nothing except for ceiling tiles and a few blood spatters.
“There’s a bit of blood up there, too. Is that why you’re looking up there so hard?
You getting yourself a little peek at something that excites you? ”
He meets my gaze for a second, his eyes wide, shocked, and I flicker my eyes toward his crotch. The second I do it, his hands shoot down to cover himself. Even with the towel, if that blood was really turning him on, two hands would barely be enough to conceal himself.
“I’m not turned on by the blood.”
“So it’s the bodies, huh?”
“I’m not sexually aroused by dead bodies, either.”
“Got it, so now we know what it was: all those Borises — or is it Borii? — they’re the reason you got all hot and bothered.”
Ricky shakes his head, lets out a sigh, and then he smiles.
It’s a slow smile that creeps across his face — sly, teasing.
“You seem really fixated on my cock. If you want some, Adriana, just say the word. I bet this little revenge quest of yours means you haven’t cum in a long fucking time. I can fix that for you.”
Now, it’s my turn to blush. Blush, and feel a rush of blood to somewhere I definitely don’t want it to go. And maybe my eyes are deceiving me, but the bulge beneath Ricky’s towel seems larger than it was just a second ago.
“I was just fucking with you earlier. I don’t give a shit if you’re turned on by blood or dead bodies, so can we just drop it, OK? I have enough of a headache without playing sexual chicken with a piece of shit like you.”
“You OK?” He says again, with no hesitation. It’s like he actually gives a damn.
“Just sore,” I say. Then, “No, correction: I hurt like fuck. But I’ve had worse pain in my life. I’ll survive.”
“Good. I couldn’t deal with it if you…” His voice trails off and he turns away.
He’s got his back to me, which surprises me.
We did just fight for our lives through an attack by Bratva killers, but that he would actually turn away from me is a shocking act of trust. I could stand up right now and take one of the Russian guns and put a bullet in his skull. It would be so easy.
Except then, I’d never know the truth about my sister’s death.
And I have this feeling that there’s so much more that Ricky isn’t telling me about Vanessa.
There’s a lot I would put up with just to get a few more scraps of her, a few more memories, a few more impressions of that little sister I remember would always complain every step of the way any time our family went on hikes, and then, at the top of every ridge and mountain, she would let loose and yodel like she was in “The Sound of Music.”
Tears creep at the corners of my eyes, and I’m thankful for the bruising and blood to hide them when Ricky turns around, holding a shirt that says “I heart Disney” and wearing a pair of skinny jeans that leave nothing to the imagination.
“Is that what you’re going to wear?” I say.
“There’s nothing else that will even remotely fit me. If I die — even if you kill me — find something else to put on me before you let the police or coroners find me. Hell, I’d rather even die naked. Promise me that?”
“Promise,” I say. “I still hate your guts and want to kill you, but I can promise you I’ll not let anyone find you wearing these clothes.”
Even as I say that, not all the words feel like the truth in my mouth. Yes, I’d never let anyone find any person wearing those clothes, but the rest of what I’ve said? I’m not so sure.
“Your turn.”
Ricky steps away from the clothing bin, and I take my turn. I find a V-neck BTS t-shirt and a set of jeans that fit so well that they make me smile. Dressed, I turn around and tap Ricky on the shoulder.
“You were just about to tell me something about Vanessa and how she died. I want to know. Now.”
The door thunders open, and the old woman who met us earlier storms in. She’s holding a large hairpin decorated with a jade and emerald peacock, that has a long dagger blade. Her eyes are as impassive as stone, but her mouth is set in a line as sharp as her knife.
She looks down at the dead Russians and shakes her head.
“They are disgraces to their families.” Her eyes narrow at Ricky.
“Even worse than you. Though even I find it difficult to say because you are the filth who has brought these disgusting interlopers to our door. I should stab you in your other shoulder. I should gut you and have my grandson take your carcass into the desert to feed the vultures. Except I doubt even the vultures would want to eat something as disgusting, vile, and pathetic as you. Look at you — you’re bleeding all over my floor.
Fix yourself up. Put a shirt on. Pathetic. ”
Something breaks inside me and unleashes a burning fury that makes me forget about my sister. All I see is red. All I feel is a compulsion to step forward.
I place myself between Ricky and the old woman. Am I about to go to war against an old woman to protect the man who killed my sister?
I don’t know. Then I raise my voice, and the words follow.
Oh fuck.
“Bitch, he saved my life. He took down three fucking thugs with his bare hands, a bath towel, and his cock. Without him, who knows many of you old, mahjong-playing bitches would have died? Judge him all you want, but he’s better than you give him credit for.
And if you want to threaten his life, fine, but you need to know that you’ll have to get through me first, and I have no compunction against beating your old ass. ”