Chapter Seventeen
Adriana
We have something like a plan — get to Sacramento and take care of Ruslan Volkov, whatever that means — and we have a clearly defined command structure, even if Reaper isn’t so willing to accept it: I’m in charge, because I know what the fuck I’m doing, and he’s not, because I won’t accept him being in charge of me since he was, not that long ago, willing to have his head bashed in with a rock in the middle of a forest clearing behind the world’s sketchiest truck stop, where ‘whiskey’ is code for ‘antifreeze.’
Clearly, a man with those goals and temperament can’t be allowed a command position.
There’s a deeper reason, too. I’m worried about what will happen to me if I let him get any closer.
Everything I feel for him feels so wrong.
This urge to save his life, this wanting something closer, something more, with him I tell myself is just coming from a desire to know more about the little sister that I lost, but is really, truly coming from a place that makes me feel so ashamed and angry at myself: I want Reaper because he’s Reaper; shattered, yet still willing to save my life when the Russians came after me; flawed, yet still capable of loving so deeply he’s willing to sacrifice everything just for the chance — however fucking slim and illogical and impossible it is — to be closer to the woman he loves.
That woman is my sister, but there’s a shameful part of me that hopes that someday, that name might change.
And that thought scares me.
When you live the life I do — or did, to be honest with myself — you can’t get close to someone.
Getting close to someone means you risk losing them.
Love isn’t something you carry with you through your day-to-day life, it’s something you keep at arm’s length because you don’t want to get hurt, you don’t want someone else to get hurt, and the best substitute you can find are on hurried, desperate Friday and Saturday nights, when you get yourself drunk enough that you can drop the fear — just a little — and let someone get close enough that you can fuck each other’s brains out until you forget the fear and empty ache that threatens to swallow you from the inside every other waking moment of the day.
“Are you lost?” He says.
I blink, bringing my attention back to the road in front of me. Drab warehouses, apartment buildings, and billboards have replaced the trees of the countryside.
“No. Why?”
“Because you’ve missed about four exits for Sacramento and, if you keep driving in this direction, we’ll wind up in Reno, and I don’t think either of us would willingly choose Reno over coming face to face with Volkov’s gang.”
“I’m not lost. I’m thinking. We need somewhere to crash while we figure out a plan on how to deal with your massive fucking problem of being indebted to, and on the hit list of, the Russian mob.”
“It’s not just my problem; it’s your problem, too. You’re on their hit list too now. Or have you forgotten?”
“No, I haven’t. But thanks for the reminder of the shit consequences of getting close to you.”
“You’re in a pissy mood right now. There’s a gas station at the next exit. You want to pull over and get yourself some more antifreeze to take the edge off?”
“I hate you so much.”
“Same.”
“Same what? That you hate me or you hate yourself?”
He grins at me. “Por que no los dos?”
I hit the blinker and switch lanes. Maybe the antifreeze is a good idea.
“What are you doing? Are you really going for the antifreeze?”
“Beats being stuck in the car with your smart ass.”
He frowns, then eyes the approaching exit sign. “Actually, that’s a good idea. Take this exit. Then take a right once we get to the first intersection.”
“That isn’t the way to the gas station.”
“No, but it’s to somewhere better. Do you trust me?”
“That’s the thing; I don’t think I do.”
“Listen, I promise you: follow my directions and we’ll go somewhere where we can actually get some help. Somewhere useful that has nothing to do with drinking strange fluids, illegal gambling debts, or the Russian mob.”
“So what’s my incentive to go to this place? You just eliminated all the fun things.”
“Trust me. Please.”
I blink. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him use that word before. Please. “Fine. But I feel you’re just setting me up to take me somewhere even weirder, and if that happens, I am going to kick your ass.”
We reach the intersection, and I take the right.
That right leads to a left, then a right, and down a few side streets, past a grocery store, a pharmacy, an elementary school that looks like the best it can do is provide free lunches and childcare instead of nourishing growing dreams. A few more turns take us deeper into a neighborhood where even those growing dreams are nothing more than memories.
I give a wary look at Reaper. There’s a rapt look on his face, and a new type of smile, like poignant, purposeful joy is bubbling within him, and the only way he can keep it contained within him is by tightly clenching his mouth.
His eyes are wider, as if the joy might break out there, too.
But for some reason, he has to keep it in.
Why? Is it because he doesn’t trust me either?
There’s a part of me that feels sad about that — a part that wants to know him more, to know what could make a man like him show emotions that I never would have thought him capable of feeling; there’s a part of me that’s glad he’s keeping those feelings to himself, because I worry that this misadventure to risk death to save his life, even if we both survive, could have dire consequences that I don’t even want to think about, consequences that would betray my sister’s memory.
“Take a right at the next intersection. We’re almost here.”
His voice is like a blanket. Warm. Comforting. And it terrifies me how quickly I imagine wrapping myself in that luxurious, forbidden warmth.
I take the turn and follow the thrust of his pointing finger to park next to a small building with an understated, black-and-white sign out front that says, simply, ‘Never Again.’
“Where are we?”
“It’s a shelter for victims of domestic violence. I used to come here sometimes when I was feeling really… alone.”
An intoxicating mix of lonely sadness and pride swirls within his eyes, and I want to reach for him, I want to touch him, I want to hold him and press him to me and give him some moment of relief from the deep pain that must smother his heart every moment of the day, a pain that echoes my own.
But I cannot let myself. I cannot let him in; I cannot take him in; I cannot share myself with him like that. It might help my grief, but it would be an insult to Vanessa.
“Why are we here?” I force my voice to be sharp and hope the cutting edge will be enough to make him keep his distance. “They might let me crash here, but you? It doesn’t matter how often you volunteer here; they’re not going to let you spend the night.”
He smiles, and I don a frown to keep my heart at bay. “No, we’re not crashing here. I wouldn’t do that to these women. They’re good people, and they don’t deserve to be put in danger with Volkov’s men. But we are stopping here. Follow me. Let me do the talking.”
Reaper doesn’t wait for me to answer; he exits the car and walks to the front door of ‘Never Again’ like a man coming home after a long time away.
By the time I get out, he’s already knocking on the door and, as I’m halfway up the sidewalk, Reaper is already in a friendly hug with a woman on the older side of middle age, with enough gray in her voluminous, curly hair to tell me she’s been in this job for a long time.
She’s short, plump, matronly, but the sharpness of her green eyes and the way they weigh me within a blink tells me she’s only made it this far doing the work she does because she’s damn good at it.
“Who is this, Ricky?” she says, pinching his cheek. “Is she a girlfriend, or someone who needs help? Or, knowing you, both?”
Reaper doesn’t fight her off. He grins, and for a span of moments, the pain in his eyes disappears. “Susan, this is Adriana.”
“We’re not dating,” I add, with a hasty look at Reaper — is that color in his cheeks? Is his smile warmer? — then I shake my head with all the vigor of someone who just took several big bumps of cocaine. “No. No way.”
Susan briefly raises an eyebrow at my vehemence, but otherwise shows nothing less than cunning hospitality. “Then you’re in trouble, Adriana?”
“We both are, Susan.”
“Oh, Ricky, what happened?” Her eyes, ever sharp, turn to Reaper, and that edge does not dull even though her smile burns brighter looking at him. “Talk to me.”
I cut in. “Wait a second. Before we go any further, how well do you know Rea—Ricky?”
I don’t care how kind this woman looks; I’ve known her for a minute, and while Reaper has saved my life and I want to save his, he also recently admitted to drinking antifreeze, so his judgment is suspect, at best.
“Ricky’s been in here many times. Sometimes it’s to make donations, sometimes he’s helped out around our shelter by fixing things or helping in the kitchen — he bakes the most wonderful desserts — and he often just spends time here, talking.
Well, listening, mostly. It’s hard for many of the women here to find a man they can trust, who they can talk to, and Ricky is a good listener.
When he shows up, it’s clear he wants to be here, and he wants to help all the women and girls here however he can. ”
Fuck, there’s that urge to reach out and hold him again. If only he weren’t my dead sister’s ex, if only he weren’t tied up with the Russian mob, if only he didn’t drink antifreeze.
I’d excuse a lot to feel like I could let someone in. That the person I talk to and share with, doesn’t just want to listen to me, but knows the life I lead, knows the dangers, knows the heartache that comes with failure when the people depending on you are trapped in the criminal underworld.
Someone like Vanessa.
“We need your help, Susan,” Reaper says.
“I could tell the second you showed up. You didn’t have your usual smile.” Susan pauses, looks from Reaper, to me, and back again. “What are you mixed up in now? And how can I help?”
“We need somewhere to stay where no one can find us. Somewhere private. And far away from here. It has to be away from the shelter. The people who are looking for us — I don’t want to risk them coming here.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that, Ricky, even if it isn’t necessary, because there’s no way I’d let anyone with the heat you must be under stay anywhere close to the shelter, either.
I care about you a lot, and you’ve done so much for the people that depend on us, but I have an obligation to keep them safe, and that’s something that I take serious about everything else.
What you’re asking is serious, and I’m going to need a minute to think. ”
Susan turns her back to us and takes several steps away, raising her gaze to the sky.
I edge closer to Reaper. “You come here a lot? And you give them money? How? I thought you owed everything to Ruslan Volkov.”
He shrugs. “I owe him money, yeah. But sometimes I had a good night at the card tables, and it didn’t feel right to keep it all for myself, especially since I was planning on…
Anyway, I wanted to do good with it and honor Vanessa’s memory.
Lucky for me, I found this place. And lucky for me, they were willing to give me a shot to do something good. ”
Susan is still staring skyward when a yell comes from the front door. An ear-splitting, high-pitched yell. “Ricky! Ricky’s here!”
The front door flies open and a girl, not over eight, with her long hair in a ridiculously high ponytail, wearing a blue shirt decorated with pink unicorns, and jeans that saw their better days a few years ago, comes sprinting down the sidewalk. She throws her tiny arms around Ricky’s left leg.
Moments later, another girl, just a year older at most, with short curly black hair, a plain green shirt and denim overalls, sprints from the front door to join in by hugging Reaper’s right leg.
Several other, older, faces appear in the door — women ranging from their late teens to their early fifties and sixties, all with marks of a hard life they never would have asked for in their darkest nightmares — and they smile at Ricky in a way that makes the scars and furrows of their harsh lives fade from their faces, and then come to join the young girls in greeting Reaper.
I blink for a moment, sigh, and look at Reaper — who is grinning and blushing like a proud teenage boy — with a set of eyes like I’m seeing him for the first time, a man so wholly different from everything I thought I’ve known, and then I turn to Susan, who has turned around and is looking at the both of us with a knowing smile.
A smile that grows when she focuses her attention on me.
What does she know about us — about me?
And why do I feel like I already know the answer to that question?