Demyan
A week. I promised Eduard a week. But every hour feels like a while new kind of torture.
I get on with my assigned duties around the yard.
I help the guys when Jefferson calls in sick.
I drive the forklift and the lorries. The only thing I don’t work is the crane, and that’s because that thing has more levers and buttons than the International Space Station.
God only knows I can’t sleep. I hate crossing the bridge into town in case I see her. Even though there would be no reason for me to accidentally bump into her unless I went to the café or the bookstore.
I just need to stay away, and I can do that for a week until Eduard sends me somewhere else.
The gym has become a second home to me. So much so, that when I hear on the grapevine that the owner, a guy in his fifties who used to be an award-winning bodybuilder, is selling up. I buy it.
That’s why I’m here at two thirty in the morning, pushing myself to breaking point. I collapse onto the weight bench, sweating and panting, and look around.
Paint peels from the walls. Posters that are considerably outdated hang lopsided beside barred windows.
The equipment is good, but there are the odd bits that need repairs.
A few more machines would be beneficial, too, so the few regulars who do come here don’t have to wait for their turn.
The floor is worn away entirely in patches, revealing the scuffed black bitumen beneath.
Terry, the previous owner, asked what I was planning to do with the place. He seemed to believe I’d rip it apart and turn it into a glossy modern affair. But I like the old school feel of the place. Though the showers could definitely do with an upgrade.
The early morning hours turn into day, and a few guys turn up to use the gym as usual.
I catch snippets of conversation about workouts and nutrition, along with the rumor that there’s a new dealer on the scene pushing steroid shots.
I make a mental note of the name, in case it becomes a problem later down the line.
I call a plumber about the current shower situation, and he agrees to come out and give me a quote today. He turns up at lunch, while I’m eating my take-out sub and sipping bitter coffee made in the pot Terry left in the kitchenette off the side of the office.
He offers his brother’s services as a painter and decorator, and I agree. The walls inside and out need refreshing, and it feels good to have a list of tasks to focus on.
I’m tinkering with the lat pulldown machine when Eduard pushes the door open.
Late afternoon crept up on me without me even noticing.
“You bought a gym,” he says, partly a question and partly a statement.
“I did.” I wipe my hands on a rag and stand up, walking to him.
“Why?” He looks around the space with curiosity. “There’s one in your building.”
“Because I wanted to.”
“What does that mean?” he asks.
“It means I own a gym.” I place my hands in my pockets and rock back and forth on the balls of my feet.
“Okay,” he says. “There’s a delivery at the yard for the café; I was wondering if you could take it tonight after closing. It’s Christmas stock, or something.”
“Sure,” I say.
“I’d take it myself, but I’m taking Sammie to that new restaurant that’s opened. Valeria said she’d watch the kids.”
“Cool,” I mutter.
“A gym…” He shakes his head and raises his brows. “You know, Demyan, working for the family and being part of the family aren’t mutually exclusive. You’ll always be a Federov even if you no longer want to work for the family…”
That surprises me. I always assumed that you’re born into the family and you work for the family until the day you die.
“You have your own wealth, your own aspirations,” he gestures at the gym. “If you want out of the business, I get it.”
“I don’t want out,” I say. “I just want to be me.”
Eduard nods. “Okay. Figure out what that looks like and let me know.”
I follow him out and lock the door behind me.
Looking back at the building from my car, I can see why it surprised Eduard so much.
It does look a little rough around the edges, and I do have a gym in my building.
I just never felt comfortable in it. This gym is for the everyday guy who wants to work out.
There are no phone calls being taken on the cross trainer, no TV’s hung on the walls reciting the latest news or stock numbers.
It’s nothing more than exactly what it is. And I like that.
I climb into the car and check the time. It’s just after five, which means I’ve somehow spent almost fifteen hours here. My body feels like it too. Everything aches from the workout this morning, and my shoulders are stiff from spending most of the afternoon hunched over machines with a toolbox.
For the first time in days, though, I’m tired enough that I might actually sleep.
I stop by my apartment to shower and change before heading to the yard.
Most of the guys have gone home by the time I get there, leaving only the night crew loading two trucks that are heading out before dawn.
I find the delivery Eduard mentioned in the office, three boxes stacked beside his desk with Purr & Pour written across the top one in black marker.
I could leave them here. Jasper will be back tomorrow. Natan could take them. There are probably twenty people I could ask to drive three boxes across town without anyone thinking twice about it.
But that would mean admitting I’m avoiding the café because there’s a chance Tamsin might be there. Even though by now the place will be locked up tight.
I grab the first box and take it to my car.
By the time I pull into the parking lot on the corner, the street is mostly quiet. The gallery is already dark, and the lights in the bookstore are off. A few people walk along the sidewalk bundled in coats and scarves, their breath clouding in the cold air.
The café still has lights on. I check the clock on the dash. Six twenty-three. They closed almost half an hour ago. I get out and open the trunk.
The first box weighs next to nothing. Mugs, according to the label on the side. I carry it around the corner and approach the café, keeping my eyes on the door rather than the windows.
This is ridiculous.
I’ve broken into buildings full of armed men without my pulse changing. I’ve had guns pointed at my face. Knives pulled on me. I once had a guy try to run me over with my own fucking car.
Yet walking towards a café has my stomach tightening.
Those things are easy. If someone wants to hurt me, I hurt them first. If someone threatens my family, I remove the threat. There are rules to my world. Ugly ones, but rules all the same.
Tamsin doesn’t fit into any of them.
I slow before I reach the door.
For a moment, I can see her sitting across from me at Patricia’s table again. The way her entire face changed when she understood what I was telling her.
Good people don’t kill people.
She wasn’t wrong. That’s the part I can’t get past.
I could tell her every man I’ve killed deserved it. I could explain what they did and who they hurt. I could tell her there are people walking around this town right now who are safer because certain men aren’t breathing anymore. Including Delilah.
It wouldn’t change what I’ve done. And I don’t want to be the man who convinces her to move the line she has drawn just so I can stand on the right side of it.
She deserves to decide what she can live with. Even if that means she can’t live with me.
I pull the key Eduard gave me out of my pocket while balancing the box against my chest. I push it into the keyhole, but it doesn’t go all the way. I try again, wiggling it from side to side. Then it hits me. The key is for the front door.
For fuck sake.
I consider leaving the box outside, but Sammie would probably kill me if several hundred dollars’ worth of whatever Christmas shit she ordered disappeared overnight.
I take the box back to the car, stack the other two on top and carry all three around the front of the building.
Music reaches me before I get to the door. Faint. Muffled by brick and glass. Someone is still inside.
Sammie, presumably. Though I thought Eduard said he was taking her out this evening.
I adjust the boxes in my arms and continue to the door.
The music gets louder as I approach, enough that I can make out the heavy beat of something I don’t recognize.
I lower the boxes enough to see over the top of them, and that’s when I see her. She is dancing while she mops the floor. Moving fluidly around the tables where the chairs are hanging upside down.
I want to knock, but I’m frozen to the spot. She asked me to leave, and now I’m watching her again. As though she can feel me, she suddenly stops and turns around. She blinks a couple of times, her head tilting to the side. Then she comes to the door, and the lock clicks before she pulls it open.
“Demyan?”