Chapter Two
In which we learn that best friends and cookies can make almost anything better.
Oksana…
My heart sinks when my phone buzzes angrily. It's my father. There's no question about not picking up right away. The house here in Chicago is wired with security cameras, even here at the stable where I keep Zlo, my mare. He could be watching me right now.
Or Yefim is, I think with a shudder. Yefim is my father's Sovietnik and he's a pig. Always standing too close, watching me too long and finding an excuse to touch me. Nausea is coiling up my throat as I take a deep breath and answer.
"There you are," he snaps before I can get a greeting out. "You do not keep me waiting, do you hear me?"
The phone rang twice.
"Prosti menya, Otets, I'm sorry, Father," I say numbly.
"I received word from Viktor Volkov that his daughter had to be picked up from a stranger's house when she slipped her security," he says, getting angrier with each word. "Were you with her, you little shlyukha, you slut?"
"N- no Father. I was here at home last night. In bed."
"So, you did know about it or you would not know when it happened!" he roars. "You let your friends make whores of themselves?"
"I wasn't with her, I didn't know what happened." I drop my head, sweaty with shame. So cowardly that I make excuses instead of telling him it's not my responsibility.
I'm twenty-four years old. And yet, I still curl inside myself like a potato bug every time my father screams at me. Am I going to be a coward forever?
"Viktor is sending his jet to bring his daughter home. Tonight. I want you on that flight with her," he barks.
"What? I... I have two meetings set here for the charity, Father, and I-"
"You're interrupting me." I can hear his fingers tapping on his desk.
"Of course, I'll be on it."
"See that you are," he snaps, and hangs up.
I rest my forehead against Zlo's soft neck, her mane tickling my cheek. She's warm, and the dusty scent of straw is comforting. I wish I could stay here forever. My hand strokes the brush over her flank without really seeing it. If I'm going back to Moscow, it won't be for anything good.
Anka is clearly still hung over by the time I join her on her family's jet. Her lips are pale, and she's wearing sunglasses. Inside. At night. There is a noticeable hickey on her neck right where it meets her shoulder. The bruise is so clearly defined that I can see teeth marks.
"Please tell me it was all worth it," I ask, as I settle into the black leather seat across from her.
The Volkov jet is strange. The interior is charcoal gray, with black seats, a black bar, and black tables. Even the lighting is dim and makes me feel like I'm being swallowed down the throat of Hell when I fly with her.
"Oh, it was worth it," she agrees. "I've got his number in my pocket." She pushes her sunglasses just down enough for me to see her poor, bloodshot eyes. "And as soon as I've placated Dad, I'm flying right back."
"Good idea to not put it in your phone," I agree. "You know they're going to go through it."
She frowns at me. "You don't have a burner phone? What is wrong with you? You know your father has to be tracking your activity. Every call, every social media interaction."
"Oh, he is," I say bitterly, fastening my seatbelt. Irina, our sympathetic flight attendant, comes over, offering ice water and coffee to us both.
"Thank you," Anka whines. "Would you happen to have ibuprofen on board? Oh, and maybe some of those cookies you had last time?"
"Of course," Irina gives her a wink before heading back into the galley.
"So, why is your father making you go back?" Anka asks. "I'm the one coming home in disgrace. You have been your ever-proper and well-behaved self."
"I think he was angry because he thought I was out partying with you, and that I tried to cover it up," I admit, feeling my shoulders curl in again with remembered shame.
"Iisus Khristos!" she snaps. "You are the purest - and most tragically sheltered - woman I know. You've only been clubbing with me twice, and that was with two bodyguards each. No one dared approach us to ask to dance, remember?"
"Oh, I remember," I agree gloomily.
One of those nights was in Moscow. My father had sent Yefim to pick me up.
He'd sat in the back of the armored SUV with me, telling me in a soft, disgusting voice that I was a whore.
That I had shamed my family. The bodyguards pretended not to hear him, not that I could blame them.
No one wants to get on the Sovietnik's bad side. He's a malicious, vindictive prick.
I shake myself a little and force a bright smile. "It doesn't matter. It'll be good to see everybody at home. We should get some of the girls together for lunch."
"Oh, yeeesss," she drawls in a haughty tone. "Lunch with the girls."
"Look at you being all snooty." I shake my head disapprovingly.
"No, it's just, we'll all get together, and everyone will talk about the most expensive shit they've bought this week.
And then comes all the gossip of who's done what wrong, and who has fallen from grace, and they will gloat about it.
" Anka pushes her disheveled hair back and takes off her sunglasses.
"Then, comes the elegant parade of mannerisms and social niceties that we are all required to follow.
" She gives a high, tittering social laugh, and I can't help but laugh with her.
"That is interminable, and horrifyingly boring.
Maybe it's worse now that I've had a chance to live in Chicago, too," I say, looking out the window.
We've already reached 25,000 feet and the clouds have turned into wisps of vapor.
"Once you know what it feels like to be outside of the cage, it's so hard to go back in and shut your own door behind you. "
Anka takes my hand, squeezing it. There's nothing to say, but I appreciate her comfort. Her father and mother are strict, but they're not psychopaths like my father. And other than a mild talking-to when she gets home, I doubt anything's going to happen to her, for which I'm profoundly grateful.
"You're my devochka." She passes me the tray of cookies. "Let's eat our body weight in sweet treats. I've got the whole season of Adults downloaded; we can binge it before we land and have to become Proper Young Ladies again."
I snort, cookie crumbs spraying from my mouth. "You were never a proper young lady."
I drink voluminous amounts of coffee, trying to stay awake. The nightmares come anyway.
The fingers digging into my hair, shoving me underwater. The man's horrible, avid eyes…
"Wake up, Oksana! Sweetie, wake up!"
I sit up with a gasp, smacking my forehead into poor Anka's. She's leaning over me, her face pale. I glance around and close my eyes again. The guards are hovering. Anka's personal security has his hand inside his jacket, like he thinks I'm a credible threat and he's ready to shoot me.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper, putting a shaking hand up to my mouth. "Just a bad dream. Sorry." I try out a smile on Anka and Irina and based on their expressions, it's not convincing.
"I'll get some tea," Irina says gently. "I have a nice organic Buddha's Woojeon. Very relaxing."
"Thank you." I can't look up.
"What the hell are you looking at?" Anka snaps at the guards. "Go sit down. Mind your business."
I groan silently. Piotr is my bodyguard for the trip home. He's going to gallop straight to my father to advise him of my "erratic" behavior. He swaps out my bodyguards monthly because he doesn't want them to get "attached" to me.
With the patience of a saint, Anka waits until I drink my tea and turns up the volume for the next episode of Adults so the men can't listen into our conversation.
"I thought you weren't having the nightmares anymore," she whispers.
"They come up sometimes," I dip my head. "They've been bad recently. I'm so sorry for scaring you."
"Fam, I was scared for you!" She grabs my hands. "These are freezing." Rubbing them vigorously, she continues, "Is there anything that seems to trigger them?"
Anka is one of the few outsiders who's heard me scream during my nightmares.
When I was eleven, she'd invited me to a sleepover at her house.
I woke her up, shrieking and terrified, I was so scared that she'd dump me as a friend.
Instead, she force-fed me candy and we watched horrible teen romances for hours until I could fall asleep again.
"I don't deserve you," I sigh, leaning my head against her shoulder.
"This is true," she agrees. "Look…" her voice drops to a whisper again. "I know your dad is a bastard about it, but we could find a good therapist, pay in cash. He doesn't need to know anything."
I've told Anka the little I know, that I was kidnapped when I was ten but I have no memory of it. Just of waking up in the hospital, my mother holding my hand. Father stormed into my room and demanded they discharge me immediately. That's when the nightmares started.
"I've been reading about repressed memories," I say, reaching for the bottle of ibuprofen that's still on the table. "So far, nothing's shaken loose."
Irina announces that we're about to land and Anka gives me a side eye that warns we will be discussing this later.
***
Zlo - Russian for Mischief.
Devochka - Russian for my girl.