EIGHT
The day of the full moon
“ Tilt your head a little to the left,” I say, bringing the lens into focus. “Perfect.” Click , the shutter snaps to a close, and an image pops up on the lighted screen. The man is positioned behind his new fiancée, arms snaking around her torso and tied together at her stomach. Her, a beaming grin, and him a small, forced smirk. I’m sure he wants to be here as much as I do right now, but happy future wife, happy life. And for me, happy landlord means not being served an eviction notice.
Falling asleep last night was difficult. Kind of hard to do when your face is leaking fluids from every hole and your eyes are puffier than a boxer after a prize fight. Waking up and having the evening replay in my head was somehow worse. Don’t come back , Nik’s voice taunted me all morning. I’ve seen him six different times today so far, and every time I turn for a second glance, he’s gone. The bus stop. Each street I pass. The coffee shop off Fulton Avenue. He was there, I am sure of it. Yet, whenever I look again it’s like he wasn’t there at all. It’s as if every man in LA decided to wear a Nik mask and mock me, finding enjoyment in the horrible way my night came to a screeching halt. How an incredible date with him could blow up in my face so tremendously. I shouldn’t have expected anything less. And now, here I am, taking pictures of a happy couple embracing each other on a beach while the blue and orange horizon does little else than complement them.
I kneel and get a better angle, capturing the foamy waves making their final splash on the shore. “Now, you two look at each other,” I say, twisting the lens slightly. “John, shift your body forward. Sarah, roll your shoulders back and look at your future husband.” They do as I ask, staring in each other’s eyes. Click. “Good. Now bring your foreheads together.” Click.
Knees buried in the sand, I focus on their faces. Both grin wide now, and before I have enough time to zoom in, he kisses her.
Because you aren’t like them , I remember the way Nik said it, his glowing eyes peering into parts of my soul I didn’t know existed. The flames he created in my stomach, and how they spread throughout my body like wildfire. My chest tightens again at the thought, and I force back the tears burning my eyes worse than the salty sea air. Click.
Photography wasn’t some lifelong dream I had growing up as much as something I fell into at college. It was an elective course, and my professor, Mr. Aldrich, assured me I had a knack for capturing the moment. What he failed to mention was the term starving artist and how cruel the industry truly is . I’ve done freelance work for some smaller magazines, but mostly advertise myself on social media to supplement my income while I wait for the bigger jobs which are few and far between. I prefer the smaller shoots anyway. Something about taking pictures of hired models all day long with bodies to envy works wonders on my mental health. Here’s your four-hundred- dollars for the day, Natalie. Do you want me to put the check in your name or your therapist’s?
“Wonderful. I think I’ve got it,” I say and stand, brushing the sand from my jeans. “I’ll email them to you when they’re finished.”
The man, kissing his fiancée even more passionately now, flicks his wrists in acknowledgement. They’re still on the beach when I reach the bus stop at the far end of the lot, staring out into the dimming horizon overlooking the surf. The moon is stretching for its rightful place in the sky, a companion for the sun still fighting off sleep. It’s going to be full tonight. The largest one I’ve seen in a long time.
I pause, my hands still on the camera held firmly at my chest. There’s something else in the air besides the sea overwhelming the block with each crashing wave. It’s familiar. Enough to make me lift my head and peer from street corner to street corner under the safety of a metal awning. Cedar. The faintest hint of it, but it’s there, nonetheless. My eyes dart to everyone in view, hoping this wasn’t just another mirage my own mind created. It isn’t. No, his scent is real enough to taste it. Feel it, even. And as the evening bus veers up to the yellow-painted sidewalk, I swear I see a tall, dark shape watch me climb inside.
*
“That fucking asshole!” Courtney screams through the phone, and I rear it back to save my ears from her wrath. “And he just left you on the sidewalk?”
I purse my mouth to one side. “He had his driver take me home.” Swiping through the pictures on my laptop, I pause on the one of the couple kissing. Not my best work. But after some changes to the focus and contrast, I’m sure I’ll have another glowing review from happy clients.
“No, Natalie. He fucking left you outside,” she scoffs. “Him and Viktor are two peas in an asshole pod.”
While I want to believe her, I also think she couldn’t be more wrong. Sure, Nik gave me the most intense kiss I’ve ever had and immediately told me not to come around anymore, but it didn’t seem like he was doing it to fall in line with his asshole brother. It was like he was trying to save me from something.
“Did he say anything when he was walking you outside?” she asks.
This was a mistake, Natalia. I thought things could be different, but I was wrong , his rough voice replays in my head. “No. Just that we aren’t compatible,” I lie. I hate myself for doing this, especially with Courtney. She’s been there for me more than anyone ever has, my own family included. I shouldn’t be hiding things from her. The fight. How Nik’s eyes were vicious black pools when I stopped him. I just can’t make sense of it, and the last thing I want to do is pile on another serving of my problems on Courtney’s plate.
“Not compatible my ass. I saw the way he looked at you.”
A giggle leaves my mouth and cuts over the line. “Before or after you passed out?”
“Listen, bitch. I still feel groggy from that shit,” she says with frustration. “Guess their family’s liquor brand is just as terrible as their bloodline.”
“Yeah, maybe.” My shoulders slump, and a heaviness forms in my rib cage. Nik was the first man that ever treated me like more than a last resort. It all felt, as cliché as it sounds in my own head, too good to be true. And now I know it was. “You still coming over tonight?”
“Can’t. Roman’s taking me out to dinner,” she says, her voice soft. “You hate me?”
I smile wanly and adjust the focus on the Bakers’ engagement photo. “Only a little. Have fun.”
“Don’t make plans for tomorrow. Roman wants to go to a bar downtown. Swears by it. I’ll have him bring a friend. Someone to make you forget all about the Vostik douchebags.”
Typical Courtney. Honestly, I’m shocked Roman’s lasted this long. He somehow made it past her three-date max which doesn’t happen unless they’re very rich, or very good in bed. I somehow guess it isn’t the latter unless he has a prescription strong enough to handle her.
“I’ll check my busy schedule,” I say sarcastically.
“You’re going. Bye, Nat.”
She ends the call and I’m left in the silence of my apartment, save for the leaky faucet in the kitchen, and the AC struggling to stay on. It probably won’t make it another summer if the last heatwave was any indication. I put in a service request months ago, but I’m probably one of a hundred tenants in the queue.
“Time to forget about the Vostik douchebags,” I say to myself, repeating Courtney’s words. But I can’t. Fuck , I’ve tried so hard to forget everything. Chalk it up to a bad dream that goes away the second my morning alarm goes off. Nik. I can’t forget the way his name rolls off my tongue even if I scrub it clean with sandpaper. How he looks at me with those beautiful eyes lighting any room he steps in. His thick arms keeping me close to his chest. The intoxicating scent of him swirling around me. No, I have an odd feeling it might take some time to stop missing that feeling. To stop missing him.
Two heavy knocks rap the door of my loft. I jump, nearly losing my laptop in the process, and with it, the pictures promising a rent check paid on time this month.
What now? Did the newspapers find out I was just dumped by Nikolai Vostik, the owner of Club Volk, after one date? And now they want a picture for the front fucking page?
I swing open the door to find an empty hallway. No sound of footsteps retreating nor a single person to be seen.
Resting at my feet is a small black box. There’s no name or address, just a blank box.
“This is getting old,” I shout down the hallway, hoping whoever left it can hear me. Picking it up, something rattles against the sides. It’s not heavy, but definitely meant to be protected judging by the material it bounces against. Maybe it’s a gift card for Vostik brand vodka. Now that’d be ironic. Hey, thanks for playing, great kiss, but you are not our grand prize winner.
I roll my eyes and open it, ready to trash whatever the hell Nik decided I needed as a parting gift. The silver glints off the poor lighting in my loft, a small woven chain connected by a clasp, and at the front, a symbol.
His family’s symbol.
I’ve seen it tattooed on enough people to recognize it instantly. Nik. Dimitri. Yuri. Alec. Viktor. The thought of his brother’s name is enough to send shivers racing down my spine. They all had this branded on their skin. This quarter-moon shape unlike the one standing full and proud in the sky tonight. The small crescent gleams, curving sharply beneath the fluff of a metallic cloud.
Rage simmers in my stomach, well past the point of boiling over. Venom. A deep black bile heaves up my esophagus. The fucking audacity. Don’t come back , he had told me, and now he expects me to wear this fucking necklace like I’m some trophy he conquered?
No, no, no.
Nik’s gonna regret sending this when I throw it back in his goddamn face.
I grab my keys and leave the apartment too fast to even lock the door behind me. The stars are blocked out by the city’s glow, but the moon glares down at me from the sky, visible in all corners of Los Angeles. I throw myself to the backseat of the Uber despite the one-and-a-half-star review this driver has garnered so far. I don’t care right now, nor does he when I shove myself inside his car as it rolls along the sidewalk, never stopping fully.
What am I doing?
I’m not dressed for the club. Hell, I’m not even dressed to be out in public, but to be honest, I couldn’t care less. Sweatpants and a wrinkled shirt will have to do for the fury I’m about to unleash on him. No more Mrs. Nice Natalie.
“App says it’s closed tonight. Ya sure that’s where you wanna go?” the man asks and adjusts his hat, toothpick resting between his gapped teeth.
“Yes,” I say firmly. “Take me to Volk.”