Vasily
Vasily
Artyom is going to kill me for this.
His instructions had been simple. Get in there, collect the payment, get out. Don’t be too fucked up for it.
We both knew not to expect that last part, but he always says that.
And yes, I questioned this, just like I questioned all the decisions he’s made with Tony the Bitch. We get nothing out of dealing with him, never have. There’s a bratva brigade in Phoenix, so it doesn’t make any sense for us to work with him. We never should have given him the $150,000, and we shouldn’t accept this as payment.
Maybe that’s it, though. Maybe this was Artyom’s way of washing his hands of the whole mafia thing, and I just fucked it up by refusing to give the girl back.
Ana.
My little lamb isn’t so sweet and docile now. The entire drive back to my apartment, she’s curled up in a ball on her side, using my coat and shirt as giant blankets to bury her tiny body in. I attempt to touch her ankle— I don’t know why I do, but I do— when she shifts and the hems lift, exposing her foot. The sound she makes as she tucks it back in is less of a lamb, more of a rattlesnake.
“Hungry?” I ask when we get to the apartment. It’s nice for Flagstaff. Not a lot of money in this area anymore. The fact that we have a big open-concept with plenty of kitchen counter space, two large bedrooms, one smaller one that’s used for a game room, plus a community gym and a pool— in the warmer months— is a boon. Ana stands there wide-eyed in the middle of it, studying everything with those big eyes of hers.
Yeah, they’re big. Not cartoonishly, I can see that now that the psychedelics are calming back down to a happy buzz, but big. She’s every bit as sweet without the exaggerations.
She shakes her head and whispers, “Bathroom?” in a voice that makes me think she’s holding back heavy emotions. Understandable.
I lead her into my bathroom, and she pins herself to a corner, watching me nervously as I move around it, digging out some more feminine toiletries from the far recesses of the cabinet. I scan the bottles, looking to see if there are expiration dates and frowning when I find one. I sigh at the space I’ve wasted for five years, apparently, as I throw it all away.
“Stay,” I tell her. She twitches and takes a step back, but she stays in the bathroom.
In Dima’s bathroom, I find what I’m looking for: shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and lotion, all of which have that weird Wishes scent that’s supposedly champagne and almonds or something but just smells girly to me. The dates are what matter to me, and they’ve all got a couple years left on them. Tati just broke up with Dima this past summer, so it makes sense that everything’s still in date.
I stop by the linen closet between our bedrooms and dig out a fresh toothbrush still in its package and a sealed tube of toothpaste, bring it all back to the bathroom, and attempt to hand it to Ana. I’m feeling proud of myself, but she recoils, so I’m not sure what she’s thinking.
Until I look at her hands, so much smaller than mine.
My brain, unbidden, goes to thoughts of her taking my shaft in that tiny hand, of her fingertips exploring my piercings, of her gripping me firmly when she attempted to take too much of me. My eyelids dip at the thought and of the prospect of feeling that again, but that’s not why she’s here.
I don’t know why she’s here.
I was mad. I don’t know why. Not at her. At the world? At her brother? At my brother? Maybe I just wanted to be the one in control for a little while, and this was how I could make that happen.
I set the items on the counter, and she approaches timidly. She picks up one of the bottles, opens the cap, and smells it. I can tell from the way her nose twitches and her perfectly shaped brows wrinkle that she doesn’t like the scent, but she nods and says, “Thank you.”
“Pizza,” I say. “Toppings.”
“What? Oh, I’m not hungry.”
I know she’s lying. She hasn’t eaten all day. She’s upset, and that might be dulling her appetite, but there’s a petulant undertone to her voice that tells me she’s mostly being obstinate.
Fine. I had to deal with a teenaged sister struggling with all the banal disasters of high school while also grieving her father. I know how to handle this.
“I order two pizzas, eat one, so—”
“You eat an entire pizza?”
I keep my smile as toned down as I can, but I’m glad she’s engaging with me. I realize this is her nightmare, but the sooner she’s comfortable with me, the easier this will be.
“ Da. Whole other pizza, but no one eat. Is coupon. You like?”
Her lips swish back and forth in contemplation.
“Fifteen days, ovechka . Must eat.”
On a heavy rise and fall of her chest, she says, “Just cheese,” which she then amends to, “Extra cheese?”
I stare her down silently, leaning against the cabinet casually to keep from intimidating her.
“Umm, olives and mushrooms, too.”
I nod and walk out of the bathroom and close the door behind me, leaving her to her privacy. A second later, I hear the shower begin to run, and then the door opens for her to yell— well, project but timidly— “Do you think they have anything sweet? But, umm, but not fruit.”
I grin and, in deference to her heritage, add four cannolis to the order.