6. First Times
FIRST TIMES
Eleven Years Earlier
“Can I try?”
I glance at Carina, who has an expectant hand already outstretched.
Her boldness amuses me enough to hand over the cigarette.
“Have you smoked before?” I phrase it as a question, although I’m certain of the answer. It’s obvious in the curious way she inspects the lit bit before her mouth closes over the opposite end.
She gives the stick a tentative suck that has my cock twitching.
Her eyes drop to my stiffening dick, and she starts to cough. Another puff, followed by more hacking, has the cigarette moving closer and closer to the rumpled sheets we’re lying on.
I pluck the cigarette out of her hand.
She has the audacity to appear annoyed. “Hey! I”—cough—“wasn’t finished with that.”
“You almost lit bed on fire. You were finished.”
Carina scoffs, reclining against the pillows with her arms crossed.
I tap the cigarette against the rim of the glass of water beside the bed, watching flecks of ash float across the surface.
Last summer, I smoked out on the balcony, watching a stranger sit by the pool, then struggle to survive in it.
This September, she’s in bed beside me, trying to copy my vices.
I’m not sure what to make of it. What to make of her. I wasn’t anxious for her to leave after sex, which had never happened before. So, I started smoking, and she’s still here.
“Your cousin owns this place?”
While I was busy studying her, Carina has been appraising the bedroom. It’s fine, I guess. Lots of blue.
“Yes,” I lie.
“It’s really nice.”
I shrug, exhale more smoke, then snuff out the cigarette.
Her eyes linger on me, no longer looking around. “You’re not very talkative.”
“No,” I agree.
My English isn’t terrible, but I’m much more comfortable speaking Russian. When I converse with Americans, I normally let a weapon do most of the talking.
“How long are you visiting for?”
“Not sure.”
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” Her voice is quieter now. If it wasn’t the two of us alone in here, it would be unintelligible.
I say nothing, just stare at her. I’d rather not lie again, yet the truth is problematic.
She wouldn’t have ever seen me again, not unless I wanted to see her.
It’s an urge I can’t rationalize—couldn’t shake—the desire to know what happened to the girl who’d nearly drowned, then determinedly paddled around the neighbors’ pool.
If I told her the effort it took to stage the earlier encounter she thinks was a second coincidence, I doubt Carina would be staring at me with the same content expression she’s wearing now.
“I realized …” Her eyes drift down my chest, a flash of pink coloring her cheeks as she admires my body. “I realized I don’t even know your last name.”
I tuck an arm behind my head, fingers flexing in the creases of the pillow. “Sokolov.”
I appraise her reaction carefully.
Carina nods, then reaches out, grabbing another cigarette out of the box I tossed aside. “Can I try again?”
I hand the lighter I always carry to her, allowing a small smile to slip free as I watch her carefully flick the flame.
“You’ve done that before,” I state.
“Used a lighter?” Carina pulls in a tentative inhale. No hacking this time, which is progress.
“Sex.”
“Oh.” She coughs repeatedly, then tucks a piece of hair behind her ear with her free hand. “Uh, yeah. Once. I was … curious.”
I nod.
“What about you?”
I take the cigarette from her, taking a practiced puff before I hand it back. Exhale. Sometimes, I pretend the dark cloud is all the horrible things I’ve done exiting my body.
“More than once,” I reply, entertained by her bothering to reciprocate the question.
Carina nods. Opens her mouth, then closes it.
“What?”
“It was better this time.”
I frown. “Did he hurt you?”
“No. I just … it hurt. And he told everyone after, which sucked. Some of the girls have been calling me names. I almost didn’t come this weekend, but I wanted to prove to them that I don’t care what they say, even though I sort of … do.”
“What was his name?”
She adjusts so she can see me better, lit cigarette dangling between her fingertips. “Why?”
Carina might be an innocent, but she is no fool. Some part of her recognizes I am dangerous, that she should stay alert around me.
I’m careful to keep my tone bland as I repeat the word she used. “Curious.”
“Harry Pearson.” She says his name like it tastes bad. “His family owns an airline. The rich get away with everything.”
She’s wrong. The rich don’t get away with everything; the lawless do. A common misconception since there’s often an overlap between the two.
“You should be careful who you trust.”
“I don’t trust anyone.”
The immediate, matter-of-fact answer startles me. It’s how I would have replied, not a normal response.
“I need a drink,” I announce, standing and pulling on a pair of shorts. “Want anything?”
Carina waves the cigarette around. “I’m good with this.”
I nod before I head into the hallway. As I walk, I pull my phone out of the pocket and type a message to Misha, asking him to look into an airline owned by Pearsons.
The kitchen is a mess from the party earlier, but it’s empty. I grab the bottle I want, then turn to find Cillian staring at me from the doorway.
He’s two years older than me, but age is relative to power. Hierarchically, I have a few decades on him.
“They all left,” Cillian states, crossing his arms. “Thank fuck.”
I nod, moving to pass him.
“You still have that brunette upstairs?”
I halt. Hold his gaze. “Why?”
“Just wondering what the fuck is going on. You’ve had me camped out here for weeks—for what? To flirt with the annoying brat next door and tell you if she had friends visit this weekend? Host them all while you disappeared with one girl. What am I missing?”
I click my tongue in disapproval. “I thought you wanted my help, Cillian.”
“I do.”
“Then stop asking questions. We’ll deal with your issue tomorrow.”
He nods. I nod back, then continue walking.
“Send her to my room when you’re finished.”
I still, grip tightening on the bottle. Red tinges the edges of my vision as rage rushes through my body.
I don’t pause and think about why Cillian touching Carina is intolerable.
I smash the bottle against the wall, keeping a hold on the neck.
I shove Cillian against the fridge, my arm pressing against his throat and the jagged glass dangerously close to his carotid.
The artery pulses frantically as danger registers.
“What did you say?” I hiss.
Cillian is smart enough not to repeat the request, the whites of his eyes straining as he tries to keep his gaze on me while the sharp point is perilously near his neck.
“Nothing,” he rasps, struggling to speak past my arm. “Sorry.”
I seriously contemplate killing him. Cillian senses it, his breathing turning erratic.
His family doesn’t have the resources to retaliate. Our bargain benefits him far more than me. But it’d ruin the rest of the evening. I’d have to summon a few men to deal with his body.
Carina is smoking upstairs, waiting for me to return. I’d have to drug her to ensure she didn’t see anything she shouldn’t.
My arms drop. “I don’t share,” I snap, tossing the shard of glass aside. “Clean this up.”
Cillian nods rapidly, not moving from the fridge.
I exit the kitchen, carefully avoiding the mess on the floor.
When I return to the bedroom, Carina asks what happened to my drink.
I kiss her so I don’t have to lie again.