Zariah
Blinding sunlight burns the inside of my eyelids. I rub a hand over my warm, sun kissed face, roll to my side and expect to be met by hard, steel comfort. Instead it's all firm, tempur pedic mattress. Damn, how did I ever survive sleeping alone?
There's a note on Vassili’s pillow. I breathe in his musk and strength while leaning on an elbow to read it.
Went for a quick run to the pier. I placed workout clothes for you in the bathroom and a smoothie in fridge. Join me.
“Humph, so sure of yourself. I could choose Good Morning America with a cup of coffee instead,” I mumble, stifling a yawn. I contemplate crossing paths with Vassili on the way back from the pier, depending how far he's gotten while waiting for me to arise from the bed. The limestone is temperate and comfortable against my feet, as I meander toward the bathroom.
A heavy wooden chair, next to the balcony, catches my eye. There's a built in bookshelf below the armrest. My eyebrow lifts as I glance through Vassili's choice of reading material. Most of the books are about MMA technique. Then there are a few books by Fyodor Dostoevsky. I wonder if this is Vassili's favorite author, as the spine of each book is worn more than the rest of the other fiction books. Bypassing the classic, “Crime and Punishment” I pick up the most tattered one. The damn thing is thicker than a good number of my grad school textbooks. It's called “Idiot,” and the cover pulls me in with intrigue. Wow, I recall in college when Vassili would ask me how I was doing. He wasn't just shooting the breeze. He'd listen as I told him about my favorite professors. Something about this man blows me away each day. When I fall in love for good, I want the man to astonish me every day. I don't think I'd be able to fall out of love so easily, not like the example I grew up with.
I place the book back between Dostoevsky’s ‘The Possessed’ and another fighter strategist manual.
On the thick chair across from the vanity there's a bright pink and black shirt. The same skull, with a cigarette sticking out of his gritted teeth and crown on his head that is tattooed on Vassili’s neck, is on the front. “King Karo,” I mumble the words, which are splayed across the chest area. I pick up the shirt and notice that it's dangerously cropped. The tight shorts, also with King Karo on it, will have my ass cheeks falling out.
“Hell to the no, Karo!” I smirk, tossing the outfit back onto the chair.
The Nike box has shoes which would match the outfit, and are just my size. I pick it up and then opt, instead, for the new toothbrush, which was placed out along with a thick terry cloth face towel, that Vassili was thoughtful enough to place atop the vanity.
Back in the bedroom, I press against the limestone wall were two slabs come together. It doesn't move. I push at another spot and the wall retracts to a walk-in closet. In the center, drawers are stationed. On top are more spotless designer tennis shoes than one man should be allowed. I open drawers, nodding at how neatly folded Vassili’s clothing is, until I find a simple white t-shirt and a pair of black sweats. Bingo… the backpack full of clothing I put together didn’t include a single workout item. I glance over the sweats. At least the King Karo emblem isn't brazenly across the ass area, only the same skull symbol. White boy gangster….
Dressed in Vassili clothing, I begin to tie the pants drawstring when I enter the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator and gawk at a glass full of thick green muck, I think it’s supposed to be a smoothie. Nope, instead I close the refrigerator, pick up a bottle of water and head to the sliding glass doors.
With a deep breath, I saunter down the hundreds of steps. My new Nikes welcome the padding of the sand. It almost feels good when I catch the grove of running. That is, until I realize I’m actually not a fan of this.
This god-forsaken Pacific Ocean is an ugly muddy brown, not enough visual stimulation to keep me interested. With a huff, I stop, gulping a for lung full of air like a fish out of water.
“Zariah Washington!” My name is carried by the seaweed scented, salted breeze from a couple of yards ahead.
“Samuel Billingsley,” I call out. Samuel was the district attorney, when my father made lead detective. He excelled at his job before switching gears and becoming owner of Billingsley Legal, the up and coming family-centered firm I chose over the fully established Levine and Son.
His white teeth pop against skin the color of black licorice. His hair is cut into a taper and more salt than pepper than I remember it being back when he attended my graduation from Spelman. He’s offered a wealth of information via email and phone calls during my time in law school, but he had a big case and was unable to travel up north to attend my graduation at Berkeley. He appears to have just begun jogging. I give him a quick hug in greeting.
“I arrived home from D.C. last night,” he says, striking up a conversation, as if we spoke just yesterday. “I had plans of taking you to lunch this afternoon, when my niece texted me to cancel, said you’d taken a very brief sabbatical.”
I bite my bottom lip. I had texted my supervisor, Connie, his niece, yesterday evening while packing my bags that I was skipping town for the weekend.
“Yeah, I uh…”
“Oh, don't tense up on me, Zariah. Maxwell and I have argued about you since you were just a bright-eyed young girl, watching me throw down in the courtroom. He said you’d become a cop like all Washington’s should.” Samuel’s tone dips. My entire parentage was cops, my dad disowned Martin for not becoming a cop, and Samuel is still disgusted by my father’s antics. “My old friend settled for you to join the prosecution team.”
“Well, I had a very good mentor who decided to get out of the game.” I shrug. Although, I would’ve followed Samuel anywhere, when he chose to leave the DA office, I’d grown fond of family law. “My dad will get over it. Somehow, I’m still his favorite child or the only one he’s willing to stomach.”
“You’re his baby girl, of course. But Maxwell had strong convictions about you choosing my team instead of joining those Levines. They are the start of greatness in his eyes.”
“Sheesh, I’m guessing my dad bragged to you when he took it upon himself to secure a job for me at Levine and Son.” I almost smile at the dig. Israel Levine is a handsome man, but I've been told he's more of a wild card than his predecessors. Albeit, the worthier choice in my father’s eyes, if I chose not to work my way up to prosecutor.
“Yeah, well, look, I believe in work and play. Maxwell should have insisted you took a vacation prior to returning to the workforce. So during the lunch we were supposed to have today, I had intentions of mentioning how I’d prefer you study for the bar exam instead of mindlessly filing papers or waiting for a field trip to court with one of the partners. My niece is a pretty good study partner. The exam is fresh in her mind, too.”
“You'll pay me to clock in at work to study with Connie’s help…”
He pats my shoulder. “Call it an investment. I’m a man who gages potential. Pay into you and once you've passed the bar, I've added an indispensable team member. No, an added family member, rather. Maxwell was always like a brother to me, even though he …” Samuel pauses mid-sentence as he stairs up the shore.
His gaze is focused, narrowed somewhat, and I turn to follow it. Vassili. He’s noticed Vassili, who is standing about twenty yards away. Vassili is like a perfectly tagged cement wall; all the tattoos on his chest glistening in the morning light, with only a pair of compression pants tugging at the thick muscles in his thighs, legs, and calves. While I’m gawking lustfully, Samuel eyes him wearily.
Samuel glances away, shakes his head, and recaptures his train of thought. “Maxwell is a greedy old man, but together the firm will explode. We will leave those Levines in our dust.”
“Wow!” My admiration returns, “That's very confident of you to say.”
“So I'll see you Monday.” Samuel backs up, jogging in place. “Make it Tuesday. Enjoy somewhat of a time off first. We will get you polished up for the bar exam, all right?”
“Yes, sir.” I grin.
“Now, do you have some sort of pepper spray,” he asks.
My face tilts in confusion. “No.”
“Watch yourself. There are some unsavory people in the area.” He nudges his chin toward Vassili before jogging on.
My bottom lip literally drops. I watch Vassili pull a cigarette from behind his ear and grab a lighter from his pocket. He places the cigarette at his beautiful lips and takes a long drag. It's easy to gather my bearings while desiring his gorgeous body. Samuel’s morsel of wisdom about awareness of bad guys goes in through one ear and out of the other. Though I doubt he assumed we were together, Samuel always had a father figure stance about him. It came naturally when I’d spent countless hours at the precinct, and he spoke with victim’s families—even when he had to empathetically inform them of plea deals given to the criminal who had hurt a beloved family member. I’ll never forget this wailing cry coming from a caregiver granddaughter who’d learned that her grandfather’s murderer was offered a lighter sentence due to a technicality. Everyone in the precinct could hear her heart shredding in half. Samuel tried his best to comfort her. He was the best attorney the City of Angels has ever known.
I saunter over to the wolf that I should steer clear of. A faint wind mixes the seaweed scent, coupling it with the natural cologne of his muscular body, testosterone and sweat. It’s a delicious fragrance.
“Mr. Billingsley, that mudak,” Vassili says under his breath, giving his cigarette a puff, before blowing the air away from my direction.
“Nope.” I reach up, pretend to kiss him and grab the cigarette. Tossing it to the shore. Well, damn that was littering, but I give a damn about his lungs.
“Really? Fuck, Zariah, I just rolled that cigarette.”
“In your occupation, you shouldn't smoke. Dare I ask how Samuel knows you?”
“Samuel?” His thick brows come together. “Oh that ublyudok—bastard. My unc—my family lawyers toughened him up when he played the DA. Someone tried to put him on payroll but apparently, he is by the book.”
“Well, let’s change the subject,” I mumble. Samuel said I needed a vacation before the bar, Vassili has offered just that. Everything about him breaks the monotony… just have to keep our everyday lives separate. Damn, last night I brushed off his comment about how he purchased his beachfront home on a whim. Criminals have it like that. I almost glance away from Vassili when I realize, with this internal monologue, that we have no future together. If our families blending isn’t in the cards, then all we have are memories, and the present, until it all crashes and burns. With the way he sexes my body, I’ll gladly gain thirty, maybe even forty pounds from stress eating, and crying in tubs of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.
Vassili places his palm on my collarbone, thumbs massaging the pulse at my neck. Then his head lowers. I expect one of those mind-blowing kisses to extract the selfish thoughts from my mind.
No future. Just for fun.
Vassili’s breath is on my forehead. His mouth traces across my skin. “You can ask me anything.”
“And prepare myself for what?” I chortle. Damn, I’ve got an attitude for no reason. We don’t have a damn future, Zariah, stop it!
“The truth, Zariah. It’s all I will ever give,” he assures, not matching the aggressive look in my eye, when I know he does anger so very well. Vassili’s tone is soothing when he adds, “Only the truth, sweetheart. If you just ask.”
He's imprinted on my heart, so soon. It's too damn soon to love him. “Vassili, that's unnecessary.”
“Unnecessary, Zariah, are you fucking serious? You aren't just a bitch I'm screwing. Are you?” His lips that offered endless amount of pleasure, up until the early morning, are set in the hardest frown I've ever seen.
I push his chest. “Don’t you ever call me a bitch, Vassili!”
“I’d never do that. You place yourself in that category if we can’t be honest. I was honest about my association with that motherfucker you just spoke to. But listen to me, and listen to me good. I own a lounge, The Red Door. That damn house a half mile back wasn’t paid for with a dollar of dirty-ass money. I have sponsors when I fight, beautiful. I probably won't be anywhere near as rich as most Resnovs, or even Mr. Billingsley, but I…” He pounds a fist at his chest, “I am legit.”
“Chill out, Vassili. I'm not placing my hands in your pocket, but,” I shove a few strands of flyaway hair from my face, “and it’s a big ass but, your family isn't comparable to leaving the Crips or Bloods. Evidently, Samuel knew you without introduction. So it isn't like being jumped in or out of a gang.” How does Samuel know you? Don’t do it, Zariah, don’t ask it!
He chuckles, “I just told you that I'm motherfucking legit. No protocol necessary to leave, Zariah, because I've never had my hand in the family business. Mr. Billingsley is aware of me from when I came to pick up a kazen from the precinct, that he was unable to toss the book at. I'm clean.” He holds out his hands. “I might look like a dirty motherfucker—with tats everywhere. I can go into a five-star restaurant in another country and I'm either asked if I’m a NFL player or some other damn sport.”
“You live for MMA, which is a sport.” I shake my head and half smile as I look up at him. “That's far from making your point.”
“The point is, I'm judged by my looks across the nation. And judged by my family when I open my mouth or if I’m around one of ‘em who just so happened to have a run in with the cops.” He huffs. “I will not be judged by my woman.”
My eyes sting with tears. I reach onto my tippy toes, lingering. Because he’s so angry it’s scorching hot. And because something tells me this isn't just a fling before life and career consumes me. Genuinely feeling him, I say, “I’m sorry, Vassili.”