Vassili
Rarely does my mother cross my mind. My tattered knuckles are white from gripping so hard against the handlebars. Fuck me, only for this girl. Only for Zariah will my stomach become tied into knots over emotions long ago forgotten. And for fuck’s sake, I spent so long forcing these memories from my mind. I didn't even have hair on my balls when my mother ran off on me and Sasha. Leaving us with one of Anatoly’s bitches, who was pregnant with his third or fourth son.
I saw images of her and I shut down. It took the grace of God for me not to murder those two mudaks. On the drive from Mr. Washington’s, I concentrated on removing the images of my mother from my mind. I tried not to give a damn about the woman who at the very least could've taken six-year-old Sasha with her.
She was too selfish, too fearful of Anatoly. Yet, she left Sasha.
The bitch left me too, but I survived. Sasha didn't.
When I pulled into my garage, I kept thinking, Make this about Zariah. My beautiful wife had already apologized for shit she hadn't even slung.
Now, as I hit Pacific Coast Highway, the wind is slapping against me at top speed. Palm trees blurring by. The light turns yellow. I gun the engine and veer around a van which was prepared to stop.
Then there’s red and blue flashing behind me. My middle finger itches, but I don't toss it up. Grumbling at myself, at allowing silly ass emotions to dominate, I slow down, searching for a place to pull over.
As I ease the motorcycle to the curb, the cruiser blurps.
A cop commands through the speaker: “Take off your helmet. Remove the key from the engine.”
I do as told. As an immigrant, it's the safe way to go about things.
“Now, hands up and get off the bike. Don't turn around.”
I've gotten speeding tickets before. But something tells me these pussies haven't stopped me for doubling the speeding limit.
###
Not one single speeding ticket was given to me. I asked for my phone call, one single call. No response. I asked for a lawyer. The mudak eyed me like another species and now I'm sitting in the precinct. I expect to see the chief strolling in, but another black man in a power suit, eyes me. He's on the opposite side of the partition, he'd just been walking by. He stops and speaks with the idiot cop. He's buzzed in and the short door opens.
“Mr. Resnov.”
“Billingsley,” I glance at Samuel Billingsley, the man my wife admires. While we were on a flight from Las Vegas to Georgia she spoke so highly of Samuel, told me the motherfucker was the reason she chose law.
“Why're you here?”
“Because I'm Russian.” I shrug.
“Shouldn't you be honeymooning with Zariah?”
“You found out we were married?” I shake my head, I'll be blamed for everything.
“She called me the morning after speaking with her mom. Zariah has very nice things to say about you.”
“Same for you,” I counter.
“So, why aren't you at home? I spoke with her this morning. She said her flight landed safely and that she’d return to the office at the beginning of next week. I expected you two to be holed up for another few days.”
My frown deepens. I'm not speaking of my relationship with him.
“Listen, Mr. Resnov, you're more than aware of who I am.” He speaks as if this should have me wide open like a cunt, telling him everything. After a few uncomfortable moments of silence on his part, Billingsley asks, “Have you gotten your call?”
“Nyet.”
“One of those stellar Resnov lawyers on his way?”
“What's it to you?”
Billingsley paws at his goatee in contemplation. We will get nowhere because I don't trust him. “Zariah, that's what. I love her like a daughter.”
“Well, her pops is doing a good enough job advocating for her.”
He laughs. “I see, Maxwell is the reason you are here.”
“I was speeding, too,” I add for the obvious reason.
“Give me a second.” He walks toward the uniform cop who brought me in. They speak, yet he leads the conversation.
The cop and Samuel Billingsley step over to him. The cop pulls his tab from his front pocket and mumbles. “You'll still have to get the bike from the impound.” There's a ticket already written on it.
“Well, if I weren't in family law, I'd tell him to sue as well,” Billingsley argues as he follows me and the uniform cop to the exit.
Once outside, I pause and nod my thanks.
“You're very broody. I can't see what Zariah sees in you, but she's smart.”
I lift my brows.
“I'll drop you off at the tow yard and give them a piece of my mind as well.”
“Nyet,” I back away, this is a situation I got myself into by thinking of my mother. “but thanks.”
“Vassili,” he says, “call me Samuel. I'm positive we will run into each other on various holidays and once Zariah passes the bar.”
“She will this July.”
His head bobs in enlightenment, then he points at me with a smile. “It must be the confidence, what she sees in you. Good luck with her father. Maxwell is a snake.”
I place two fingers to my temple and salute him in response.
###
At home, a strange aroma wafts through the air. I hold a bunch of white tulips for my wife. Zariah is in an apron, her eyes widen as she sees me. She doesn't run to me as usual, no hug. There's hesitancy in her gaze as she points to a recipe on her cell phone screen. “I'm making stroganoff for the first time. Vassili, I'm sorry for my dad and Phil’s actions.”
“Please don't apologize.” I huff. Keep that woman from your mind, Vassili. You'll cherish Zariah and you'll be a good man. “I brought flowers.”
“My favorites.”
“Yeah, well we got married at the cheapest place that was open in Vegas in the middle of the night.”
“You threatened Yuri’s life if he didn't manage the situation and have my favorite flowers.” She finally grins. Taking the flowers from me. “You didn't scare me, Vassili.”
“I know.”
She places the flowers down. Her demeanor is questioning, asking me why I reacted the way I did. “There's never been a brick wall between us before, Vassili. The only thing that I'm in fear of, is you not talking to me or touching me.”
I brush my lips across her forehead. Be a good husband.
“Touch me, Vassili. Please…” her murmur is tiny and filled with the innocence I’ve loved about her since day one.
She pleads again. I scoop her up into my arms and turn off the pot. She's imploring me to fuck her body as I carry her to the bedroom.
I'm good at this shit. Fucking her until her throat has this sexy rasp to it.
But at being a husband?
Maybe I'm more than confident in the octagon, but I've got fears, too…