Zariah Washington
Damn, I thought I was handling myself well when I arrived. The Russians in Vadim's Gym had gladly offered Sergy up on a silver platter. But he wasn't the guy who needed his neck wrung.
They acted like I loaded a .9 millimeter and pressed it to my skull, or to my own chest.
For a Russian mobster, Vassili is super hot. I’ve always mocked the Russian accent, but his sinks into my bones, turning them to putty. His voice was slow, deliberate, dripping in sex and heavy with strength, or maybe I'm just going crazy? Can a voice sound like power?
Even with his body covered in tattoos, I can tell that each muscle is precisely defined. Vassili’s shorts rode low highlighting an impeccable V shape and his never-ending abs.
His jawline is likened to one of those drawings that an artist spends a lifetime sketching, and not an amateur, but rather one who is meticulous; gifted. It’s perfectly squared and bristled. I lost my mind during those first few seconds. For instance, I imagined running my fingers along the jagged scar that’s given the beast a somewhat distinguished character.
After he introduced himself, my legs were jelly, as we spoke downstairs.
Now, he’s sitting next to me. He’s offered me the deal of a lifetime. Ronisha is my heart, and all the hurt she’s endured because of a man is enough to be committed. Yet, I’m not quite ready to shake hands with the devil.
“Vassili, I will not spend the night with you.” My tone is soothing, yet certain. If he weren’t a Resnov, and I were easy, yes of course. I would jump on it! But he’s part of the Russian syndicate, and my parents have invested and instilled too much into me: education and virtue.
“Ms. Washington, all I can offer you is one night,” he says, turning back and forth, ever so slowly, in the leather swivel chair.
Stacks and stacks of abdominal muscles continue to beckon my eyes to take a look. I’m so damn tired. Today should’ve consisted of copious amounts of six-inch stiletto shoe purchases on Rodeo Drive, as well as purses and a few more power suits, before I head off to college. But Ronisha’s mom called me at 4 o’clock this morning, stating she was hopping onto an ambulance.
I can't stop myself from staring at the bold tattoo across his chest. KILLER KARO. Nothing short of selling my soul will allow me to leave this office.
“All right, Mr. Resnov,” I cave, looking just to the left of his eyes. The sides of his hair is cut low, and the rest of his chocolate waves seem to fall near those eyes. Damn his eyes! Eyes so dark it should be a sin just looking at them.
“Vassili,” he says, in an accent that reminds me of satin; rough yet with an underlying soothing ring to it. “Call me, Vassili,” he repeats.
“Well, Vassili, I’ll do whatever I have to in order to leave this gym.” I smile. As a future lawyer, lying is in my genes. I have no intention of seeing you again. I think to myself.
His wide mouth spreads in a killer straight, white-toothed smile. So far, the wolf only flashed a grin when coaxing me to follow him. Obviously, I survived. This smile is different, though. It’s expectant, and it makes him all the more beautiful. Almost as if 24K gold wrapping paper is shielding me from something dark and sinister. My grip is firm against the rough padding of his murderous hands still holding mine. He adds just enough strength to send a tremor shooting through my body. Dread and lust clash inside of me, causing the lips of my pussy to swell and my instincts to kick in, at the same time.
###
It’s almost six in the evening. My eyes are swollen with tears as I walk toward the exit of Los Angeles Community Hospital. I stop to rub the complementary antibacterial gel over my manicured fingers and hands. Ronisha has yet to awaken, and I have spent all afternoon seated by her side playing music. Alternating from an uplifting Tamela Mann to Beyoncé, and even a few of our old favorite Mary, Mary tracks on my iPhone.The nurse said that Ronisha should be able to hear it. I’d asked the doctor so many questions, until he reminded me that we’ve been here before. Sergio beating Ronisha’s ass is nothing new.
Swoosh. The sliding glass doors part. The warm sun hits my skin and the helplessness fades away, or rather, it’s replaced with an even greater feeling, anxiousness.
Vassili Resnov. His name roams through my mind as I pull the keys from my purse.
Why did I show him my father’s business card? At that moment, it had seemed like my “get out of jail free” card. More like not getting a cap in the ass, and tossed into the LA River. Damn, if I didn’t almost get myself murdered.
My legs are so terribly shaky that when I get into my Mercedes AMG I have to hold the door handle while sliding onto the leather seat.
I crossed paths with a Russian mobster and I'm still alive. Apparently, I've agreed to give myself to him for one night, yet he never asked for my name. I'm sure he can look up my dad's information and find me.
Maybe he was bluffing. He had shit talk down to an art. Perhaps, I slithered through his defenses. My mind is delirious as I recall him standing before me, his hard body slick with sweat. When he wasn't bossing me around, I could tell how badly he wanted me.
“Zariah, he's just full of testosterone,” I tell myself, while heading onto the freeway overpass. Hell, he probably spends his days boxing and beating down pussy.I've never had a bad boy. I've never had any man, really. I do have an idiot ex-boyfriend who still thinks there’s a spark, but that's neither here nor there.
I almost jump out of my skin when the automated voice on the radio tells me a call is coming in from my mom.
“Hey, Mom,” I answer.
“Zariah, what's going on? I've called you repeatedly. Are you okay?”
Shoving Vassili and those deliciously dark thoughts from my mind, I reply, “It's Ronisha again. Sorry, I had my phone on do not disturb. I didn’t want any calls or texts to interfere with all of those machines in her hospital room. Her stupid boyfriend…” I try to tell her, my voice breaking.
“Oh God, that poor baby is in the hospital again? I wish a certain someone had some balls. Instead of ramming his pecker into easy—”
“Yeah, well, I’m with you on that,” I cut in. “However, Mom, please be so kind as to refrain from referencing my father and pecker in the same sentence.” Her and that damn word, ‘easy’. Her sentences always default to ‘easy bimbos’, ‘easy blondes’, and ‘easy blue-eyed sluts’. Although there's only one chick my father is currently with: the secretary he left my mother for. I don’t know what’s harder for a black woman. Being cheated on in general, or losing your man to a white woman?
I’ve never been in love, and cannot imagine either situation. But I try to sympathize with my mom.
“Zariah, I should come out there. No, wait. I am coming out there. I’ll cash in on those frequent flier miles I haven’t used since…in two years. Tell that man to cancel your plane ticket. I'll come get you and we’ll see about Ronisha. We can drive back to the ATL together, in your car. It will be a nice little road trip prior to you beginning college. I'll show you the new items I have for your dorm, unless you'd like to move in with me. How does that sound?”
Hmmm, does she mean how does it sound for me to move in with her, or how does the road trip sound? I know she’s lonely and I’m partially the reason to blame.No matter how it’s perceived, I technically chose to live with my dad, two years ago, instead of her during the divorce. It was my mother’s idea since she had to return to the workforce. However, I breathed freely because I was able to continue school at Pressley Preparatory Academy, a distinguished private school.
Concern for Ronisha is at the forefront of my mind as I attempt to persuade her. “Mom, what if I just attend UCLA for the first semester…” I tried to say, before she cut me off.
“Girl, no you will not! Your father applied to his alma mater without your knowledge. Besides, those good intentions of yours will only hold you back. Sweetheart, you're not Ronisha’s mother. You can't continue to look out for her to the detriment of yourself. Spelman is your dream.”