Zariah
Seven years later
That night will forever play through my mind. Maybe I was in a trance, but Vassili had consent to roam over my entire body and do me any which way he wanted. I'll never forget how beautiful he made me feel as he looked at me, touched me, and kissed me. Or, having his arms wrapped around me as we sat on the veranda outside of my bedroom, drinking Resnov vodka, eating chocolates he brought me, and talking about everything under the stars. Vassili didn’t do much smiling, but I learned to look past his hard demeanor. After the attentive foreplay he gave me in front of the mirror, there was no denying that beneath the ruggedness, he was a good man. Can a man make you feel like the only person in the world and not have a soul?
Or was it all a game? It couldn’t have possibly been a game. Every word I spoke about my future plans and dreams, he clung to… well, until we were both tipsy and I cuddled into his arms There I fell asleep, only to wake feeling the sun beaming against our warm skin.
For the first three years of college, Vassili became what you'd call a millennial pen pal. I'd text him,an he would sext me back. Either Vassili had the most magnificent, gorgeous cock ever, or he Googled the world’s sexiest dick and texted a picture of that. I even joked about it. Sometimes, Vassili would be my first reason to laugh in an entire twenty-four hour period. He was my slice of “normal” in a hectic college world.That, plus we connected over our shared secret. A deadly one.
While working on my undergrad, I became inundated with my core focus, cultivating sorority connections. Though our times on the phone or texting were my world, I began slowly giving up on the man I could see no future in. For every bit of encouragement he provided via a text message, somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew one thing was true.
Vassili was a still a Resnov.
So after three years, our calls and texts were suddenly no more. I graduated on the accelerated track, due to hustling my ass off and a wealth of college courses I’d already taken at Presley Prep. Vassili was all the more invincible in the cage.
For graduate school, I attended a law school up north, in my home state of California, to separate myself from my family drama. And here I am now, twenty-five years old, with an aspiring future.
“Congratulations, Zariah,” my two old prep friends say as they crowd around me at Lulu’s; a chic restaurant in Hollywood, where we once tipped the servers a Benjamin just to allow us to purchase Cosmos and martinis when we were too damn young.
There's a cake in the center of the table. It's in the shape of a stiletto, in my favorite color, silver. “Oh, shit, the baker added the red bottom heel? Righteous!” Taryn giggles. She’s a wealthy mix of Asian and a little bit of black, way down in her roots. With tight eyes and a slick, long ponytail, Taryn embodies badass.
Glancing at the brown stick wedged from the top of the shoe, I consider, “And is this a cigarette or a …”
“Gavel.” They laugh in unison.
“The lawyer cakes were nowhere as pretty,” Rhonda admits. She’s a super curvy, platinum blonde with porcelain skin that pales against the sheer red dress she’s wearing. Her baby blues glance me up and down. I'm no longer just the token black chick in an über rich society. I've traded in wearing name brands. Oh hell, tonight I technically am in Dior, but I try to rectify the thought with the fact that it's the same outfit I wore to some coke head’s yacht party, way back in high school.
Taryn shrugs. “So we decided to go with what we know. The stiletto and … dang, the baker said the gavel might look weird.”
Grinning all the way, I hold up my dry martini. “Well, I love it!”
###
Later on, Taryn takes the tab, and we head to the exit. I’m thankful she did because it was way out of my budget.
“You aren't headed home, are you?” Taryn says. “When you said you were coming home to attend law school, three years ago, we thought you'd be around the corner, not through the woods and over the bridge.”
“Actually, I said upstate, but I did just move back in with my dad, this morning. So…” I sigh, trying not to look down at my ensemble. “I'm home now.”
“With your father? Yuck!” Rhonda's nose crinkles. “You can stay with me, she offers, instantly.
I smile. Ronisha had offered her one bedroom apartment. I told her that was okay, I’d just move back in with my dad. She was working a shift at Shakey’s Pizza this evening. We have plans to get together tomorrow afternoon. “It’s only temporary. I should have my own place by the beginning of the month.”
“Well, okay, but no going home; the night is still young. We're going to watch a boy fight! My money's on Karo. Zariah, you'd be wise to bet on him. You could pay off all those student loans, or at the very least, move the heck out of your dad’s.”
“Karo?” I mumble, heart beating wildly as Rhonda sifts through her iPhone apps for the Lyft.
“He is everything in and out of the ring, if you know what I mean.” Rhonda grins, eyes so tight, they almost seem to close.
I squirm in my seat. Vassili had a throng of women after him when we used to chat. One time, I believe it was my sophomore year, I’d called to tell him how I’d aced my first political debate, when a female answered his phone. Jealousy burned over my skin when the bitch hung up the instant she heard my voice. Not a second later, Vassili called back. He’d made her apologize, but the hurt stuck.
“In and out of the ring, humph?” Taryn smirks, “Or so Rhonda’s been told.”
As they snigger, leaning against each other, my pace falters, and it’s not due to the delicious cocktails we all just overindulged in. I glance down at myself, freely for the first time. My dress skims down to mid-thigh, but it's more preppy than sexy. Black leather kitten booties and minimal jewelry, by way of silver hoops, finishes off my look.
I lucked out this evening when finding my old leather bomber jacket that never goes out of style, but even still, I read girl next door. Not the vixen that came and cussed Vassili to high heavens. Nor the sexy chick who had time to salt her texts with raunchy wit. Seven entire years have passed since that fateful night in my room, and he didn’t even fuck me when he had the chance! Did I bore him that night? Since he said he saw me almost get myself off in the shower, was he just humoring me?
“Zariah, hello! You in?” Rhonda asks.
“You’re coming with us, Zar, regardless.” Taryn backtracks, places an arm around me, and says, “The Lyft app says we’re riding in a Prius. If there’s a sunroof you’re sticking your head out of it. Hell, spread it wide! Show everyone your damn coochie for all I care. Tonight we live it up.”
###
The stage is the focal point of the bright lights. I grip my folded leather jacket to my lower abdominals during each hit. The crowd is wild, cheering on a featherweight match between a Latino and Italian guy. This is more raw and so much edgier than straight boxing. It’s faster. Harded. There’s much more blood involved. But what am I saying, the only highlight I recall over the span of my life is with regard to a boxing match that ended in the filleting of a heavyweights earlobe.
The stage is painted in blood as the Latino pens the Italian to the ground, alternating between punches and forearm hits. With each smack, I hold myself more closely.
When it’s all over, I’ve damn near squirmed out of my seat. The Latin looks link meat tenderized enough for a screaming hot grill. And he won! His left eye is sealed shut.He's too tired to even jump atop the cage and shout with victory, like the previous under cards did. He kneels, stretches his arms up to the sky, and the crowd goes wild.
“Ladies, it's about that time. I’m gonna head out.” I start to arise. Though much time has passed, I’ve felt a connection to Vassili like I’ve never felt with any other. Regardless of his intentions, or decision not to screw me years ago, I cannot watch him fight—win or lose.
“We haven't even seen the main event,” Rhonda huffs, as the Latin fighter commends his defeated opponent in a brief interview on the stage.
“Oh no, ya don’t.” Taryn laces her arm through mine and yanks me back into place. Just then the announcer begins to hype up the place once more.
“Look, look, it’s The Damager!” Taryn shouts over the rap music. “He’s fighting for Karo’s belt.”
On the large screen before us statistics scroll for The Damager. Middleweight. 178 pounds, of pure muscle. He has 11 TKO’s, 3 Submissions and 1 loss. My eyebrow arches. What do they mean by submission?
As soon as I begin to concentrate, my entire body unravels as Russian rap blares through the speakers. My eyes track Vassili from across the room as he steps out. If I thought his body was cut and ripped before, he is out-of-this-world stacked with muscles now. His arms exceed the circumference of my thighs. He's wearing a tight black shirt that reads KARO sport, along with a brand that I've seen some of the audience in, and black shorts. Vassili rips the shirt down the middle of his chest, and I gasp for air. His hands are raised, head held high, and the sound of people amping him up almost matches the bravado of the rap music pounding through the speakers.
He steps into the cage, and the roaring gets louder. The churning in my stomach due to the fear of blood has subsided. In its wake is a pure, all consuming lust. A desire to see him conquer his opponent fearlessly.
I sit at the edge of my seat in the front row. He’s less than twenty yards away, and I can smell him. The scent bringing back the memory of musk and strength that I desired to taste on him while at Vadim’s, and the rapture of how deliciously clean and good he smelled at my home that night, long ago.
His eyes narrow somewhat. I know that through a raging crowd, he sees me. The death mask across his face almost falters. That jagged scar that my fingers had trembled to touch, the one night we spent together, looked less menacing for all of a second. Damn, how was I so afraid to touch it?
I nod subtly in his direction. Why? Because my entire body has shut down.
He nods back and then the referee makes an announcement.
The opening bell rings, and the fighters touch gloves as a sign of respect. As soon as they’re done, they migrate to the opposite sides of the cage, as if they’re getting a quick feel for each other. Before I have a chance to blink, Vassili is all over The Damager. He pounces with a right hook so hard, I can feel the wind rushing in my direction. The Damager tosses out a low kick of his own. On the defense, Vassili easily blocks his attempt. Vassili lunges and overpowers The Damager. Down on the ground, he climbs fast on top of The Damager’s chest, slamming down quick fists as heavy as iron weights. The Damager tries to work his arm around Vassili’s leg, but only succeeds in forcing himself up against the fence. Now, he’s right where Vassili wanted him.
With one hand tugging against the cage for leverage, Vassili slams his knee into his opponent’s stomach, probably hitting his liver. I jump out of my seat, as does everyone else. Hooting and hollering enmass, just for him. A rush of adrenaline streams through my veins.
Killer Karo is declared the winner. Vassili climbs up the cage wall, straddling it. He pounds a fist against his powerful bronze chest.
In a whirlwind interview, he explains his strategy. His cocky ass is almost flippant while saying The Damager was a “worthy” opponent. The truth is in his eyes; this was no sweat off his back. And then in the blink of an eye, the man I broke my own heart by pushing away, is gone again.
I’d stopped accepting Vassili’s calls and text messages because the image of a brighter future as a prime litigator didn’t include a Russian mobster in my life, screwing me at nights; even though he hadn’t tried to. Damn, the way my brain is set up, I’ll probably drive myself insane one day with all this wondering why.
“You're in shock, aren't you?” Taryn asks, trying to dig into my thoughts.
Face still blank, I offer a nod. I've seen him. Now it's time to go. The thought echoes in my ears as if someone else is steering my life. I don't wanna go! My high school friends haven't made a move to get up, yet.
The crowd slowly quiets down, but the closest people to me are hyped. There’s mention of some sort of party in The Hills. Taryn chimes into the conversation, but my gaze continues to be transfixed to the cage, where the man I never should have seen again, was just standing. Somehow, on a stage bathed in blood and sweat, Vassili Resnov’s presence still reigns supreme over me.
My cell phone vibrates against my thigh. I aimlessly take the phone out of my leather jacket pocket, which is now draped over my lap. The phone number is as familiar to me as the reflection of my own face in a clear blue lake. Though I deleted the 323-number, I instinctively know that it belongs to none other than Vassili Karo Resnov.
Him: Wait for me.
I smile. Then I glance at the last correspondence he sent. He had a competition to attend in Georgia, during my last year at Spelman, and he offered me tickets. Then the next message from him was saying he would come to me, if I was too afraid.
I never responded back.