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CHAPTER SIXTEEN
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FALCO
(Present day)
Irina had fallen asleep in the car on the ride back to my place in Brentwood. I had so many questions for her, starting with, why the hell was she homeless? I wanted to wake her up and tell her to talk to me, but she looked so exhausted, I just let her sleep.
When we arrived outside my apartment, she was difficult to rouse. I called her name and touched her shoulder, but she pulled away and went back to sleep. I wondered how long it had been since she had slept in a safe, warm place. Even the seat of the car may have seemed like a luxury to her.
I decided to carry her inside. When I slipped my arms under her legs and around her back. She reached out and wrapped her arms around my neck, allowing me to pick her up easily. Her head fell into place between my shoulder and neck.
She was lightweight and easy to carry. She could not have been more than a hundred and ten pounds, very light for a five-feet-nine-inch woman. She remained asleep in my arms. I struggled to get the apartment door open while holding her but managed it. I sat her on my couch. She slid into a sleeping position, curling her knees up to her stomach and hugging a throw pillow like a teddy bear.
She still smelled ripe, but I didn’t feel like now was the right time to wake her up and suggest she take a shower. I went into my bedroom, grabbed a spare bed pillow, a downy blanket and a spare pair of my silk pajamas. I grabbed a bath towel and a bar of soap. I also went back to the car and grabbed the gym bag that Waldrip had given me for her.
When I got back inside Irina was now snoring softly, like a little piglet. I sat the pillow near her head, pulled off her shoes and covered her with the blanket. I sat the towel and the bar of soap next to the gym bag on the coffee table where she could see it when she woke.
I was exhausted myself, looking down on her, now sleeping so peacefully, reflecting on all the sadness I knew about her youth, and wondered just how badly things for her had gotten since I’d lost track of her. I would get answers tomorrow, I told myself. For now, I needed sleep.
I stripped down to my boxers and crawled into my bed, falling into a deep slumber almost instantly.
I woke to the sound of the shower running in the hallway bathroom. I looked at my digital clock. It was five-forty-two in the morning. Irina woke up and found the towel and soap, it appeared. I hoped she would take the hint but felt a little embarrassed at the less-than-subtle implication she needed one. Like it was a big surprise, right? I lay there listening to the gentle hum of the shower head spraying, slowly drifting off to sleep again. Twenty minutes later, I heard the whir of my hair dryer.
At six-fifteen I smelled bacon frying. I got out of bed and slipped on my robe, walking out of my bedroom. In my kitchen, I saw Irina in my silk pajama top, which was long enough to cover her behind. She stood over my stove, poking at the eggs and bacon that were frying in the skillet.
Her long, red hair had been washed and combed out, and now hung past her shoulders. The front of her hair was parted down the left side and hung loosely around her face. The pajama top was baggy, unbuttoned to the center of her chest, barely hanging on her shoulders. She had rolled up the sleeves but they still covered part of her hands. Her legs were thin, shapely and velvety white.
I began to chuckle at the sight of my pajama top nearly falling off her frame. She turned toward me when she heard my chuckle, and she began to smile. For the first time, I saw the Irina I remembered in those last days before the debacle; the bright smile, the freckles on her cheeks, the clear blue eyes.
“I am ready for the prom,” she said, holding her arms out and turning in a pirouette. She spun twice and laughed. Her laugh was infectious.
I watched her turning, looking at this very beautiful and very troubled woman in my kitchen, thinking back to the time I’d spent with her in my childhood. At that moment, I didn’t care what baggage she carried. I didn’t care what emotional scarring might need to be healed. I only saw the beautiful fifteen-year-old Russian girl I knew in high school—my first, and perhaps only, true love.