Kill Shot
On Monday, I had a package waiting for me when I got to the club. I opened it and found a pair of hot pink Asics and a dozen pairs of cushiony athletic socks. My cheeks warmed with embarrassment, but I was grateful, yet slightly freaked out, by the forwardness of my new boss.
I changed into my new kicks, tossed the old ones in the can, and joined my teammates on the court. I was back in the club as if my conversation with Mr. Cusimano had never happened. He even met me when I got off the court, apologized, and welcomed me back—weird.
Not knowing what the plan was with Vladimir, I waited outside after practice and assumed he would magically appear like he had in the park. I looked around for the Ferrari or Range Rover, but he wasn’t there.
As I stood in the parking lot, still perspiring from a tough practice, a souped-up, black Cadillac with tinted windows crept up next to me. The glossy, after-market wheels glistened in the sunlight like black ice. The window came down and revealed the driver: Boris. There wasn’t a more perfect car in the world for that beast of a man.
I opened the passenger door and slid inside. “Nice ride.”
He had a stinky stogie between his teeth and was wearing a plaid pimp hat with a dotted feather tucked into the rim. As he rolled off the lot, I noticed his hair was pulled back in a ponytail, which revealed a tattoo of a black dagger inked on his neck. In his expensive-looking black suit, a fat gold chain around his neck, and an ominous expression that sneered, “Please give me a reason to kill you,” I mentally cautioned myself not to do anything to piss off the big guy.
Russian polka music reverberated through the car, and I sat quietly in the passenger seat and processed the Big Fat Mess I’d walked into when I accepted Vladimir’s offer. I was certain it was a gift, the problems I created for myself. Everyone had a talent; mine was doing the exact opposite of The Right Thing.
“What’s all that?” Boris pointed to the wad ’o crap dangling from the lanyard around my neck.
I let out a little snort and held it up. “This is a rape whistle, and this is a mini thing of mace. I walk everywhere. I have to protect myself. And this is my house key, another key to my best friend’s house, and a cherry-flavored ChapStick.”
“Why don’t you drive?”
Because Dad doesn’t trust me. I lifted my shoulders. “I like to walk.”
He let out a humph which I suppose meant he was satisfied with my answer.
A wooden cross adorned with faux jewels and bound in a lacy pink ribbon dangled from the rear-view mirror. It had Russian letters scribbled across it in a child’s handwriting. Boris tapped his rings on the steering wheel when he noticed me admiring it. I wanted to ask him who made it, but I didn’t think it wise to strike up a conversation with a snarling grizzly bear.
As we cruised down the hill past the church, I recognized the Chevy pickup driving past us on the other side of the road. The driver zeroed in on me as we passed.
“Shit.” I slunk down in my seat to hide—two seconds too late.
Boris turned off the radio. “What?”
“I’m so sorry.” I covered my hands over my face and sat up just enough to peek through my fingers and take a look behind. “Shit, shit, shit.” The truck turned around.
Boris glanced in the rearview mirror. “Who is that?”
“It’s too late. He saw me. Pull into the park up here on the right. I’m just going to let him shoot me and get it over with. I’m dead anyway.” I curled my legs up to my chest and watched the truck closing in on us. I lifted my tennis bag up to my lap and unzipped the side pocket.
I may not win this round, but I won’t go down without a fight.
Boris opened the glove box and pulled out a long black gun.
“Jeez. What the hell?”
He glared at me like I was the crazy one. I pulled my fat orange-and-yellow Nerf gun out of my bag and waved it at him. “Chill, Putin, it’s a game. Ever hear of dart tag?”
Boris eyed my toy and slid his gun back into the glove box. “You give up that easily?”
“The odds are against me. He and his buddies play video war games like it’s their religion. Plus, it’s stupid and not worth my time. I surrender.”
“Do what I say.” Boris sped through the lot and parked by the picnic shelter. “Hide behind the wall.” He pointed to the shelter. “Davai.” That meant, “Hurry the fuck up,” in Russian, I supposed.
The truck pulled in and parked next to the Caddy. My friend Ryan and his gun-toting buddy got out of the truck and tried in vain to conceal humongous plastic machine guns behind their backs. When they approached the Caddy, Boris leaned against the car and puffed on his stogie. Ryan stooped down and peeked inside the car.
“Good afternoon, gentleman,” Boris said. He exhaled a gray cloud of tobacco smoke.
The guys scrunched up their faces.
“Is there something I can help you with? You seem to have lost something.”
“Just looking for our friend Carter, sir. Happen to know where she went?” Ryan asked, widening his stance commando style.
Boris crossed his arms. “You want me to be a rat?”
I covered my mouth to stifle my giggle.
“Who are you?” Ryan’s buddy asked.
From my hiding spot behind the shelter I snuck up behind my unsuspecting victims. First, I popped Ryan’s friend in the back with my wimpy handgun and then took down one of my best friends with a kill shot to the head.
“Gotcha.” I lifted the gun to my lips and blew away imaginary smoke from my two perfect shots. When they turned to meet their assailant, their shoulders slumped in defeat as the realization sunk in I had outplayed them.
“That’s how you do it, boys.” I smacked Ryan on the ass.
He reeled me in for a hug and spanked me back. “That was hot, babe.” His muscles were strong and chiseled as if his body had been carved from petrified wood.
Ryan’s friend headed back to the truck, not at all as good a sport as his buddy. Boris watched their reactions with a glint of satisfaction in his menacing eyes.
Ryan wrinkled his forehead and sized up Boris. “You hired a bodyguard?”
I laughed. “Oh, right. Uh, this is Boris. He works for Dad’s new boss. He’s taking me to check out the office. Boris, this is my friend, Ryan.”
Ryan shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
Boris didn’t return the sentiment.
“Hey, what’s our bet tonight, Cookie? San Francisco or Seattle?” Ryan asked.
I put my hand on my hip and twisted my lips as I thought it over. “Hmm, it’s going to be close. Both have great offenses, but I think San Francisco’s defense will dominate.”
“Yeah, but don’t forget, Seattle has the Twelfth Man factor at home.”
“True. It’ll be a tight game, so I’m going to have to go with my tried and true, no fail approach—hottest QB wins. I’ll take San Francisco.”
“That guy has nothing on me.” He flexed his bicep and kissed his bulging muscle. Ryan was a freshman running back on the UC football team and worked out more than I did.
“You wish.” I shoved him in the chest. “What do I get if I win—I mean when I win?”
“When I win,” Ryan said, “you have to wear my jersey Friday night, and I’ll treat you to dinner if you pull it off, deal?”
“Deal.” We shook on it. “What time are you coming over tonight?” I asked.
“We have an end-of-season team thing, so I probably won’t get to your house until the third or fourth quarter. Save me some pizza?”
“Yep.”
His cowboy boots clicked on the blacktop as he walked back to the truck. Over on the basketball court, I caught a glimpse of this super-hot Spanish guy, Leonardo, shooting hoops with his friends. He worked out at the club and had been hanging around the smoothie bar for a couple of weeks. He spotted me and tossed me an up nod.
I mouthed ¡hola! and then sucked in my bottom lip and turned away, embarrassed he had caught me checking him out. I leaned against the Cadillac next to Boris and held up a closed hand to initiate a fist bump. “That was badass, man.”
Boris studied my gesture and knocked his thick, tattooed knuckle into my pale boney fingers like an eighteen-wheeler crashing into a Smart car.
Ouch. I shook my fingers to relieve the pain. “I’m glad you’re on my team.”