An inkling tickled my thoughts. Kirill said “bol’nitse” again, didn’t he? I must have misheard him because Ronan hadn’t said anything about the hospital. I wouldn’t go regardless.
“Will you please thank him for me?” I asked. “He didn’t need to come here just for me.”
Ronan tilted his head in thought for a moment—click—then said to the doctor, “Ona ne khochet idti v bol’nitsu.”
That was the strangest Russian thank you I’d ever heard. “Bol’nitsu” must mean something else.
Kirill pursed his lips before responding.
“He says someone should wake you tonight. Protocol for head injuries.”
“Oh.”
“Are you here with anyone?”
I shook my head.
“You can stay here tonight. I will have someone wake you.”
“No, that’s okay,” I said. “You’ve already done too much for me.”
A sliver of displeasure passed through Ronan’s eyes. The quiet intensity could kill someone who wasn’t already used to the same look from their papa.
“You were assaulted in my alleyway. It is my responsibility to make sure you will be okay.”
No wonder he was standing so close to the back door. Did he hear my screams?
My thoughts and breath were cut off when he used his pen to lift the pendant sitting between my breasts. “Interesting necklace.”
He and my attacker were the only ones to ever notice it.
I’d never seen my papa wear anything less than a wifebeater and a pair of black slacks. Even then, that was only once, when I was eight years old and I glimpsed the nautical star tattoos on each of his shoulders. Of course, at that age, I wanted one for myself, so he gave me this necklace.
“It’s a family thing,” I breathed.
A thoughtful, “Huh,” was all Ronan said.
He lowered the pendant back to my skin, and the tiniest glide of his pen between my breasts set my pulse careening off its tracks. The can of soda slipped from my fingers. He caught it with his left hand, his gaze not leaving mine.
After a moment of heavy tension, Kirill got to his feet and put a bottle of pills in my hand. I looked at it. They didn’t do prescriptions here?
“For your pain.”
I forced a smile. “Thank you.”
He gave me an imploring look, grabbed his briefcase, and left the room. I didn’t know before that Russians were so very foreboding.
Ronan rose and set the can of soda on the side table. “I will have some food brought in for you,” he told me, heading to the door before he stopped in front of it and turned to face me. He was black from head to toe. His dress shirt. His tattoos. His hair. Even the blue of his eyes was drowned in shadow unless close-up. We might as well be from two different worlds—worlds divided by the lonely waves of the Atlantic.
He was the glimmer of adrenaline, the roughness of tracks beneath bare feet, and the siren of a freight train coming head-on.
And I was fascinated.
His eyes were unreadable. “You will be safe here.”
I believed him.
But before his dark silhouette disappeared from view, I remembered what “moy kotyonok” meant.
My kitten.
wallflower
(n.) a shy, awkward, or introverted person
I crunched one of those pills between my teeth, hoping for relief, and then dug through my duffle bag for my phone. That is, until I remembered it was in my coat pocket, which currently lay in a frigid Russian alley. It was surprising they hadn’t found it considering my bag must have been a couple of blocks away, and my coat should be near their back door.
A knock sounded, and a redhead no older than seventeen, wearing a plain white dress, entered the room. She kept her eyes lowered as she set a bowl of soup and a slice of bread on a side table near the couch. I thanked her and asked if she knew what time it was, but from the way she didn’t even acknowledge I spoke before she turned and walked out of the room, I guessed she must not speak English. Or at all.
The soup smelled so good it made my mouth water, but it looked like solyanka, which meant it contained meat. I’d been a vegan since I watched a meatpacking documentary in junior high. Borya hated it, but he always made something special for me. Regardless, I never could eat much when I was stressed. And now I was alone with my thoughts, I wondered if the attack was random or if it had something to do with Ivan’s fear of my coming here.
Could my papa really be in trouble? He might be an adulterer and do business with some unsavory people, but he didn’t gamble or drink in excess. Heck, he didn’t even jaywalk. He couldn’t be any more law-abiding if he tried. I brushed the thought off. I was a lone woman walking through a rough part of Moscow. What did I expect, a parade ride to the Ritz?
With that worry out of mind, I realized I really needed to use the restroom.
Avoiding looking at the dried blood on my skin, I swapped my ruined blouse for a yellow Beach Boys tee. Down the dimly lit hall, the clank of pots and pans and an occasional Russian curse came from a bright room to the right. It was a large industrial kitchen, and I wondered how long I’d been unconscious, because it was closing for the day.
After finding the bathroom and doing my business, I headed to the sink, where I scrubbed my hands and stomach with the bar of soap, growing queasy as I watched red run down the drain. I shuddered at the thought my attacker might carry some disease. Other than psychopathy anyway.
In the mirror, I stared into my ice-blue eyes. I always thought they lacked spark, their shine, even though I’d been told they were striking by a model agent who approached me on the street and slipped me his business card. I was intrigued. Models got to travel, to see the world beyond a television screen, but Papa shut down any idea of that real fast.
I started to head back to my temporary room for the night, but a voice—his voice—wrapped around my body and drew me to a stop. I should mind my own business, as Ms. Marta would say when I interrupted our lessons by peeking out the window to see who’d come up the drive. But temptation tightened its grip, pulling me in the opposite direction.
As the hallway’s shadows grew darker, one phrase came to mind: Curiosity killed the cat.
I brushed off a shiver.
A bartender stood behind an old wooden bar washing glasses. White dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, suspenders, a skull and crossbones tattoo on his forearm. He glanced my way and stopped to stare while wiping his hands on a towel.
I swallowed and swept my gaze away from him, over the round tables and booths in the timeworn and mostly empty restaurant. I found Ronan easily because the three men sitting across from him roared with laughter at something he said. He rested a lazy arm on the back of the booth, a cigar in his mouth. Russian Gypsy music played quietly over the dim room as I watched him blow out a white cloud of smoke, a smile touching his lips.
He glanced over, dark eyes settling on mine.
Madame Richie’s voice pulled me back to that overly warm trailer parked at the carnival, a gaggle of preteen cheerleaders frowning at the décor behind me. Eyes closed, she rested her hands on her purple crystal ball, a cigarette dangling precariously from her lips. She peeked one eye open to look at me, then closed it again in concentration. As her crystal ball filled with smoke and who knows what else, a frown knitted her brows. I let out a gasp when she grabbed my palm, pulling me halfway across the table to look at it. And then she saw something that made her laugh. And laugh.