He moans as he pulls out and thrusts back in. “That’s what I thought.”
I push up onto my elbows and arch my back, giving him deeper penetration. “Oh yeah,” he whispers, his hands grabbing my hips and pulling me harder against him.
Moving the fingers of one hand around, I feel his fingertip at my clitoris again, rubbing rhythmic circles that keep perfect time with the thrusts of his body. It isn’t long before I feel the familiar ache of tension building.
I rock against Nash. His breath starts to come in pants and I know he’s getting close, which excites me that much more. When he suddenly stills behind me, I feel the pulse of his own explosion and it triggers mine. Together, we climax, my body squeezing his, his throbbing inside mine.
Almost absently, he rubs his palms over my lower back and butt, over and over in soft, wide circles. Just before he pulls out and collapses onto me, I feel his lips between my shoulder blades. It sounds like he whispers something, but the darkness swallows it up, never to be heard again.
TWENTY-FIVE
Nash
The ring of my phone wakes me. I roll over in bed, still groggy. Sleepily, I reach for the noisy square and glance at the display. I shoot straight up in bed, coming fully awake. There’s no name associated with the number, but I know who it belongs to regardless.
Dmitry.
“Hello?”
“Nikolai, meet me in two hours,” he says in his thick accent. He proceeds to give me the address of a motel in a town about an hour’s drive from Atlanta. “Room eleven. Come alone. We’ll talk more when you get here.”
I hear the click of the broken connection. I lower the phone and stare at it for a few minutes, marveling at the reality of my life.
Shit like this is only supposed to happen in the movies.
As quietly as I can, trying not to wake Marissa, I get up and shower. With Dmitry, there is no hesitation. He’s one of the few people that I nearly trust. Even with such an ambiguous, ominous message, I’ll still do as he asks. Oh, I’ll be cautious, of course. And I’ll be armed. But I’ll still go. He knows my ultimate goal better than almost anyone. And I get the feeling what he has for me is pertinent to it.
It’s barely nine, but I can tell the day is going to be hot and humid. My shirt is already sticking to my back after five minutes in Cash’s car.
By leaving now, I should arrive about half an hour early, which is far better than arriving late. I can sit at a reasonable distance and watch the place for a few minutes before showing myself.
My thoughts on the trip are a bizarre splicing of Marissa and all the unwanted emotions she inspires in me with the rage and bitterness that has gnawed at my gut for what seems like an eternity. What could be the strangest thing of all, however, is that, more often than not, I find that my mind strays from revenge and death and loss to Marissa. Again and again and again.
Could I be wrong about everything? Could there be a future for us? Could I finally have the life I was supposed to live all along? Is it too late for a guy like me? And could it ever work with a woman like Marissa? Do I ever stand a chance of being good enough for her?
You’re a fu—damn idiot for even thinking stupid shit like this!
But even as I chastise myself, I shake my head at the change in my thoughts. Even when she’s not around, when she can’t hear me, I’m censoring myself. For her. Out of respect for her.
I’m no clearer on what the hell I’m thinking or doing when I arrive at the intersection across from the motel. It looks like a serial killer’s wet dream, what with its peeling paint, rusty doors, and erratically blinking neon sign. It might as well read “Bates Motel.”
Slowly, I guide the car to the right rather than going through the intersection to the motel. I pull into a defunct gas station and head for a small crop of trees at the back of the lot. I think I can see room number eleven from there.
And I can. I put the car in park and I watch. And I wait.
A couple of times, I see the curtains that cover the big picture window part. Dmitry isn’t close enough to the glass that I can see him. I only see a shadow move against the dim light in the interior of the room.
Time crawls by until I finally decide to make my appearance. I drive back the way I came and, this time, make another right at the intersection, bringing me alongside the entrance to the motel.
I bypass the office and the greasy bifocaled man I see sitting behind the counter watching television. Instead, I head around the side to the row of parking spaces in front of the motel room doors. I drive all the way to the end and park in front of number twenty.
From the corner of my eye, I closely examine every vehicle I pass and every window of every room I pass, cataloging them in intimate detail. Nothing looks amiss. But that doesn’t mean it’s not.
I knock on the door to number eleven. The third time I rap my knuckles on the cold metal, one of the ones in “11” comes loose at the top and swings down, dangling by its bottom edge.
Nice.
The curtain over the window parts again. This time I can identify Dmitry. My muscles ease the smallest amount.
The door opens just enough for me to step through. Dmitry is behind it, so I have a clear view into the empty room. My tension eases even more.
He closes the door and moves to hug me. He gives me a hardy slap on the back and grabs my face in his hands, as many Russians do, and kisses both cheeks, then gives them a slap as well.
“You look good, Nikolai,” Dmitry says, walking to the dresser that he’s using as a minibar. He pours two snifters of vodka and hands one to me. I down it in one gulp.
“Why are you holed up here, Dmitry? What happened?”
Dmitry sighs into his glass, staring into the bottom like he might find answers, before he takes a sip. Before he responds, he walks to the bed and perches on the edge of the mattress. In the sliver of light coming through the small gap in the curtains, I can see him better. And I can see that he doesn’t look good.
Dmitry is tall for a Russian, but not nearly as tall as me. I’d call him stocky. Paired with the tenacious set of his square jaw and his steely blue eyes, he tends to intimidate most people. But I doubt he would today. His shaggy dark-blond-and-gray hair looks like it hasn’t seen a shower in days, and his cheeks have at least three days’ growth on them. But it’s the set of his mouth that tells the tale. It’s grim. And tired.
“Good God, you look like you haven’t slept since I saw you last. What the hell is the matter with you?”