viridity
(n.) naïve innocence
MILA
Russian voices, one concerned, one rough and low, crept into my subconscious. Papa only spoke fluent Russian when he had Russian guests over, but why were they in my room?
It was weird.
And rude.
I sighed, reaching to pull the sheets over my head to shut out the noise. Instead, my hand slid over the familiar feel of one of my papa’s suit jackets, wool and cashmere. But something was different. This one smelled like pine and cinnamon with a hint of cigar smoke. There was something very unfatherly about the scent, and it was what convinced me to open my eyes.
I groaned as a sharp pain shot through my skull.
“Khorosho, ty vstala,” a silver-haired man said, pulling a high-back leather chair from a large mahogany desk toward me. Square-framed glasses. White button-up. Black slacks. A cold sweat spread through me as I stared at the stethoscope around his neck.
Some people had nightmares about falling, or public nudity, or ghosts. Mine was waking up to a doctor looming over me. They were so cold and professional, with a snap of latex gloves and the reflection of blood and needles in their eyes.
The ache in my head thumped in tune with my heart as I sat up on a couch. A chill caressed my bare midsection, and I realized my ripped shirt had been partly concealed by the suit jacket. I slipped it on and pulled it closed.
Confusion clouded my thoughts as I took in the masculine, well-worn office. My breath stilled when I met eyes with a man leaning against the front of the desk. The man I ran into. The man I got a glimpse of before I fell at his feet, unconscious.
Everything came back to me.
The scarred man.
The near rape.
All I could think at that moment was, so far, Moscow really sucked.
The dark-haired Russian held my stare with a distant look of interest. I swallowed and pulled my gaze away when the doctor placed his chair next to me and sat. I eyed the briefcase beside him warily, knowing if he pulled a needle from it, I’d take my chances out on the street.
Getting a closer look, the doctor paused and tilted his head. “Ty vyglyadish’ znakomo. My ran’she ne vstrechalis’?”
Sludge stuck to my thoughts like gum. He spoke too fast for me to understand any of it.
The doctor adjusted his glasses, scrutinizing me. “Mozhesh’ skazat’ svoye imya, dorogoya?”
I thought I heard “imya.” Was he asking for my name? I wasn’t sure, so I only blinked.
He frowned in concern. “Ty dolzhen byl otvezti yeye v bol’nitsu.”
I only recognized “bol’nitsu.” The hospital. However, I realized his words weren’t meant for me but for the only other man in the room. The one built like a brick wall, as uncomfortable as it had been to run into him.
At first glance, he looked like a gentleman, like he belonged in a CEO’s boardroom, looking down at the world through floor-to-ceiling glass. Though, if one stared longer than they should, everything about him—the way he leaned against the desk, arms crossed; the way shadows fought in his eyes; how black ink decorated his fingers—opposed it. A powerful, maybe even dangerous edge lay in the relaxed set of his shoulders.
He was war embodied, tailored in an expensive black suit, sans tie and jacket. I knew his was the one I wore now.
As if he could feel me staring, the man caught my gaze. The urge to look away was so strong it itched beneath my skin. He expected me to. Though something foreign and astute made me persevere. Holding eye contact with him felt like a deadly game. Like Russian roulette. A revolver and one bullet. A single wrong blink, and I’d be dead. But it also evoked a whisper of adrenaline, as warm as half a bottle of UV Blue and the Miami sun.
“Poprobuy po-angliyski,” he said, his eyes on mine. Try English.
The doctor’s brow lowered. “My English is no good.”
The other man pushed off the desk and came closer, dropping to his haunches in front of me. His dress pants kissed my preppy plaid ones. His black cap toe boots contrasted my white Rothy’s.
He was cool and calculated, from how he moved to how his gaze settled on mine, though something so alive played in his eyes. Eyes I could now see weren’t black, as I originally presumed, but a very, very dark blue. Darker than the heart-shaped stones in my ears.
I didn’t know if it was the sudden uprising of nerves, his closeness, or a result of hitting my head, but the words slipped past my lips without thought. “You’re really uncomfortable to run into.” I said it so seriously, like it was something he should be concerned about.
“My apologies.” A Russian accent and amusement touched his voice.
I stared at his lips, at the thin scar on the bottom one and the two rough words pouring out of them like vodka over ice. I wondered how he got the scar. I wondered if his voice tasted like vodka too; if it would burn my throat and warm my stomach. I felt . . . weird. My thoughts seemed to have no filter, ping-ponging against my skull like a game of pinball.
I opened my mouth to explain myself, but all that came out was, “You’re very Russian.”
He drew a thumb across the scar on his bottom lip. “You’re very American.”
The doctor shifted in his chair and spoke, but I barely heard it over this man’s presence that was so very loud. He was an eclipse, blocking the pain from my head, and, probably, the sun. Though overwhelming, it wasn’t unpleasant. It was warm. Persuasive. Worldly. A royal flush in a den of iniquity.
“Do you know your name?” he translated.
Slowly, I nodded. “Mila . . . Mila Mikhailova.”
The doctor shot a censorious look at the man in front of me, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care because his gaze remained on mine, pulling curiosity to the surface.
“What’s yours?” I asked on a shallow breath.
He smiled. “Ronan.”
His name grew heavy in the air until the doctor cleared his throat and said something I couldn’t translate.
“What day of the week is it, Mila?” Ronan asked.
“I, uh . . . Fri—?” I cut myself off when he shook his head with a hint of a smile. I tried again. “Saturday?”
The doctor made a hmm noise, apparently not impressed with this man helping me. No surprise. Doctors were no fun.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” Ronan translated.
I stared at his other hand resting on his knee, at the tattoos on his fingers in between the first and second knuckles. One was a cross, another a raven. The third, a king of hearts playing card.
Ink and déjà vu.
I didn’t know what was wrong with me, but I couldn’t stop myself from touching him, from drawing an index finger down the tattooed raven. The whispered words were pushed from my depths by an irresistible force.
“Darkness there, and nothing more . . .”
The quote condensed the space between us, dipped in something as thick and dark as tar.
I was sucked back into a tunnel, reading Edgar Allan Poe under my papa’s desk, with dirt on my face and uneven bangs I’d cut myself. Papa was speaking to Ms. Marta, my childhood tutor, unaware I was near. He was concerned about my imaginary friends and lack of real ones, my introversion, and my disinterest in schoolwork.
He thought something was wrong with me.
I thought so too.
Those whispered words in the hall coiled inside me like a snake sinking its fangs in and slowly spreading poison as the years passed by. Poison that sent me on a warpath to acceptance.
Sometimes, it was the little things that made us who we were.
The heavy, empathetic look in Ronan’s eyes tightened my stomach like the click of a trigger. I didn’t expect him to understand what I said, but he did. I knew he did.
“Sleduyushchiy vopros,” Ronan said. Next question.
The doctor frowned. “U tebya yest’ sem’ya, s kotoroy ya mogu svyazat’sya?”
“How old are you, moy kotyonok?”
From the way the doctor’s eyes flared in disapproval, I realized he understood that English phrase, and it wasn’t what he’d said.
I answered, “Nineteen,” before remembering I turned twenty yesterday.
The doctor released a tense breath. “Devyatnadtsat’. Yey devyatnadtsat’.” Nineteen. She is nineteen.
Ronan didn’t look away from me. “Ya slyshal.” I heard.
I hardly listened to the exchange because I was trying to remember what “moy kotyonok” meant. My, what?
“Have you been . . . violated, Mila?” I watched the dark blue of his eyes grow black.
For a moment, his question confused me. A cloud obscured the entire scene in the alley as if it happened to someone else and I’d merely watched it unfold. It didn’t seem real, and when I thought of it, I felt nothing but mild annoyance, which probably put me in the same crazy category as my papa’s tenants.
I shook my head.
“Good.”
Just a single four-letter word, but it ballooned in the air like the most important thing in the room. His voice was so rough and soft. So composed and accented. So lenient in its delivery it slipped beneath my skin, melting the tension in my body like butter. I bet people went out of their way to listen to this man talk.
“Do you have any pain besides your head?”
I nodded, staring at him.
A smile touched his lips. “Where?”
“My side.”
Ronan rose to his full height. As he and the doctor spoke, a boy—the one I saw carrying a crate of liquor—entered the room with my duffle bag in his hands. He dropped it beside the couch and sent a glance of disgust my way.
Ronan eyed him in silent warning. The boy swallowed and turned to walk out of the room.
“Kirill would like to take a look at you, if you will let him.”
I nodded.
When Ronan headed to the door, I got to my feet, fighting a spell of dizziness at the sudden move.
“Wait,” I blurted. “Where are you going?”
He turned his head to study me with cautious eyes. “Giving you some privacy, kotyonok.”
I chewed my lip, not knowing what compelled me to ask that. I was confused. And I really didn’t like doctors.
“Please, stay.”
Kirill sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
After a pensive moment of silence, Ronan inclined his head and walked back to his desk. I was oddly comforted he would stay.
Kirill stood, pulled a flashlight from his dress shirt pocket, and checked my pupils. He listened to my heart, my breathing, and examined the back of my head. My gaze kept landing on Ronan, who leaned against his desk doing nothing but watching the scene.
When Kirill spoke, I pulled my eyes to him. He must have noticed where my attention was during the exam because his expression was tight with disapproval.
“He needs you to remove the jacket.”
I loosened my grip on the lapel and shrugged it off my shoulders to the floor. A red bruise, the shape of a hand, marred my waist, which explained why my ribs ached. But what I focused on was the dried blood on my stomach. Now, I noticed it was underneath my fingernails as well.
All of the warmth inside me went ice-cold, sending prickles down the back of my neck.
I didn’t do blood.
A shaky exhale escaped me. My stomach turned. The room began to blur. I swayed, blackness tugged on my subconscious, and then it dragged me all the way under.
When I awoke, it was to a dry mouth, Kirill’s frown, and Ronan crouching next to where I lay on the couch.
Realizing I’d fainted, I closed my eyes again.
As a child, I had anxiety attacks before getting a shot or having my blood drawn. Papa used to hold me down for my vaccinations until I eventually passed out. Even now, I’d rather cast my own broken arm with duct tape than go to the doctor’s office.
Ronan held out the green can of soda Kirill handed to him. “You’re not going to pass out on me again, are you?”
I sat up slowly, closed my blouse with one hand, and took the can from him with the other. Nobody but a small few knew about my phobia. I forced myself to watch gory horror films to get over it, but it only desensitized me to Saw movies, not real life.
“I’m not the biggest fan of blood,” I admitted.
He eyed me with curiosity, like I said something amusing. “Interesting.”
“I’m sorry. You look like a busy man, and I’m sure I’ve ruined your entire night.”
“Drink your soda, kotyonok.”
I did. The cold fizz felt good on my throat. I licked my dry lips and looked around the room, from Kirill’s frown, to a crack in the plaster walls, to the frayed carpet. It wasn’t exactly a trendy executive office.
“I’ll reimburse you for everything,” I said. “The doctor and—” I glanced at the can in my hand, which amused Ronan.
“I’ll add the soda to your bill,” he said.
At that moment, I realized I completely overlooked his expensive suit, believing he’d have trouble affording a private doctor’s visit. Suddenly understanding he was only playing with me, I met his gaze.
Click.
It wasn’t the pull of a trigger. It was him clicking a pen in his hand.
“U neye sotryaseniye mozga, i ona dolzhna byt’ osmotrena v bol’nitse,” Kirill said.
“He believes you have a mild concussion,” Ronan translated. “The symptoms might last a few days.”
I guessed it explained my odd thoughts and behavior. However, I was already feeling a little better now I had some sugar in me. The lack of food and sleep probably didn’t help the situation.
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.
