Her Russian Beast: 50 Loving States, New Mexico (3 page)

This had been her mother’s idea of the “you’re a woman now” speech. But okay, whatever. Everybody back in her small town knew Marian was crazy, and now she herself was becoming pretty sure her mother had overstated the power of her mythological DNA.

Yes, she could swim like a fish, even though she never recalled learning how. And yes, she could sing pretty good—copying any song she heard, note for note, no matter the language, and often doing the singer one better. Though that usually felt less like a blessing than a curse. For as long as she could remember, if she went more than five days without singing, it began to feel like something was chewing on her, inside her chest. That’s one thing the books never tell you about having singing talent. The songs can be brutal, threatening to eat a girl alive if she didn’t let them out.

Which was one of the reasons she’d taken the ring girl-waitress-nurse-maid job in the first place. Sure it was a lot of work, but she got to sing the Greek national anthem on fight nights. Her father’s song, as she’d come to think of it. So it meant all the songs she hadn’t wanted to sing since Trevor died didn’t hurt quite so bad inside her chest.

However, it looked like Marian had grossly miscalculated her powers of seduction. Boys had come easy in high school. Doing most anything for as little as a kiss, even though she was other, in more ways than one—her sister Willa and her being the only two brown kids at Greenlee High School.

The only reason she didn’t have boys swarming all over her now in Greece was because after what happened with Trevor, she’d stopped wanting anything to do with them. So she’d flipped off her siren switch. Learned how to talk and act in ways that didn’t make men want to do things for her.

In fact, it had been so long now since she’d flirted, she’d been halfway wondering if she was doing it right with The Russian Beast. But then he’d pulled her to him. Practically told her she either needed to let him fuck her or let him fight.

She’d surprised herself by opting for the former, but she certainly hadn’t regretted it. In fact, she’d spent all day happily tired and sore, but looking forward to the next time with him. Had put her ring girl outfit on over what felt like a new body and strode into the basement crowd to sing her anthem along with a cheery Greek Christmas song she’d heard in a department store.

You’d think the fact that it was literally the night before Christmas would have thinned out the crowd, but there seemed to be even more men than usual gathered in the basement that night. Cheering for the blood of the fighters on the eve of their savior’s birth.

But he wasn’t there. She scanned the crowd for him throughout the night, but never saw him. And when Cyrus finally told her to announce that the last fight was coming up, she released a disappointed breath.

“That’s how that one goes,” Cyrus said as if reading her sigh. Or her body, which felt like an open outlet, just waiting for her new lover to plug himself back in. “He comes in for one night, then we don’t see him again for a while. Weeks…last time, months.”

So he was gone and most likely wouldn’t be coming back for some time. So much for the power of her siren grandmother, she thought to herself. The one time she’d truly wanted a boy, her supposed power had completely failed her. He’d given her all the feelings she’d been missing over the past year and then disappeared back into the ether.

Maybe he was descended from some sort of mythological creature, too, she thought with a grimace. Like an incubus. If the delicious soreness between her thighs from last night was anything to go by, that really might be it.

“You given any more thought to my offer?” Cyrus asked. “It’s almost Christmas, and the men are happy but lonely tonight. They will line up at your door to have you. Sixty percent for me, forty for you. I give you good deal. Could be very profitable night if you say yes.”

She shook her head. This again. Cyrus had been asking her this question every night since she started working here. And every time, she’d just looked away and told him she needed to think about it.

Up until last night, she’d thought all she’d needed was more time. More time to go deader inside, until she truly no longer cared who fucked her.

It’s just a body,
she’d told herself. One that belonged to someone she could barely stand after Trevor’s death. Why shouldn’t she use it to make some more money?

But then
he
had happened. A night of pleasure so intense, she’d found herself doing something she hadn’t done in the year since she ran away from home.
Feel
. Feel something other than numbness or when she let that numbness slip even a little, the wild grief that made her know she either had to stop feeling or jump off the Acropolis’s high rocky outcrop. For what she did. For what she let happen. Sometimes it felt like the only thing keeping her alive was the numbness and knowing Trevor wouldn’t want her story to end that way.

The weeks she’d been working here, she’d truly thought it would be just a matter of time before she took Cyrus up on his offer. But after last night…

“No,” she answered the small Greek man with a firm shake of her head. “I don’t want to do that.”

Cyrus, who was usually such an affable guy, actually looked surprised. “Why not? Because of The Russian Beast? Was he too much for you? He hurt you?”

She shook her head. No, it’d been quite the opposite. He’d made her feel. Made her want things for herself. Which was why she couldn’t imagine sleeping with another man tonight, much less several, and then passing on the majority of the cut to Cyrus.

“How about 50/50 then? You are friend. I give you this deal.”

“Seriously, that side hustle’s not for me,” she answered, letting her voice go hard. “Find somebody else, because it ain’t going to be me, Cyrus.”

Cyrus didn’t answer, but a terrible look came over his face, red and furious… She could tell he wasn’t pleased, and she welcomed the roar of the crowd that came with the latest knockout.

Using the downed fighter as an excuse to rush away, she decided she needed to gather her things and get out of here. Not at some future date when she’d saved up enough money for a down payment on an apartment. But first thing in the morning.

Luckily she didn’t have much stuff to take with her. After her bags were stolen last month, she’d been left with just the clothes on her back. So she had some toiletries and a few outfits—one of which she was wearing and technically belonged to Cyrus.

Whatever. She was more than happy to leave that one here, she thought as she rushed to her bedroom door. She’d just finished mopping down the venue and putting everything in the basement back in pre-fight condition. So, you know, still grimy but not so bloody and cluttered.

But just as she put her hand on the knob of the door, a voice behind her said, “So you think you can take advantage of my hospitality, American girl?”

She turned to see Cyrus, which wouldn’t have been so bad. He was slimy but small. She maybe could have taken him. But he had the large men she privately referred to as Goon 1 and Goon 2 flanking his back. Two former fighters who exclusively wore turtlenecks overlaid with thick silver chains. They were too old to participate in the fights anymore, but still tough enough to handle anyone Cyrus felt was getting out of hand.

And apparently, Cyrus felt she’d gotten out of hand. They stood behind Cyrus, hands to fists, as if daring her to run.

Fuck
.

She clamped her lips and pasted on a conciliatory look. The kind she used with women who couldn’t be swayed by her siren. And she already knew she couldn’t use the siren here. It would only make an already volatile situation worse.

“Cyrus, you’re mad. I get it. I tell you what. I’m going to pack a bag and get out of here right now. If you don’t want me in your room no more, that’s fine. I’m gone.”

“You think you can leave here without paying me what you owe?”

She blinked because, “What do you think I owe you, Cyrus? Last I checked, I’ve been working my fingers to the bone here for not a lot of money.”

Cyrus’s lips twisted in a contemptuous smirk. “It would have been even less if I’d known you weren’t going to come through.”

Her brain boggled at the thought of anyone getting paid less than she did to do what essentially amounted to four jobs. And for a moment she considered fighting back. The old version of her—the girl she’d been before Trevor died would not only have cussed Cyrus out, but also would have launched herself at him with fists flying. Back in her hometown she’d built up a reputation as a girl to not ever be fucked with, but here…

Here she had nothing but the little ring girl outfit on her back and he had two goons at his.

“Okay, how much do you think I owe you? We’ll work out a deal.”

He moved so fast, she didn’t have a chance to defend herself. The next thing she knew, a fist was coming at her. Then a burning hot pain radiated across her face. Cyrus had just punched her, she realized as she fell to the ground. Straight punched her like she’d been watching men punch each other in the ring for weeks now.

But they weren’t in the ring. And Cyrus wasn’t backing off like a fighter was supposed to after he’d knocked his opponent to the ground.

Instead he stood over her, wheezing hard, looking like he was pissed because she’d made him exert even that much energy.

“Give me the needle…” he said, holding out his hand.

Goon 2 passed him a syringe, already filled. Like he was a nurse and this was Cyrus’s version of the E.R.

Drugs
, she realized through the ringing in her ears. He was going to drug her. “No…” she mumbled, trying to get up. Trying to fend him off. “No…”

“Shut up, bitch!” Cyrus answered, fisting the syringe. “You brought this on yourself.”

He bent down, and she started to crawl backwards, frantic to get away from him. But then she didn’t have to, because Cyrus suddenly disappeared from her line of sight, taken out by a large blur dressed in black.

“
Ohhee! Ohhee! Ohhee!
” she heard one of the goons call out. Greek for “no.”

Then came two muffled popping sounds. She jumped when both of Cyrus’s goons landed in front of her. Wide-eyed, with small holes in the middle of each forehead.

What the…?

She sat up fully. Just in time to see Cyrus on his knees, a huge shadow looming over him. Though it was hard to see anything in the dimly lit room, she immediately knew the shadowed figure was The Russian Beast. By his hulking form, by the stillness of his body, by the absolute cold front coming off of him as he stared down at the man sobbing on his knees. The Beast was pointing something at Cyrus. A gun, she realized with an inner gasp.

“Please! Please! I didn’t know she was yours! I’ll make it right. Whatever you want. I’ll give her to you. Promise! I’ll make it ri—”

An orange spark lit up the room along with the sound of a muffled pop.

Cyrus’s body flew back with the force of the bullet hitting his forehead, then The Russian Beast came to stand over him.

She could see his face clearly now, cast in partial light. Hard as a statue’s as he squeezed three more orange sparks out of his gun. Three more bullets found their way into Cyrus’s chest, making his dead body jerk with the violence of their impact.

The next thing she knew, The Russian Beast was standing in front of her, his huge chest heaving. He was breathing hard. But not with exertion.

No, he looked nothing but angry. Nostrils flaring in and out as he held out his hand and said to her, “Come.”

“
C
ome
,” he said to her.

And she found herself taking his hand and letting him pull her to her feet. In a daze, the siren followed the beast out to the street and into the back of a cab.

Inside the car, she clung to his large hand with both of hers. But his face remained unreadable, no emotion to be found about what had just happened or what he had done. She watched him watch nothing but the passing scenery as the cab took them through the congested streets of Athens, into the historical neighborhood of Plaka. Above them, the Acropolis was lit up like a shining beacon to tourists everywhere. A sure sign, even more than the streets’ strictly engineered switch to neoclassical design, that they were now in a neighborhood she couldn’t possibly afford.

That had been one of the first things she’d learned when she’d finally used the passport she’d gotten after graduating from high school. When she’d finally followed through with her plans to get out of Greenlee County, spurred on by her brother’s tragic death. Anything too close to a tourist site or with a decent view was out of her price range.

But apparently that wasn’t the case for The Russian Beast. Her mouth dropped open when the cab deposited them outside a hotel that looked like an ancient Greek palace made new. This definitely wasn’t any kind of student hostel situation. In fact, the hotel boasted columns so high, she could barely see their tops, even when she bent her head all the way back.

No, this place was definitely out of her price range. But she followed him through the middle set of columns anyway.

Inside she could feel the stares of the other hotel guests, and couldn’t help but feel self-conscious in her skimpy ring girl outfit. She also became keenly aware of her face, which had to be sporting a black eye if the pulsing pain coming off of it was any indication.

However the hotel employees were nothing but deferential to The Russian Beast, inclining their heads as they said, “
Kalispéra
, Mr. Rustanov.” Good evening, Mr. Rustanov. So she guessed Rustanov was his last name, not Beast. Though why he’d asked if she knew it, she had no idea. Was she supposed to know that name? Was he famous?

She didn’t understand. Any of it.

After a short elevator ride, they finally arrived at a door made of a rich, dark wood. She braced herself, but was still overcome with the opulence of the hotel room, which made her fully understand the term “presidential suite” for the first time. The room—which was more like a full-on apartment, in her opinion—had a front room fit for a statesman, with luxurious leather furniture, heavy carpets, and a dining table that could easily seat six. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, she could see a balcony with a hot tub and…