Center of Gravity (Marauders Book 3) (19 page)

“Wanna make me a cup of hot chocolate and have a heart to heart?”

“Fuck you,” Brick laughed and sat down on the chair Lisa had occupied just a few minutes earlier. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah, Dad, I’ll be fine.” He took the smoke his dad was offering despite just having finished one.

“Any news about who the witness is? The one they claimed saw you taking off with Laura the day she was murdered.”

“Can’t find any record of her, so I think they lied.”

“Son,” Brick said and took a deep breath. “This is about you, and no matter what you think about Hump’s computer skills, that has something to do with him, too.”

“I know, but we can’t find Hump. Mac has talked to some of the Emporia guys, and they have no idea where he disappeared. He checked out from the hospital, and no one has seen him since, but that’s not something they thought about, since it’s the way it should be.”

If a member left in bad standing, the way Hump had, no one would contact him again. The person was considered dead to the club.

“Brick, honey,” Mel said from the door. “I need you.” Then she was gone.

His dad sighed, and when Mitch gave him a mocking wink, he pointed at him.

“Christmas with the family means you can’t hide from the fucking chaos out on the porch. If I’m locked in there, you are too, kid!”

“Don’t try,” Mitch said as he stood up and put out the smoke he’d just barely lit. “You love having these big family things.”

“I do, but I want all my kids with me, so get your ass inside.”

“Yes, Dad.” Brick grabbed his neck as he passed and gave him a look. “What?”

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked in a low voice.

“I’ll be fine, Dad. Let me sneak out for a joint later and I’ll be fan-fucking-tastic.”

“Oh, I’m gonna need that too,” Brick muttered and they walked inside together. “I love your sister, she’s my baby girl, but she is not a calm spirit.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

S Novim Godom

-o0o-

The Dobronravovs had adapted to the American way of celebrating Christmas long before I was born, so we were serving turkey. Some Russian dishes were added, but it was still a pretty classic American Christmas table. We had lymonnyk for desert, though, but that was just because both Mom and I loved it. Besides, it was more of a Ukrainian dish.

“Petr, darling, hand me the wine,” Mom said, and Dad handed it to her with a smile.

My dad was a tall, dark man. He was built like most dancers, which meant he was muscular, and he was quite handsome. I’d inherited his brown hair, but the red streaks in it and my blue eyes were from Mom. She was a strawberry blonde with blue eyes, and I’d always thought she was the most beautiful woman on the planet.

They’d met when they had the leads in Romeo and Juliet, which was so cliché it was almost ridiculous, and I was born just over a year later. I was obviously not a planned child, but they’d never told me that and I’d never felt unwelcome—quite the opposite.

Mom, Yekaterina, but these days Katarina, had grown up in Russia, trained at the Vaganova Academy, and come to America when she was just twenty. Leaving Russia had been considered a hug betrayal, of course, and some people had thought she was insane—her own parents included. She had never been very keen on Russian culture, not the way Dad and Irina were. She said it was different when you’d grown up in the communist version of it and had seen it from a much less romantic light, and I could see the logic in that.

“Someone at the supermarket mentioned that there had been a murder,” Dad said, and I held my breath while staring at the table.

I
prayed
that Irina wouldn’t mention me in any way. The police had talked to her, I hadn’t gotten away from that, but she’d taken it fairly well, and I exhaled in relief when she tried to cover for me.

“Maybe this isn’t a suitable topic of conversation for a Christmas dinner, Petr,” she suggested while handing me the mashed potatoes with an encouraging smile.

“Was it someone we knew?” Mom asked. “I just want to know if it’s someone we knew,” she clarified to Irina.

“No. It was someone from that club those bikers own. Poor girl.”

I had somehow managed to recreate the mental bubble around whatever Mitch and I had going on. I never thought about outside things when I was with him. It was just the two of us having sex, crossing things off my list. That’s how I dealt with the entire murder and MC business, too. But hearing it from my Dad made it much more real. It was an actual woman who had died. She was someone’s daughter, had been important to people, and she now was gone.

“It’s always the women paying the price for men’s deeds,” Mom sighed.

“I don’t think they know if it has to do with the MC,” I tried and kept my eyes on my plate.

“Of course it does,” Mom snarled. “Like I said, it’s always the women paying the price for what men do.” As I’d noticed so many times before, Mom’s accent got more pronounced when she was upset. “Men go off to wars, and women stay behind and try to make ends meet. They struggle, starve, watch their
children
starve, and just try to stay alive. Then the other forces come and invade them, and most men don’t seem to understand that invasion for women often means invasion of the private, too—not just the country. They get raped. Some even sell themselves just to be able to feed themselves and any surviving children. Our body is often the only currency we have in those situations. Look at France!”

“France?” I asked. And as always I wondered how much of these things were based on her own experiences, and a look at Dad made me think he knew something I didn’t, because he was eyeing her with sad, understanding eyes.

“After the Second World War, French women who were accused of having collaborated with the Germans were publicly shaved and paraded through the streets. So not only had they been bombed, starved, often raped, and done humiliating things to feed their children so their men could have something to come home to after the war, but when their men did finally come home, they were publicly humiliated.”

“Milaya…” Dad said and reached over the table.

“I’m sorry,” Mom said and shook her head. “I’m not saying it’s the woman’s fault, or that she should’ve done anything differently.”

“I know.” I didn’t want to argue, and I didn’t want to talk about it. “I know that’s not what you meant.”

Unfortunately, it got even worse when Dad changed to a different topic of conversation. It was meant as an attempt to lighten the mood, but it managed to make me even more uneasy.

“Anna, love, where did you go this morning?” he asked with a smile.

“I went to give a friend a gift,” I answered and avoided looking at Irina, who probably had a really good idea of who the friend was. “Papa, hand me the vegetables, please.”

“Did your
friend
give you that necklace?” Mom’s voice was very teasing, and she seemed to have calmed down and was smiling. “It’s very beautiful.”

“Yes it is, and yes it was a gift.”

“So, will we meet this friend of yours?” Dad continued relentlessly and winked. “I must say I’m glad you have a
friend.
”

“Please drop it, Papa.”

If he didn’t, I’d have to tell him it was one of the ‘Baxter boys,’ which would quite possibly kill Mom after what she’d just said. Also, the ‘Baxter boys’ had come up more than once when I was a kid. They liked Lisa, though, but mainly since we didn’t hang out much outside of school, and they’d been in Spain by the time I’d started occasionally going to the clubhouse with her.

The rest of the dinner was mostly weird. Mom and Dad were once again trying to avoid talking about ballet, and since Mom, Dad, and Irina’s entire lives revolved around ballet, it didn’t leave much for us to talk about. Added to that the reality that my entire life was work and having sex with Mitch... it was the most silent Christmas dinner we’d ever had.

I helped Irina to clean up the kitchen while Mom and Dad set up the living room for desert.

“They’re trying, Zvezda.”

“I know. It’s just... I know it’s hard for them, too, but it feels like... I don’t know.”

Irina put her arms around me and hugged me.

“It feels like they don’t think you’re their daughter anymore.”

I couldn’t help it; the next second I felt my eyes water.

“Yes,” I admitted with a snivel, hoping that I hadn’t smeared snot on the shoulder of her dress.

“Honey,” Irina said while still holding me close, “do you think it is them feeling that, or you feeling it?”

Sometimes I hated how well she knew me. Even before Mom and Dad left, it was Irina who knew my every mood change and what had caused it. She always said it was because we were the same, and I knew I was the child she’d never had. Her parents, my grandparents, had waited until after their career was over before they had children, just like a lot of ballet dancers did. Which meant that by the time the child was born they had their post-ballet career figured out. Since I wasn’t a planned child, and both my parents and Irina had still been working as dancers, they’d split the work of bringing me up between them. They’d basically tried to make their busy schedules work in a way that let one of them always be at home with me. It rarely worked, since ballet dancers spent a lot of time at the ballet just waiting, but I’d often gone with them. In a way, I’d grown up at the Phoenix ballet.

My earliest memories were of its halls and training rooms—I lived and breathed ballet before I could even walk. I don’t remember my parents or Irina ever saying that I was going to be a dancer; to me that was just the way it was going to be. When I got older, I often went from my own practice to watch the rehearsals there, dreaming of when I would be just like them.

So I knew Irina was right; it didn’t feel like I was their daughter, because I didn’t feel like myself.

“It’s me feeling it.”

“Zvezda,” she held my cheeks and made me look at her, “they’re only worried because they don’t want to hurt your feelings. They’re worried that them talking about dancing is just going to remind you that you can’t do that anymore. Give them time. More importantly, give yourself time to find your own identity and who you are. You’re still in the middle of becoming whoever you were meant to be.”

I nodded and dried my cheeks. She was right, again, I was still finding my way, finding out who I was without ballet in my life.

-o0o-

“Serdtse,” Dad mumbled. I was sitting next to him in the couch, and he had his arm around me. Mom was on my other side. “Whatever you choose to do, it’ll be fine. I know this, because you’re a strong and determined woman.”

It was two days after Christmas day, and the dreaded talk had finally come. The ‘we still love you’ talk. I knew that the next step was to get me to go and see a ballet, which wasn’t going to happen, not for a really long time. I was in no way ready for that.

“Thank you, Papa.” I sat up straight and gave him a shaky smile. There was, however, something else I was ready for. “I’m thinking about going up to New York for a few days to visit some friends.”

“That’s a good idea,” Mom said. “Do you still have some of your things there?”

“No,” I shook my head. “They took care of it.”

The two dancers I had shared my apartment with, Satomi and Jens, had sent me all my things. They’d understood why it was hard for me to come, and since they’d only sent my personal belongings, they’d made it very clear that I was welcome to visit so we could go through the things we’d bought together for the apartment. At the moment, I didn’t need any of it, since I’d moved in with Irina, but I still wanted to see the two of them. I missed them. I talked to them now and then, but in a way I think it was as hard for them as it was for me. I was a reminder of what could happen.

“Maybe you could visit the ballet as well?” Dad avoided looking at me when he dropped it in like it was just a minor suggestion.

“No, Papa, I’m not ready for that.”

“You are going to have to do it sooner or later.”

“Why?” I was getting angry. “Why would I have to do that? I see no reason to subject myself to that. At all!”

“Honey,” Mom tried. “There are steps in this type of grieving and to get over—”

“Have you been checking this online?” I interrupted her. “Mama... please...”

“Maybe you should try seeing a therapist?” And this was Dad trying to be reasonable. “You didn’t really give that a try.”

“Dad, I don’t... Can you just let me do this my way?”

“What way is that?” And now Irina was ganging up on me as well. “Because, honey, I know you’re strong, I know you’re handling this extremely well—you’re amazing—but at the same time I think it might be a good idea to see someone who can help you even further.”

I stood up and hobbled into my room. It wasn’t like I hadn’t thought about it. I was just...

I’d tried a psychiatrist. They’d more or less forced me at the hospital, and after a forty-five minute session, I’d decided it was not for me, and I’d refused to see him again.

Brett had suggested it, too—once. He’d said that it wasn’t just the body that needed to recover, and I’d made sure he never suggested it again.

I couldn’t even give a proper explanation to why I hated the idea. It just felt like it would mess everything up. Somehow it felt like I’d folded all those bad things neatly into suitcases, closed them, and locked them away. Starting to poke around in those cases would mean throwing them open and airing all those thoughts. The ones I preferred to not admit that I’d had. Because if I did... would I feel them all again?

I sat down in my armchair, picked up my phone, and texted Mitch. Not five minutes later, he answered that he’d be home in thirty minutes. I went out to tell them I would be away for the night.

“Why?” Dad asked as he stood up.

“I’ll be back in the morning. Please, I just need to.”

“Serdtse, I’m sorry if we hurt your feelings.”

“Papa, it’s not that,” I tried, and he looked at me with lifted eyebrows. “Okay, maybe it’s a little about that, but I really just need a break. I’ll be back in the morning and we’ll talk again, okay?”

“Okay,” he said and walked up to me, took me in his arms. “I love you, Anna.”

I hugged Mom and Irina as well and then left. When I arrived at Mitch’s, he wasn’t home yet, so I sat down, leaning against his door while waiting for him. He arrived fifteen minutes later, and when he saw me he smiled.

“Can you get up from there without help, Gimp?”

“Yes,” I said and glared at him. “But I’d prefer help.”

“Really?” he said and moved to stand right in front of me. “Because it’s hard, or is it just that you like me carrying you around?”

“A little of both?”

He laughed, put his hands under my arms and lifted me up. While he held me against the door, he gave me a long, slow kiss. I wrapped my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist.

“So...” he mumbled. “What did you tell your parents?”

“Can we not talk about them?”

He studied me for a few seconds and then nodded. “Okay.” He leaned his forehead against mine, and I closed my eyes. “Wanna get stoned, fuck, and forget about this day for now?”