Exposed (33 page)

Ivan swept her across the dance floor, their movements a floating, fluid waltz. It was an old dance, but Ivan moved so well, so effortlessly. Dancing with Ivan almost made her forget.

“Ivan!” June smiled up at him. “I thought you said you couldn’t dance?”

Ivan bit back a sheepish smile. “You should see me do the
barynya
.”

“You’ll have to show me.”

Ivan spun June out then twirled her back in close to his body. “I’ll need a lot more vodka before you see that one,” he laughed. 

God, he looked so beautiful. His thick, dark hair fell in waves over his forehead, and his lips were so soft. The dark suit made him long and lean, but June could feel his muscles under the fabric. 

The music swelled with violins, then slowed, grew quiet. All around them, couples danced. This moment … this wonderful moment was exactly what June had wanted. This was worth the makeup and the pain and everything if she could be as happy as this with Ivan.

June nuzzled close to Ivan and felt his arms wrap around her waist. She leaned her cheek against his chest and sighed with happiness.

She blinked once, twice, the bliss a warm shower over her that relaxed her tired muscles and soothed her tender skin.

“Ivan,” June whispered. “Ivan, I ….”

Butch.

Butch was there. He was right there at the edge of the dance floor, and his eyes found June’s.

Tell him you hate him
.

June lurched away from Ivan, her gaze skittering over his shoulders, his lips, the wave of fear flooding his eyes.

“June?”

She couldn’t look at him. She had to get away. Before Butch forced her to do something … something
awful.

Legs shaking underneath her, June stumbled away from Ivan even as he reached out for her. She whirled, but people were everywhere. They swirled around her as the orchestra struck up another waltz. 

Flashes of glances, clouds of perfume, whispers of evening gowns were a kaleidoscope around her, she the still, silent center. June had never felt more alone in her life. She turned in a slow circle, ignoring the looks and searching, searching, searching for a way out.

“June, what’s wrong?” Ivan’s voice was low with worry.

She couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t.

Why won’t he leave you alone?

The thought forced itself into her head. And she knew it wasn’t her own. She knew that, but it felt … it felt so undeniable. 

Slap him. Push him away.

“No,” June said aloud. Ivan shouldered through the dancers to find June. “No, don’t make me,” she said to Butch, standing in her line of sight over Ivan’s shoulder.

She backed away from him again, catching her heel on the hem of her dress. June spun away from him—so much like he’d spun her just minutes before—and wove through the crowd. 

Butch was there, staring. He looked at her with utter hunger on his face. Hunger and something deeper, darker. What was he going to make her do?

His mouth curled in a smile, and June’s stomach churned. Butch was before her, and Ivan behind. There was nowhere to go, no way out.

June backed away until her heels sunk into the soft earth, then she turned and desperately tried to disappear into the crowd. She ducked her head and hunched her shoulders and pushed her way through the crowd of people. 

She couldn’t hurt Ivan. She just couldn’t. June’s body took over, and she tried to flee. She had to get away from Ivan before Butch breached her weak mind.

“June!”

She ran faster, heads turning to watch the drama unfold. June hated herself, for her weakness, for her stupidity. She’d just wanted tonight, that was it. But how could she have been so naïve to think Butch would leave her in peace? She was his plaything. She remembered the note:
She was his
.

Barely looking where she was going, June slammed her shoulder into someone and reeled back to see Evie there.

The woman’s eyebrows winged upward in anger before drawing together. “What’s wrong?”

June couldn’t answer. They were all right there: Teddy and Frank, Meg and Will and Lucy. Her flowers were there too, still waiting at the table alongside two untouched cups of pink punch.

The sound of heavy footsteps pounded up behind her, and Ivan wrenched her to a stop with a hand on her shoulder. 

“Dammit, June,” Ivan demanded, twisting her around so she was forced to face him. “What is wrong?”

Why did everyone keep asking her this? Couldn’t they see? Everything was wrong. Absolutely everything.

All around, people stared. They bent their heads together and didn’t even bother to hide their gossip behind the cover of their hands. Evie Sharpe was joined by her mother. Mrs. Briggs wasn’t far away. Her own mother too, leaning heavily against her father with her eyes open wide in shock. She could only imagine how her mother would try to spin this disappointment to the society ladies.

And worst of all: Butch. This little drama was all for him, for his own sick satisfaction. He stared openly at June and Ivan on display in the center of the event, and the look warping his harsh features was gleeful. That horrible look on his face dripped heavy lead into June’s stomach, made sour bile rise in her throat. 

Throw the punch in his face.

June’s hand was already half-way to the cups, ready to do Butch’s bidding. June snatched her hand away and clamped it to her side. Her head pounded in response.

June tore her gaze away from Butch and stared up at Ivan. Fear and doubt rippled through his eyes, turned the corners of his mouth down.

“June?” He muttered her name, soft on his lips. It was a question: Was she still his?

You hate him. Shove him. Tell him how you hate him.

June bit her lips together so no sound could come out. And when she didn’t move, Ivan took a step closer. June had to swallow back a groan to have him so near. She longed to tumble into his arms, to make him settle her quaking heart and shattered mind. 

But under that, a feeling so urgent … she
hated
Ivan. June knew the thoughts weren’t her own, but she couldn’t stop them. She hated him. She wanted to slap him and tell him to leave her be.

June shook her head against the horrible thoughts, even as she longed to say them out loud. If only she said them out loud, she would feel better. Her mind would clear and the pain behind her eyes would fade.

Her eyes were swimming so she could barely see. But she felt Ivan press the gorgeous bouquet of Purple Junes into her hands. He was saying something, but she couldn’t connect meaning to his words. The smell of the flowers overwhelmed her, sweet and herbal with a hint of pepper.

But then the pain came searing back. Pain so white-hot her fingers went rigid around the bouquet. Her skin tensed, her muscles and bones ground together at the insistent touch of Ivan’s hands against her wrists and arms.

Why won’t he leave me alone?

June jumped back, her eyes skittering and manic and her breathing ragged. Butch was so close, his teeth bared and a thin line of blood seeping out of his nose. His face was red and shiny, the muscles in his neck corded.

Pain radiated through June’s brain, until fireworks popped in her vision. 

I hate him. He’s humiliating me. Doesn’t he see how much he will ruin my reputation?

The pain stopped. Her mind went numb, wonderfully numb.

June dropped the flowers to the ground and snapped her eyes up to Ivan.

“Why can’t you leave me alone,” she hissed.

Ivan lurched back with the harshness of her words. 

“Do I need to say it in Russian? I. Hate. You.”

On the ground, the flowers—her lovely flowers—shriveled up and blew away to dust.

And June ran.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Ivan

Ivan’s cheeks burned, burned so badly. How could she …? Why would she …? A few in the crowd laughed. Somewhere behind him, a man whispered, “Who didn’t see that coming?” More laughter.

Ivan stared at his hands, but his fingers trembled. He shoved his hands into his pockets and reached for the emotion he knew so well. He opened the gates to his anger and let it run wild.

Anger—anger that’d grown so hot it’d boiled over, gone cold, froze through solid. An anger worse than Ivan had ever felt consumed him, absolutely consumed him. It was a winter storm in his mind, icicles in his heart. It was a cold that killed all things until the ground of Ivan’s soul was fallow.

All around, the whispers turned to gasps. People talking about him … about them
.
He wrenched his eyes away from June as she pushed through the crowd and stared at the people come to witness his humiliation. Dared them to stare back. That awful woman from the bank stood close by with old Mary Stewart, the horrible smiles on their thin, feathered lips saying everything their tongues weren’t—every slander about him confirmed. 

Ivan strode through the crowd, didn’t even notice the person barring his way. 

Butch.

The bastard’s name ripped up his throat. “Butch. Get out of my way.”

“She doesn’t seem too keen on you, Commie.” Butch grinned, a twisted, spiteful thing, and crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “Maybe because she knows the truth about Betty.”

“Fuck off.”

Even more people gasped at that, but Ivan didn’t care. He shoved Butch out of the way, and snickered when the maggot fell backward onto his ass.

The crowd parted for him then, for the Soviet outsider who’d finally lost it. A flash of blond hair, of satin shimmering in the lights—Ivan locked his eyes on June’s back just as she disappeared through the hedgerows and ran after her.

Outside the strings of lights bordering the square, the town fell into darkness. He stumbled to a stop and raked his eyes through the empty streets. Somewhere off to his right, shoes clacked against pavement. Ivan followed, his own boots pounding against the street and his chest heaving. 

Her name beat a tattoo in time with his steps—June. June. June. But now, her name had lost its sweetness. It was a tea that had steeped too long and grown harsh and bitter. He spit her name out of his mouth.

Ivan pounded down an alley and careened onto the narrow trail that burrowed into the tangled woods tumbling down to the river. Brambles caught at his pants, low pine branches ripped at his coat. The elbow of the suit jacket snagged, and he heard a giant rip along a seam. Ivan yanked his arms out of the jacket and left it in a rumpled heap. What need did he have for it now anyway? How foolish he’d been to care how he dressed for her … all for her to humiliate him.

Just ahead of him in the dark, June’s sobs rent the air, but they were nothing to him.
Nothing
. 

He strode down the trail, slapping pine boughs out of the way and kicking at gnarled roots until the blast of cold air from the river pelted his skin and June was before him. His heart twisted for half a breath until he hardened it under a crust of hatred.

“How could you do that to me.” It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation. 

June spun to him, her eyes going wide and distressed.

“Ivan,” she whispered, her voice thick. “I … I’m so sorry. Bu—” 

“But what?” He demanded. He strode closer, until he could see the moon reflecting in her eyes. She didn’t have the courage to look at him.

Her skin was pearlescent in the moonlight, her hair silvery gold and disheveled. It exposed dark shadows under her eye and stretching over to her ear. But he didn’t ask about it, wouldn’t let himself. Her lips were still red as cherries, still as enticing. 

Ivan tore his eyes away from her body. He still wanted her, and he hated how she could affect him, even now. Even after everything she’d done to him.

“Tell me,” Ivan growled. “Tell me this was nothing to you.”

June dropped her chin to her chest, and he could see tears making tracks down her cheeks. 

“Say it, June. Just say it. You want me out of your life?” Ivan’s words stuck in his throat, his heart stuttered to a stop. 

“June, tell me I was nothing to you. Because I can tell you right now. You mean
nothing
to me.”

June’s breath caught, but she didn’t look up. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t fight for him.

Ivan backed up one step, then another. June deserved his hatred. Deserved so much worse for how she’d humiliated him. Not just humiliated, but something deeper, more raw. She’d made him believe they were in love, that whatever was happening between them meant something. Meant a future together. And it was all nothing but a lie. It made his lungs deflate, his limbs sag. Nothing but a lie. At June’s back, the river roared against them, pounded at Ivan’s senses.

Then he turned around and left June crying beside the river.

Ivan’s neck hurt. That’s what woke him up. 

He pushed himself up from the bench seat of his truck, groaning. He’d spent the night in this truck, not ready to face his family. His mother—how was he going to admit to her what’d happened? Ivan stretched his cramped muscles as much as possible in the small cab and rubbed hard at his raw eyes. 

Visions of June flooded his brain. How long before he’d be able to go a day—hell, he’d be happy with an hour—without thinking of her. 

The humiliation crept anew under his skin, until Ivan jittered with nervous tension. 

A sharp tap startled him, and he wrenched his head around to stare straight into a cop’s scowling face. Ivan rolled down the window, a frown rippling across his forehead.

“Do you need something, officer?” Ivan cleared his throat to smooth out the sleep-rough creaks. 

He recognized the man—Brad Barton. He’d been a few years ahead of Ivan at school and had loved nothing more than to pick on people younger and slighter than himself. Ivan’s stomach knotted. Just his luck that it couldn’t be Officer Matt Harris—he was Ivan’s age and had always been a fair person.

Officer Barton tapped a baton against the door, took his time answering. He looked up and down the narrow side-street, and Ivan followed his gaze. Independence Falls was waking up—the bells for Sunday service were pealing, and the yeasty scent of fresh bread wafted from the back door of Cora’s bakery.