Exposed (4 page)

“Pussy,” Butch spit. “Afraid to fight like a man. Commie coward.” Spots of red flared on his cheeks, and a fleck of spittle dribbled from the corner of his lips.

Ivan laughed, letting Butch know he wasn’t afraid of him. Not anymore. Behind Butch, Danny flicked away the spent butt of a cigarette and shouldered past Ralph, who was nervously bouncing on his feet.

“You’re embarrassing yourself, Butch,” Ivan said, his voice carefully flat. “Go beg for money or whatever you were doing. You’re done here.”

Butch made to lunge forward, and Ivan tensed. But then Danny laid a hand on the brute’s shoulder.

“C’mon,” he said, his voice low and oddly calm. “We were supposed to meet those birds from last night.”

Butch flinched and started to push his friend’s hand away, but Danny clenched his fingers around Butch’s collarbone. 

“Come on, Butch.”

Butch blinked and then nodded—just slightly. But then his eyes flicked up to Ivan’s, and the glare Butch gave him was hard and cold. In that instant, Ivan knew he’d started something with Butch that wouldn’t be finished today. 

He couldn’t bring himself to care.

Butch grabbed the lip of the flower tin full of roses, his eyes trained on Ivan. He yanked the tin and sent it crashing to the ground, water spilling over the concrete and the flowers scattering. He planted his heavy boot against the flowers and stepped hard as he walked past Ivan.

Ivan’s mouth twisted in a low growl, but he didn’t move. He wasn’t going to stoop to a fight, to give Butch the satisfaction.

The man snickered—a raspy, angry sound that rumbled in the back of his throat. “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Butch spit. “Why don’t you go back to your Commies. You don’t belong here.”

Another laugh. This one wet and high. “Good one, Butch,” Ralph said, hopping around behind Butch like a dog begging for attention. 

Danny kept his hand on Butch’s shoulder and pulled him away. But Butch spared a glare for Ivan before the three men turned a corner and disappeared. Ivan watched them go, adrenaline still pumping through him. Coming to town was a mistake. Ivan kicked at the truck tire in frustration. The last twenty-four hours seemed to be nothing but a mistake.

Ivan stooped at the overturned tin of roses and carefully righted them. With a quick look around, he curled his hands around the broken and crushed stems and worked his power into the plants. The stems knit back together, though some of the petals remained bruised. But it’d have to do. 

A truck rumbled by and pulled up next to him—another farmer hauling in the week’s vegetables. The old man ignored him as they worked side by side unloading their trucks.

The sun glared down at Ivan, and Ivan glared back. The cool breezes of last night had been chased away, and it wasn’t long before Ivan had to push his shirtsleeves up to his elbows.

The sidewalks and road at the southern edge of the town square had been transformed into a makeshift village of canopies and tents for the weekly market. Ivan had hauled the entire contents of the truck bed over to his market stall, sweat prickling at his hairline. And this was just the start of the day. 

The Sokolov market stall was near the center of the tents, but shoppers edged by him like even looking at the produce or flowers of a Soviet was aiding the enemy. 

Ivan shifted uneasily on his feet. He knew Kostya had been having trouble moving their goods at the market, but Ivan didn’t know it was
this
bad. An hour in, and he’d yet to make a single sale. The Sokolovs had never exactly had friends in Independence Falls. People were always afraid to be associated with a family so
unlike
them, so
un-American
, but this …. 

As much as Ivan hated admitting it, they needed this market. His father brought in some money from an account his American handler had set up for the family, but without the farm, without these people buying from them …. The whole ridiculous problem just made Ivan angrier. 

Kostya, Ivan knew, would stand out front with a big smile, try to entice shoppers with some of their famous hothouse roses. Instead, Ivan leaned against a bin of peppers, the raw wood rough at his back and rasping against his worn-in shirt. He crossed his arms over his chest and silently watched the shoppers. Those few who stopped in did their best not to meet his eyes, and he did his best to ignore them unless they were handing over money. It was easier this way, without having to acknowledge the glances and whispers of the townspeole.

A couple of women walked by, staring at Ivan. One of them leaned close to another and whispered, loud enough for Ivan to hear: “Spy.”

Ivan glowered.

“Mister.”

He hadn’t noticed the older woman standing next to him until she tapped on his arm. “What?”

The woman balked at his tone and frowned. “The other one always helps me get a bouquet,” she said.

The other one? 

“You mean Kostya. He has a name.” Ivan watched the woman shrug but then thought again of his brother. Kostya would not be happy with Ivan if he chased away an actual customer. He tried for a smile. “I’ll make an arrangement, if you give me a moment.”

Ivan pulled some cuttings of pale purple lilacs, the last of the season, and arranged them with fuchsia dahlias. He was just pulling out some sprigs of fuzzy, deep purple amaranthus to fill out the bouquet when the woman stopped him.

“No, that doesn’t look right.”

Ivan rifled through the tin bucket of rangy flowers and pointed at some frothy Queen Anne’s Lace. 

The woman frowned. “I don’t like the purple.”

The Queen Anne’s Lace was white. Ivan bit down on the frown trying to pull his mouth down and sighed. “How about these peonies?” He picked a few stalks to show the woman. She frowned again.

“No .…”

“Black-eyed Susans? They’re looking nice.”

“No …. Maybe some roses instead? I just love those roses.”

Ivan nearly growled. He dropped the rejected bouquet on its side and started over with yellow roses. He’d barely picked out a handful when the woman stopped him again.

“Those look awfully bruised.”

Ivan rounded on her, the frown that had threatened tugging hard at his mouth. “Do you want some flowers or not?”

The woman’s mouth dropped open and her eyes went wide. “Well,” she gasped. “Your brother is
never—
”

“I’m not my brother. So do you want this bouquet?”

The woman grabbed the first bouquet of lilacs and shoved money into Ivan’s hand. Ivan crossed his arms over his chest and watched her totter off, glaring out over the shoppers. 

It was going to be a long day.

CHAPTER THREE

June

June’s eyes stung. She’d barely slept last night, and when she did strange dreams chased her—dreams of falling through trees. Nightmares of falling through her bed and never stopping until the earth swallowed her whole. She’d woken gasping for breath with her pillow over her face. 

She’d patted cold cream on her eyes this morning and carefully applied a pink lipstick to draw customers’ gaze away from her sleep-dulled brown eyes. By the middle of her shift at the bank, she was drowsy, nearly asleep on her feet.

She blinked and tried to concentrate on work. She was counting out twenty dollar bills for Mr. Erikson, but the numbers on the money went fuzzy in her stinging vision. 

But the physical ache of sleeplessness was nothing to how scattered her mind felt. 

She’d fallen through a tree last night.
Through
a tree. That … that wasn’t normal. What if someone found out? 

Clayton strolled across the bank floor, stopping to chat with a few customers. He met June’s eye and nodded.

No, it wasn’t normal. But she wasn’t alone. After it’d happened, Clayton had been excited, Cora gently leading. They’d wanted to talk more about their powers, tried to get June to show them again what she could do. The problem was, she wasn’t quite sure what she
was
capable of. When she’d tried it again, her probing fingers had been met with solid, rough bark. There’d been a swoop of shock—and even exhilaration—talking to Cora and Clayton last night, but now June was just unsure and confused. 

Maybe it’d been a trick of the light, or an odd mistake. But how did that explain Cora’s ability? Or Clayton’s? 

June brushed a stray hair that had fallen from her neat chignon and smiled at Mr. Erikson. She had to focus. Clayton wasn’t just her friend, he’d also helped get her this job at the bank—much to the irritation of head teller Edith Applebaum, who was currently alternating between helping customers and watching June like a hawk. June smiled weakly. 

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Erikson, did you ask for $55 or $65 to be withdrawn from your account?”

Bo Erikson smiled indulgently. Other than Edith, June was the only woman working on the bank floor, another reason to pay attention and do her job well.

“It was $65, miss,” Mr. Erikson said loudly. 

A few customers waiting in line peered around him at June. The stares made pricks of red spot her cheeks. 

“Actually, since I’ve got you here,” Mr. Erikson continued. “Could you pull another …,” he stopped to dig through his pockets and held a scrap of paper close to his eyes. “I need this.” He pushed the paper across the counter toward June: It was a credit receipt from the general store for $73.84.

June’s stomach sank and she clutched at the stack of twenties. So she’d already counted out thirty … no, forty. Quick math had never been her forte. June chewed at her lip for a moment before pulling a large smile onto her face. 

“Of course, Mr. Erikson. I’d be happy to do that.”

A heavy footfall pulled her attention away from the mental math. “Is everything okay, Mr. Erikson?” Edith spared a thin-lipped smile for the man before turning her owlish glare on June. The woman’s severe hairdo and thick glasses, combined with her pursed lips and beakish nose, made Edith look ready to peck.

June settled a placid smile onto her face. “Oh, thank you for checking, Ms. Applebaum. I’m just helping Mr. Erikson with his withdrawal.”

“In the amount of …?”

June balked. She was testing her. The withdrawal amount was none of her business; she was just trying to fluster June. And by the way her colorless lips curled into a nasty smile, she thought it was working.

“In the amount of $138.84.” June barely kept the grin off her face, but she turned away from Edith and finished Mr. Erikson’s transaction.

The line went quicker after he left, but Edith didn’t stop glaring. June stood tall at her register and tried to stay alert. She carefully lifted one foot out of her navy sling-back heels and rubbed the ball of her stockinged foot against her calf. She’d scraped her bare leg against thorns the night before, and the scratch itched almost worse than her eyes. Down the way, Edith eyed June’s movement and scowled. June hitched a sunshine smile onto her face and slipped her foot back into her shoe.

She’d paired the navy shoes with a smart navy dress in a slim silhouette that hit at her knee and a crisp matching jacket with a three-quarter sleeve. Narrow cuffs at her forearms closed with little gold buttons. June had chosen this outfit from her closet on purpose—she wore it whenever she needed some extra confidence. 

Usually it worked. Now though …. The confusion and exhaustion of last night were catching up to her and she couldn’t help but do some more mental math. This outfit had been dear, something ordered especially from a shop in Denver. How much more useful could that money have been spent elsewhere? Helping her father pay bills or adding to her own meager savings? 

June was still lost in tired thought when Edith walked over, each step as clipped and tight as her expression.

“Don’t think that little display earlier means you’re ready to take on my duties, Ms. Powell.” She’d kept her tone quiet, almost light, but there was danger beneath those words. And even a little fear. 

June frowned. “I’m not …,” she looked at Edith—really looked at her. She was an older woman than June, but severity made her appear more aged than she was. How many opportunities were there for a professional woman in Edith’s position? June couldn’t think of many. Maybe she’d been like June once—a woman craving her independence with only so many ways to achieve it. That thought softened the crease between June’s eyebrows. “Edith, I’m not trying to take anything from you.”

“I’m not one of your friends, Ms. Powell. You will call me Ms. Applebaum.”

So much for being friendly. June stood up straight, and her shoulders ached with the movement.

“June?”

Both women turned to see Clayton coming closer. 

Edith pulled her chin high. “I was just helping Ms. Powell here with her customer service. The wait earlier was unacceptable.”

Clayton blinked at Edith. “Yes, thank you, Ms. Applebaum, but I believe it’s my job to speak with employees whenever there’s an issue.” He turned away from Edith, whose face had gone incredibly pinched, to smile at June. “And there’s not. Except …,” Clayton looked up at the wall clock. “Every time I’ve left my office today, you’re still behind the counter. Have you taken a break yet?”

June shook her head. She hadn’t wanted to bug Edith more than she already did simply with her presence. But now, with Clayton excusing her, June slid the small door in front of her teller station closed and grabbed her lunch pail. She slipped out the door with Edith still glaring at her. She didn’t know what she’d ever done to draw Edith’s ire. She always smiled, she was careful counting down her drawer and had never had a customer complaint. Well, except for ancient Ms. Stewart, but that old bag complained about everything. She’d complain her ice cream was too cold if anyone would listen to her.

But the fresh air and sweet breeze blew thoughts of Edith away. June skirted the weekend market hubbub and found a quiet bench under one of the square’s old pines. 

The scent of pine needles and rich earth swirled around June. That smell. These pines. It was here she’d run right into Ivan Sokolov just the night before. It seemed a lifetime, before she’d learned of the ability lurking inside of her. June’s stomach growled and she shook away the memory. She pulled out a cucumber sandwich, some pickles, and an apple and placed the lunch next to her onto a calico cloth she’d cut from one of her old dresses.