Fearless: a Sports Romance Page 2

  “Oh, I see it now. You have a beast of a boyfriend who likes to hit you. No matter how fat that ass is, I don’t think running after The Incredible Hulk is a good idea.”

  “Ha! Not my man. I'd never let a man touch me.” She smirks.

  I can pretty much read through the lines. She'd never let me touch her. Super expensive digs, rich girl accent when not shouting. This black girl lives on the respectable side of Los Angeles. I consider the confusion with the name Sergy and Sergio. “He Italian?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You're at the wrong gym then.” But you ain't leaving until I figure out more about you. “We’re getting somewhere, sweetheart. He got tats?”

  “Uh-uhn, I’m not your sweetheart. Yes, he does have tats, but not nearly as many as you do.” Her gaze scans up and down my muscular arms and upper body. There’s not a single vacant spot left. “Ironically, that asshole only has a pair of hands, held together in a symbolic prayer sign, on his bicep.” Her mouth tenses in disgust, and then she licks those lips in consideration. “Um, what's the name of the gym you think Sergio might be a member of?”

  I grunt. “Why should I tell you? You step into the gym he's at, the men aren't so kind, you know? You threaten them with what's in your purse. They're too stupid to call your bluff. They…” I form my hand in the shape of a gun and point it at her. “Bang, beautiful. That's the end of your mouth. You’re in safe hands with me, okay?”

  “I'm not afraid of that piece of crap. He would already be dead had he touched one hair on my head.”

  I sink back in my chair. “Sergio didn't beat you, but who did that mudak beat?”

  “My friend, Ronisha.”

  “Your friend? You came into my people’s gym for a friend.” I rub my chin. “Not blood?”

  She shakes her head. “No.”

  Who places their life in danger over someone who isn’t family? There’s no such thing as the black mafia. Trust me. I know. So no blood family and not part of the family. “You swing both ways?”

  “Listen, asshole, my friend is at the community hospital right now. Hit so hard she went into a seizure.” A dam of tears floods down high cheekbones.

  Though she’s beautiful when she cries, I have no sympathy. For all I know, she made up Ronisha and Sergio. Is this a setup? She’s too young to be a federal agent. Maybe she’s with the DEA or ICE. I assess the girl’s digs. She’s wearing too much name brand for her friend to be at the community hospital. People have died there with only a cough while waiting in the lobby. One measly exit wound and a motherfucker wouldn’t make it. This chick is much too rich for Community or any association with a person who has to receive treatment at that hospital. I steeple my fingers and wait for the crying fest to end. More than tears are needed to persuade me of her story.

  Between sniffles, she opens her purse and pulls out a cell phone. “Here's Ronisha. Th-this… this how b-bad…badly Sergio hurt her,” she stutters in disgust.

  Her hand shakes violently as she gives the iPhone to me. My jaw clenches. The black girl on the photo is unrecognizable. One eye is swollen shut. The other is red from broken vessels. And that's as much as I can make out from her black and blue face. It’s enough to curdle the abdomen of even the evilest motherfucker, granted he still has a bit of soul left. By now, if there’s a damn Sergio, my mind is calculating the hours upon hours of torture he will endure.

  “I'm gonna kill him,” the girl murmurs. Her tone was so low that I have to look up. Damn, I never operate on emotion. Never place myself in the position to give a damn about another human besides my cousins and those close to me.

  That drive, which caused her to step inside of Vadim’s talking shit, is back. Her gorgeous face is clouded in anger, fed by the love she has for her friend. Her anger parallels the rage that storms through me when in the cage. It’s the only place where I’m moved by emotion.

  She needs an Academy Award or this isn’t a game. I’m sold.

  Rivers of tears stream down her flawless mahogany skin. Damn, I thought she blew me away on sight. Frowning at the cell phone screen, I hand it back over. “Let me.”

  “L-let…let you what? Why?” she stammers, rubbing the back of her hand below her eye duct.

  Because I need a reason to see you again. Though my fists are balled, the sole thought on my mind is crossing paths with her. I’ve seen her cry. Only I am capable of taking her tears away—yeah, that sounds cocky, but I will kill for her so, hopefully, Sergio’s death will cease her crying.

  “Why, Mr. Resnov?”

  And I have to see her smile, if it’s the last thing I do. I sit back in the chair with my usual nonchalant façade. “Three reasons, doll. For one, you're all talk. Two, emotion is a sign of not having your head in the game. Don't open that pretty-ass mouth to deny it either. And third, if he kills you instead—which I have no doubt of—he and his entire family are dead. You understand the Resnov way, eh?”

  “Yup, I’m highly aware of it. ‘Touch what's mine and the funeral home becomes rich’,” she recites the motto. It was a joke, but not really because my grandfather had said it after blowing away an entire lineage. He was drunk off vodka and hadn’t thought the saying would stick. Not sure why, but our family never just murders the motherfucker that crossed us. We wipe out a person’s entire lineage. Someone’s great grandson can become a loose end as a wee baby. Then the next family had to go, one of my uncles, drenched in blood said the same and there you have it. The Resnov way.

  “I’ll take care of everything.” There’s no mistake in my voice that she would never have to worry about Sergio.

  “Excuse me, Vassili, but no thank you. I'm not afraid of Sergio. Any man who can hit a woman isn't a man at all. But the Resnov name, I'm smart enough to apologize for stepping into your gym. Nevertheless, let's not mistake wisdom for fear. I am not afraid of you either.”

  I lean back in the chair, rubbing the scar along my jaw. “Ain't my gym, but you'd like to apologize for cussing out everyone? That was a statement of intent. Not an actual apology.”

  “I apologize. Like I said, I have more brains than placing myself at the mercy of a Resnov. I'll do the job myself anyway. Me explaining the situation a minute ago was just a form of apology, so you’d understand why I arrived very distraught and angry. Just to be clear, you can't touch me either. It would be the smartest thing you ever did; allowing me to walk out of here,” she concludes on a hesitant note. Yet the fire in her eyes tells me she believes the crap she just dished about me needing to be “smart” enough not to place one hand on her head. When all I really desire is to place my hands all over her body.

  I can see my cock grazing against those dark pink lips. “I accept the apology. But we are far from done here. And what's this aura of invincibility you have?” This fake-ass fearlessness?

  She smiles for the first time, digging back into her purse. This time pulling out a business card. My fingers brush against hers purposefully, then I clasp her hand in mine.

  Our eyes connect. “I can make you fear me in all those delicious ways that you’ve only ever dreamed. Would you like me to do that for you?” I ask, clutching her hand, the card is crumpled between us. “The only pain I’d offer would come from you begging me for more, okay, beautiful?”

  “Please stop,” her mouth murmurs.

  I let her hand go and cock a grin, reading the card. “Maxwell Washington. Chief of Police.”

  “My father,” she adds smugly.

  I nod slowly. This has to be her logic for how invincible she is. Even in the cage I’m not that fucking cocky. My time will come. Washington’s will too in the streets.

  “I'm not stupid enough to traipse into any gym threatening a life without an insurance policy.”

  I flick the card back over, the mannerism lets it be known that her metaphoric Teflon vest is weak shit. “Why not have your pop handle it?”

  Ms. Washington grumbles, “My father isn't the biggest fan of my best friend. Besides, I don't want Sergio out a
nd ready to use another woman or God forbid, Ronisha allows him to use her as a punching bag again. She’s let him back enough times before.”

  “So you'd risk your life, your freedom if you’re caught?”

  “She is my best friend,” she belts out through gritted teeth. “Ronisha’s had a hard life. When we were kids, her father was on the force. He was my father’s partner back on the beat in South L.A. So that meant she and I were close. Ronisha’s father died when she was seven. By that time, she and I were thick as thieves. Anyway, she and her mom had to move to The JD projects, but that doesn’t mean I throw away my friend. She had an aneurism when she was nine and I was eight. That stuck with me. I’ve always felt so bad. She would have been a ballerina, while I only argued with my father to pay for ballet class for the both of us, because her mom didn’t have the funds. Besides, in my father’s eye, he justified the expense because it looks good to his friends that I was a ballerina. Sheesh, Ronisha lived to dance. Now, she has no balance.” Ms. Washington stops to breathe deeply, speaking to me as if we’re old friends. I’m stuck on her every word.

  “Ronisha is beautiful. May not look it from the picture, though, but she’s also still nine. Still the nine-year-old girl who had an aneurism. Sergio and other boys like sweet, naïve girls like her if you know what I mean.”

  My body stiffens. I blink away images of another young girl who didn’t even make it as a teenager. I should have saved her.

  Unaware of the sudden discomfort I’m feeling, Ms. Washington wipes the tears from her eyes. “Look, I came to the wrong place. Disrespected the wrong gym. You say it ain't yours. I say anytime a Resnov likes a business, you respect that place. I only came back to this room because you or your goons are more than capable of force. Also, telling you the truth might cushion how crazy I just was. Now, I’ve told you too much.” She arises. “But I don’t believe you’ll snitch on me.”

  “No snitch here.” I stand before her. The sweet floral scent of her infusing my nostrils. There's no way in hell I'll let any of those Italians hurt her. “Give me ‘til evening and Sergio will be dealt with.”

  “Why are you insisting on helping me? I just showed you my father’s card and I know for a fact, my dad isn’t dirty. So, it was pretty much to get outta here alive. That is all.”

  I laugh. “Nobody will touch a hair on your head.”

  “Don't play me.” Ms. Washington raises her index finger.

  “Let's sit,” I take the chair next to her. She doesn't sit. My glare is hard enough for her to plop down beside me. I rub my jaw. “Sergio doesn’t have much longer to breathe. You have my word. Now, let’s talk about my compensation.” All I want to do is see you again. By force or not, I will see Ms. Washington again. Whatever happens after that is all up to her.

  Zariah Washington

  Damn, I was handling myself well when I arrived. The Russians in Vadim's Gym had gladly offered Sergy on a silver platter. But he wasn't the guy who needed his neck wrung.

  It’s like I loaded a .9 millimeter and pressed it to my own dome or rather my chest. In another world, I could be super easy. For a Russian mobster, Vassili is super hot. I always mocked the Russians’ accent, but his sinks into my bones, turning them to putty. His voice was slow, deliberate, dripping in sex and heavy with strength, or maybe I'm crazy? Can a voice sound like power?

  Even with his body drenched in tattoos, I can tell that each muscle is precisely defined. Vassili’s shorts rode low against an impeccable V shape and those never-ending abs.

  His jaw line is likened to one of those doodles that an artist spends a lifetime sketching, and not an amateur, but one who’s meticulous; gifted. It’s perfectly squared and bristled. I lost my mind during those first few seconds, such as I imagined running my finger along the jagged scar that’s given the beast somewhat of a distinguished character.

  After he introduced himself, my legs were jelly as we spoke downstairs.

  Now, he’s sitting across from me. He’s offered me a deal of a lifetime. Ronisha is my heart, and all the hurt she’s endured over a man is enough to be committed. Yet, I’m not ready to shake hands with the devil.

  “Vassili, I will not spend the night with you.” My tone is soothing yet certain. If he weren’t a Resnov and I were easy, yes of course. I would jump on it! But he’s part of the Russian syndicate, and my parents have invested much into me: education and virtue.

  “Ms. Washington, all I can offer you is one night,” he says, turning ever so slowly, left to right in the swivel leather chair.

  Stacks and stacks of abdominals continue to beckon my eyes for a look. And I’m so damn tired. Today should’ve consisted of copious amounts of six-inch stiletto shoe purchases on Rodeo Drive, as well as purses and a few more power suits before I head off to college. But Ronisha’s mom called me at 4 o’clock this morning, stating she was hopping onto an ambulance.

  I can't stop myself from staring at the bold tattoo across his chest. KILLER KARO. Nothing short of selling my soul will allow me to leave this office.

  “All right, Mr. Resnov.” I look just to the left of his eyes. Damn his eyes! The sides of his hair is cut low, and the rest of his chocolate waves seem to fall near those eyes. Eyes so dark it is sin just looking at him.

  “Vassili,” he says, that accent reminds me of satin; rough yet with an underlying soothing ring to it. “Call me, Vassili,”

  “Well, Vassili, I’ll do whatever I have to in order to leave this gym.” I smile. As a future lawyer, lying is in my genes. I have no intention of seeing you again.

  His wide mouth spreads in a killer straight white-tooth smile. So far, the wolf only flashed a grin when coaxing me to follow him. Obviously, I survived. This smile is different. It’s expectant and it makes him all the more beautiful. Almost as if 24K gold wrapping paper is tantalizing me, shielding me from something dark and sinister. My grip is firm against the rough padding of his murderous hands. He adds just enough strength to send a tremor shooting through my body. Dread and lust clash, causing the lips of my pussy to swell and my instincts to kick in at the same time.

  ###

  It’s almost six in the evening, rush hour. My eyes are swollen with tears as I walk toward the exit of Los Angeles Community Hospital. I rub the complementary antibacterial gel over my manicured fingers and hands. Ronisha has yet to awaken, and I have spent all afternoon seated by her side. Alternating from an uplifting Tamela Mann to Beyoncé and even a few of our old favorite Mary, Mary tracks on my iPhone since the nurse said that Ronisha should be able to hear it. I’d asked the doctor so many questions until he reminded me that we’ve been here before. Sergio beating Ronisha’s ass is déjà vu.

  Swoosh. The sliding glass doors part. The warm sun hits my skin and the helplessness fades away or rather, caves for an even greater feeling of anxiousness.

  Vassili Resnov. His name roams through my mind as I pull the keys from my purse.

  Why did I show him my father’s business card? In the moment, it seemed like my “get out of jail free” card. More like not getting capped in the ass and tossed in the LA River. But damn, I almost got myself murdered.

  My legs are so shaky when I get into my Mercedes AMG that I have to hold the door handle while sliding onto the leather seat.

  I crossed paths with a Russian mobster and I'm alive. Apparently, I've agreed to give myself to him for one night, yet he never asked for my name. I'm sure he can look up my dad's information and find me.

  Maybe he was bluffing. He had that shit talk down to a T. Perhaps, I slithered through his defenses and my mind is delirious as I imagine him before me, hard body slick with sweat. When he wasn't bossing me around, I could tell he wanted me.

  “Zariah, he's just full of testosterone,” I tell myself while heading onto the freeway overpass.

  I've never had a bad boy. I've never had any man really. I do have an idiot ex-boyfriend who still thinks there’s a spark, but that's neither here nor there.

  Though Vassili’s arms were
covered in tattoos, not a single bit of skin left untouched, I could see just how defined his muscles are. Hell, he probably spends his days boxing and beating down pussy.

  I almost jump out of my skin when the automated voice on the radio tells me a call is coming in from my mom.

  “Hey, Mom,” I answer.

  “Zariah, what's going on? I've called you repeatedly. Are you okay?”

  Shoving Vassili and those deliciously dark thoughts from my mind, I reply, “It's Ronisha again. Sorry, I had my phone on do not disturb. I didn’t want any calls or texts to interfere with all of those machines in her hospital room. Her stupid boyfriend…” My voice breaks again.

  “Oh God, that poor baby is at the hospital again? I wish someone had some balls. Instead of ramming his pecker into easy—”

  “Yeah, well, I’m with you on that,” I cut in. “However, Mom, please be so kind as to refrain from referencing my father and pecker in the same sentence.” And that damn word easy. Her sentence always defaults to easy bimbos, easy blondes, and easy blue-eyed sluts although there's only one chick my father is currently with: the secretary he left my mother for. I don’t know what’s harder for a black woman. Being cheated on in general or losing your man to a white woman?

  I’ve never been in love, and cannot imagine either situation. But I try to sympathize with my mom.

  “Zariah, I should come out there. I am coming out there. I’ll cash in on those frequent flier miles I haven’t used since…in two years. Tell that man to cancel your plane ticket. I'll come get you and see about Ronisha. We can drive back to ATL in your car. It will be a nice road trip prior to you beginning college. I'll show you the new items I have for your dorm unless you'd like to move in with me. How does that sound?”

  Hmmm, does she mean how does it sound for me to move in with her or the road trip? I know she’s lonely and I’m partially the reason to blame because no matter how it’s perceived, I technically chose to live with my dad two years ago instead of her during the divorce. It was my mother’s idea since she had to return to the workforce. However, I breathed freely because I was able to continue school at Pressley Preparatory Academy, a distinguished private school.