It’s a strange feeling because I’ve never owned one, but I can’t stand not having a way for her to reach me.
God punishes me for not sticking to my convictions because Katya and I have our first real fight.
She called at the exact minute I had a barrel against someone’s lobe on the tarmac, but didn’t want to hear it when I said it’s not a good time. So there I was, standing in the middle of nine guyspointing guns at each other, and she’s yelling about something in the walls. Misha didn’t have enough time to clear everything out, but I didn’t know what it was—drugs or weapons or worse. Sergei has Misha move things around sometimes that he doesn’t tell me about because they’re not things I’m willing to deal with.
I had to get her off the phone because I was receiving confused looks, and the other guys didn’t let their personal life spill onto the tarmac. Setting a poor example. And the guy I had on his knees began getting this hopeful look in his eyes.
I snapped at Kotik, and felt bad about it, but it just went to show that I needed to keep my family separate from work.
I took care of it, but she wouldn’t pick up my calls, and when she did, she hung up. I’d get mad, but her little claws turn me on.
We still haven’t fucked, and it’s hard to think about anything else. Every time I see her bend over, I imagine my hands on her hips and thrusting. All the way in—fill her up until I’m all she feels deep inside, just like she’s deep inside me. But I’m not delusional, I’m not ready for that.
It’s much harder now, and I’m growing frustrated with every detail because I’m not in control of the remote anymore. She’s getting the authentic thing from me, and that’s not good because I can scare her at any moment if I stop paying attention. Even with where we’re at, I think, because I can’t figure out where that is.
I’ve done all the right things. Followed the formula and adjusted where something went wrong. I’m good at that, I’ve always been good at that. But now she’s hard to read, and everything I know about her doesn’t help me. I’m getting stressed. I want more.
So I show her the apartment.
And that’s when she tells me she can’t take it—and she knows there’s something wrong with me. Maybe she’d known all along, and I’ve never been able to hide it as well as I thought.
Static, but not the usual kind. I’m losing signal. The picture is shaking and she’s standing in the middle of it with her arms crossed. I knew someone told her everything, doesn’t even matter who. They all talk about it; it’s their favorite subject when I’m not in the room. But she’s still here, and she’s asking me to tell her my side. Why? If she already knows…
But maybe this is the thing I was missing. I didn’t want to burden her withme. Her life is beautiful, and every part of me is ugly. Everything behind me is wrong and twisted into me with metal hooks. Most of the time, I’m just hanging suspended by the tension of my flesh not ripping. And I have to let her see that, or she might try to go.
So I tell her. I tell her about Maria and my parents. About Dasha. I tell her… about the consequences of New Zealand. She cries, and I think those tears might be a gift for me, because she doesn’t leave. Instead, I’ve never felt the barrier be thinner. I don’t want her to cry, I never want her to cry, and at that moment, she has a different hold on me.
That’s the element you can’t learn. You cannot read about it or follow a formula. But that is what allowed me to access that secret part, because she told me she loves me.
Other things happened that night, but her words were the most significant aspect. I’ve never been on the receiving end of them, and even fucking her mouth (something I’ve dreamed about for years now) or the look on her face with bits of saliva and my cum dripping down her chin, didn’t compare to hearing that‘I love you.’
Everything changed, then.
Because for years, I suspected I might be crazy.
And then Yekaterina Petrovna came into my life.
My Katya.
My Kotik.
And I wasn’t ‘crazy’anymore, I was just incomplete.
32
Show Me
Ididn’t slam the door, and I didn’t take off my heels, just walked straight through the apartment to the bedroom, and sat down on the edge of the bed. My purse toppled over and fell, its contents clattering and spilling on the floor.
“Something wrong?” Vitali asked from the doorway, and I almost burst out laughing.Hisshoes were off.
“I saw a man die,” I said, voice shaking—but I couldn’t tell if it was nerves or cackles.
His hand brushed my neck, then he sat beside me, cupping my chin to face him. “He touched you. There are consequences.”
My numbness ruptured, and the anger came up like bile. I shoved him, palm flat against his chest. My hand stung with the impact. I was on my feet and across the room in moments as if he would chase me, but he only rested his arms on his knees, face effortlessly calm.
“You done?” he asked.
