Who has Viktor killed, I wonder? I know what he does for my dad—what both he and Nikita did together—and sometimes, I wonder what that must be like for him. I can picture him with his shirt off, covered in a sheen of sweat and dirt and cuts and bruises, staring down at his prey with a glare like burning coal.
Or coming in from a job, sweaty and dirty. He sweeps me up in his arms, lifting me up off the ground like it’s nothing…
My father nods to him suddenly, then takes a drag from his cigarette and flicks it across the circle drive. As he turns and walks off, Viktor looks over his shoulder, right at my window. I have to duck behind the nearest wall.
My face flushes, and I have to put my hand over my mouth to keep from squealing like a little girl. I feel like I just walked in on him in the shower. I wait a few seconds, then peek again. He’s turned around and is walking around to the driver’s side of his car.
Tanechka. That’s the name he has for me. No one has ever called me that but him, either. When I was a kid, it used to annoy me. I used to stand up to him and spout that I wasn’t a little girl, even when I very clearly was.
Now… I don’t know. Things are different now. I’m grown and so is he… and his calling me by that nickname kind of turns me on.
I watch his car drive away. If the day ever comes when I can get him alone, I’d love to see if I can make some of my fantasies about him come true.
Wishful thinking. The chances of living out my dirty teenage fantasies are kind of slim at the moment. I lie down on the mattress and pull my knees up to my chest for warmth. Gotta get out of this room first.
And I will. My father can’t keep me cooped up here forever.
