Page 40 of The Stalking King

“What about you?” I ask once I’ve calmed down. “What do you do for fun?”

“Sambo,” he says.

“Like dancing?”

“I didn’t say salsa.” He chuckles, and I laugh. It feels so natural. Effortless. For the first time in a long time, I realize I’m not thinking about my mother or the hospital. When that thought hits me, I quickly focus on him so I don’t ruin it. “Sambo,” he goes on. “It’s a Russian martial art. We were born in the States and our father, though Russian, had no interest in teaching us about our culture.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” I mutter.

He shrugs. “It is what it is. He was involved in… my life too.”

“Your father was involved in your life?”

Well, duh.

“Oh,” I say a moment later. “You mean your business? Data collection?”

That’s one hell of a euphemism for what he actually does, not that I know the totality of it. Thoughts like that hammer the strangeness of this home far too easily. I try to focus on what’s supposed to be a nice date.

“Yes,” he says.

“So, what is sambo?” I ask. “But, for the record, I’d still like to see you do some salsa.”

He chuckles. I like the sound of his laughter, deep and husky. He sounds relieved, like he never thought he’d get to laugh like this. I know the feeling.

“It’s like mixed martial arts, except you wear a kimono jacket. You can only do certain submissions. It’s great. There’s a whole world of intricacies within each position. It’s one of the only things that allows me to completely forget about…”

“About what?”

“Everything,” he says, looking at me with his penetrating, dark gray eyes, reminding me that this man truly is terrifying.

“It sounds interesting,” I reply. “Being able to lose yourself in something like that.”

He chews his lasagna, making a noise of agreement.

“What about TV?” I ask. “Or are you too busy reading your big, important non-fiction books?”

He swallows, grinning. He loves it when I lightly tease him. I love it too. It makes me feel special, as if I’m the only person in the world who gets to do this.

“Wait, let me guess,” I say quickly. “You like dry documentaries about war and the financial system and stuff like that.”

He shakes his head, still grinning. “Sitcoms. Any kind. I put them on before I fall asleep. I like the background noise. It’s like listening to regular lives. I know that’s false. I know there’s nothing regular about them. But it helps me to switch off, reminds me there are people out there watching the same shows, who don’t have to worry about the dark things I do.”

“But do you have to worry about it?” I ask. “You don’t have to do this job, do you?”

He frowns. “It’s complicated, Lia.”

“Maybe explain it to me then.”

He lowers his gaze. “That’s not what men in my position do.” A pause. “How’s your mother?”

“Talk about whiplash.”

“Oh?” He smiles, but it feels a little forced now. “I thought I was suavely changing the subject.”

As we eat, I talk to him about my mom. I end up telling him how she was obsessed with ballet when I was a teenager. “She’d never done it before in her life. And when we were little, she was too busy keeping her head above water for hobbies. But then I got a part-time job and started helping with expenses. She’d go once a week, but she’d practice at home too. It was amazing seeing her light up like that.”

I get choked up, quickly swallowing a big mouthful of food to calm myself down.