Page 50 of Roma King
I could screw this woman if I wanted to, and no one within my family would really care. They’d never find out. Thing is…she isn’t just some woman. She’s far, far more than that. I know it already, and so does my mother. Shelta’s known all about my dreams since they started coming to me, back in my early twenties, and she’s always told me to avoid the woman like the plague. I know it beyond all logic and reason: if I even so much as touch Zara, there will be no walking away from her.
I’ve let the cigarette burn down to the filter without smoking most of it. I toss it into the gutter, and a river of water sweeps it away, the stub disappearing down a storm drain. Time to get this over with. Time to get in, figure out what’s wrong, and then get the hell out.
* * *
ZARA
The knock at the door is louder than the thunder crashing overhead. I run to the kitchen door and hit the lights, turning them off, my pulse racing. What the fuck was I thinking?
Garrett’s apartment is on the next floor up, but I’m pretty sure he’s at work, driving on the other side of town. Waylon’s apartment is on the ground floor. He’ll be home, but if I run down there, screaming about a guy hassling me on my front door step, he’s going to come up here armed, fully prepared to kill whoever he finds waiting for him. And when he sees Pasha, there’ll be no holding him back. He made it more than clear he didn’t like him at the bar.
The hallway light is on; I can see the shadow of someone standing there underneath the door, and a bolt of panic spears me in the gut. This was stupid. Very, very stupid. It’s too late now, though. It’ll be fine. Everything will be okay.I tell myself this as I turn the kitchen lights back on, chiding myself for reacting so ridiculously, for thinking that I could hide from him, even though I’ve been sitting here, waiting for him to show up. I slowly walk to the door.
I steel myself. Take a deep breath. My fingers won’t work properly as I unfasten the chain and turn the handle, pulling the door open.
Lord almighty…
I’m not prepared for what I find on the other side. The form of Pasha Rivin is a sight to behold under normal circumstances, but soaking wet? Drenched from head to toe? His jet-black hair is spiked and dripping, swept back out of his face, as if he’s just run his hands back through it. There’s water beaded on his skin, running in rivulets down his cheeks and the column of his neck, and beneath his leather jacket, his black t-shirt is plastered to his chest. This close, I can see the amber flecks in his eyes, contrasting with all that green—delicate filaments of gold floating on a wash of seafoam.
Why does it feel like I just called to make a deal with the devil? And why does it feel like the devil himself just showed up in person to seal that deal? A violent shiver runs through me as I stare at him from across the threshold of the apartment.
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just returns my stare with one of his own, potent and penetrating. I try not to cringe under the intensity of it. I’ve put him out of my mind at every available opportunity. I’ve done everything in my power to banish him from my thoughts, but there’s something about the man standing before me that won’t be quelled. He’s burned through my mind like an unstoppable forest fire, starving the rest of my thoughts, my worries, and my concerns, until they’ve dwindled and flickered out.
It takes an immense force of will to remind myself why I reached out to him tonight. The moment I recall that Sarah’s missing and I might have just lost my job, the job that I adore and live for, I manage to grapple back some self-control. “I suppose you’d better come in,” I murmur under my breath. Stepping back, I make room for him to pass me; he hovers a second, still unmoving, eyes burning into me, but then his chest rises, and he slides past me. He’s massive, tall and broad, but the very presence of the man seems to make him larger than life. He moves through to the kitchen, gaze roving over everything he sees—the table; the copper kettle on the cooktop; the calendar pinned to the front of the refrigerator; the myriad utensils, pots and pans stacked neatly behind transparent glass cupboard doors—and I wait, feeling incredibly small and vulnerable, for him to turn his scrutiny on me.
“It’s not much, I know,” I find myself saying. Why the fuck am I defending my apartment? Feeling ashamed of its lack of size and luxury? The place might be small, and the furniture might not be expensive, but it’s comfortable, cozy and it’smine. What he thinks of the place shouldn’t matter to me at all. But…
Pasha turns around, his body stiff, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, and faces me at last. “You do know what I am, right?”
Flames lick at my insides. I don’t know where to look. “What—what do you mean?”
“I’m Roma. A gypsy…if you’re more familiar with that term.”
I hug my arms around myself, forcing myself not to look away. “Yes. I know.”
“Roma people don’t typically live in apartments. We’re wanderers. We don’t collect a whole lot of stuff. At least my family doesn’t. So this?” He gestures to the kitchen. “Isa lot.”
His voice carries no inflection, so I can’t tell if my well-stocked kitchen is a good or a bad thing. I don’t ask. Pasha rubs at the stubble marking his jaw, then points his chin toward the table. “You want to sit?”
“Sure.” I take a seat in the chair closest to the exit; a wry smirk pulls at Pasha’s mouth as he selects the chair on the other side of the table, closest to the wall. He knows why I sat where I did. That I’ll feel a little safer if I can get to the front door quickly. The reasoning behind his choice of seating is clear to me, too. He’s trying to make me feel more secure by putting himself as far away from me as possible. I give him a tight smile which I hope conveys my begrudging thanks.
Leaning forward, Pasha rests his elbows on the table and his dark expression turns frighteningly blank. A small bead of water collects in the hollow of his top lip, and I realize that I’m staring at his mouth again.
“Speak, Firefly.” His voice is deadly and quiet. “Tell me what happened.”
With trembling hands, I reach into the pocket of my cardigan, and I take out the tarot card, laying it face up on the table between us. The moment Pasha sees it, his entire body goes rigid. “Where did you get that?” he asks sharply.
“I drew it. From your mother’s deck, in her tent, after you left the other night…”
“Fuck.” He whispers the curse word, but it’s filled with tension. And…god, what is that?Fear? The muscles in his jaw jump and pulse as he spins the card around, so that The Empress III is facing him. “You’re sure? This is definitely the card you drew?”
My teeth grind against one another as I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m not a moron. I am capable of remembering simple events. Yes, I’m sure. And I left the card with your mother, in that wretched tent of hers, and then the next thing I know, I’m being fired from my job, and this card,” I say, stabbing it with the tip of my index finger, “was in amongst the stuff from my desk that was returned to me. Shelta was rude as fuck to me after I drew this card. I want to know why. And I want to know why she would try and get me fired because of it.”
Pasha’s jaw clenches again. His eyes pulse with anger, but there’s a stillness to him. He’s going to tell me how crazy I am. He’s likely going to demand an apology from me for suggesting his mother would even think of doing something so vicious and unkind. I’m readying myself for an argument, knowing how unbelievable my side of that argument will sound, when he says, “Because she’s afraid.”
I sit back in my chair. “So…you don’t deny it, then? You’re saying she did have something to do with my suspension?”
“If she saw the card…”
