Page 23 of Roma Queen
“I see they're starting early,” he observes. “They're all going to be bitching and disagreeing with one another today. If there's one thing the Rivin clan’s known for, it's the fact that its members rarely see eye-to-eye.”
I sigh, turning around inside the circle of his arms until I'm facing him, head angled back so I can look him in the eye. His dark hair is curling in disarray, framing his face. In the stark, white, cold light of the morning, his hair color really is like that of a raven's feather. Tinged with blue. Such an unusual, unique hue. One I've never seen before. His eyes are the color of mint and frost laden grass.
He mentioned he’d wanted to keep me here in nothing but his t-shirt, locking us away forever so that he could keep me to himself. If I could do the same for him I would. Lock the door on this wagon, barricading it closed. My main goal wouldn't be to keep him inside, however, it would be to keep them out. He’s never wanted the responsibility his family have tried to lay on his shoulders. He’s always tried to escape it. Always run from it. Always denied his claim over the Roma throne.
A wave of guilt threatens to drown me as I look up at him. This entire situation feels like it's very much my fault. If I hadn't found him, if I hadn't gone on that crazy crusade to try and find Corey Petrov, if I hadn't shown up at the Midnight Fair (and then subsequently forgotten my phone there), then he and I would never have met. Never have gotten so tangled up in one another. Our paths would never have converged and maybe Pasha's life would have continued on as it was. Simple, uncomplicated, free of his witch of a mother and the politics of his people.
Maybe that was never a possibility though. The dreams we both had for years, such explicit, seductive dreams, feel like they were a beacon, guiding us toward each another. Perhaps playing the ‘what-if’game is futile. Perhaps we were always going to end up here. Our paths always crossing, no matter what. Sarah would always have ended up kidnapped. Little Corey Petrov would always have ended up dead. And Pasha Rivin would always have ended up a king.
I'm getting ahead of myself, of course. There's every chance that Shelta has her claws dug into the clan way deeper than we've imagined. And, of course, even Patrin might have a chance of being elected King.
Pasha brushes my hair back from my face almost reverently as he looks down at me. There's a hurricane of thoughts taking place inside his head, too; I can tell by the conflicted, stormy look in his eyes. “We could always just leave you know,” he says, grinning. “I could sell the shop. Cash in all of my fighting checks. Empty out my bank account. Book us onto the first flight out of here. I've never even left the fucking country. Panama’s supposed to be nice this time of year.”
All of this is true. We could just cut and run. We could abandon our lives. Everything we both built for ourselves over the years. We could pack up our essentials, enough to fit into a backpack, and we could just fucking ghost Spokane. For one beautiful, bright second, it's nice to dream. Because that's all it is of course…a dream. Nothing more. There's absolutely no way I’ll leave Spokane without knowing Sarah’s safe. Pasha knows this. He’d never leave either, abandoning his stranger of an aunt while she might be in need of him. He just isn’t that kind of man.
A dark shadow passes over his face. “I never spent much time with Lazlo when he was still with the clan,” he tells me. “He was always too loud. Too brash. Too full of ridiculous fucking ideas. I didn't like the way he treated the women of the camp. He spoke to them like they were slaves. Worse actually.” He laughs bitterly. “He treated them like they were nothing but dogs. I should have known back then, the way he was always hanging with the kids, always joking with them, playing around, trying to make them laugh…” Shaking his head, he releases me and moves away from the window, opening his backpack with quick, sure movements and pulling out a sweater. The dark wool’s worn and looks old, pilled on the sleeves. He throws it over his head, sliding his arms into the sleeves, and I note the small hole at the collar, exposing a flash of his collarbone.
“Wait here. Don't get dressed,” he tells me. “I'll go and find us some coffee and some food. No need for you to go out into the cold just yet.” I'm about to argue with him. The words on the tip of my tongue. But then I catch sight of the view outside of the window again and my skin breaks out in goosebumps. This isn’t just winter in Spokane. This is a bad winter in Spokane. And, cowardly though it may be, I plan on spending as little time as possible outside today.
Pasha grabs a pair of jeans and puts them on, followed by socks and his boots. He doesn't bother to fasten the laces. He kisses me rough, hard and deep, and then cups my face in his hands. “If anyone comes to that door, do not open it. And for the love of God, do not go wandering off. It's a wilderness. There are bears and plenty of mountain lions, not to mention the fucking wolves. With the snow, there are no landmarks. You'll walk into the forest and never find your way out again. Promise me you're going to stay put.”
God, he’s insane if he really believes I'd go out there and wander off on my own. There’s a worried light in his eyes, though. Concern, pulling his mouth tight around the corners. There's a part of him, a small part perhaps, but there all the same, that's beginning to worry. Beginning to think that it might have been a bad idea to bring me here. In the back of his mind, he's probably beginning to wonder when I'm going to freak out and bail.
And yeah, maybe thatiswhat a sane person would do. I've always prided myself on being a logical, reasonable person, but so much has changed since the Midnight Fair arrived in Spokane. Sanity doesn't even come into it anymore. Neither reason nor logic apply to our situation. At the end of the day, no matter how crazy things are, how dangerous, how bleak they might look, Pasha’s here in the camp with his family, and for better or worse, he isn't going anywhere until he's accomplished what he set out to do. He was right last night when he made the announcement in front of Cleo and the others, even if a little frightening in his honesty: wehaveclaimed one another. And if this is where Pasha needs to be in order to help save Sarah, then I will be here too, right by his side.
I need to stand on my tiptoes to kiss him. He smiles against my mouth as our lips meet. “Don't worry,” I tell him pulling away. “I not going anywhere. But if you don't hurry back with that coffee soon, I might be tempted to burn thisvardoto the ground.”
Eleven
PASHA
The air'sfucking freezing as I jog down toward the river and then along its banks toward the gathering hall. My lungs burn like crazy as I hitch a left, veering along the perimeter of the encampment, heading toward Patrin's wagon. The Roma have always loved their little luxuries, and my family is no different, but Patrin's even more precious than most. He’s another level when it comes to displays of wealth and luxury. Unlike the othervardosand wagons that comprise the camp, the home Patrin’s made here for his family is fucking huge. Somehow, he managed to haul a thirty-foot Winnebago into the clearing and sank cement pillars to form a foundation for it, bolting the thing to the fucking ground. Out here in the wilds, there's no such thing as mains services. No electricity. No running water. No gas or internet. Patrin’s taken care of all that, though.
Behind the Winnebago, buried six feet down, the bastard’s dumped a huge gas tank and filled it to the brim with fuel so he can power the industrial-strength monster generator that ensures he has light and heat, twenty-four hours a day. A couple of years ago, he even signed up for satellite internet, but it being Spokane, and the weather in Spokane being what it is, he never really gets a clear signal. Ask him and he’ll tell you that he went to all that trouble to make life more comfortable for Shireen and the kids. He’ll be lying through his fucking teeth, though.
I've known Shireen my entire life, and she’s always been a tomboy. Always been willing to get dirty, never caring about breaking a nail, prepped and ready to get muddy and go on an adventure at a moment’s notice. She couldn’t give a shit about having running hot water; that’s all on her husband. Even Shelta’s living quarters aren't as obnoxious and over the top as Patrin’s. On the other side of the camp, my mother’s fifteen-foot Airstream looks like a shitty lean-to shack compared to her second-in-command’s palatial rig.
Most of the Rivin Clan make do with books and storytelling while they’re camped out in the National Forest, but I can hear the television on the other side of the door as I lay my knuckles against the glass. Inside, Patrin hollers something, and a series of loud clattering, banging sounds reaches my ears.
The door opens a moment later and Shireen stands there in her black polka dot flannel pajamas. Her hair’s an unruly mess of curly, bright white waves. She beams when she sets eyes on me.
“Thank fuck it's you,” she says, grabbing hold of me by the collar. A second later and I've been pulled inside the Winnebago, and there are two small children scrambling all over my body, hanging off my limbs as they proceed to use me like a jungle gym.
From memory, Patrin and Shireen’s son, Albert, must be six by now. Their daughter, Evelyn, can only be three. When I was banished from the clan for murdering Lazlo, Shireen hadn't even given birth to Evelyn yet, so the little girl can have no memory of me. If Albert has any recollection of me, then it can only be snatched moments from his infancy. That doesn't seem to bother either of them as they dig little hands and feet into my clothing, squealing with delight as they try to catch and kill one another.
“Jesus wept. I'm sorry, Pasha. They're little heathens,” Shireen says, grabbing hold of Albert's arm. A moment later, she has Evie by the scruff of her neck and she’s carting the two kids off down the narrow walkway between the rooms. “Kettle's on,” she calls over her shoulder. “There are mugs with lids in the cabinet over the sink.”
“How did you know?” I yell after her. Seconds later, Patrin emerges from the bathroom, toweling his closely shorn hair dry. He doesn't seem surprised to see me. In fact, he barely even seems to register my presence as he makes his way into the kitchen area and slides two pieces of bread into the toaster.
“You realize I can't even walk around my own home with my shirt off anymore, right?” he says.
I scratch the back of my neck, feigning ignorance. “And why on earth would that be?”
He sends me a murderous sideways glance, baring his teeth as he pours himself a glass of water. “That ink will take eight fucking sessions to lift. I went to some guy on Broad Street. Says it's going to cost a grand to get rid of that fucking tattoo. Have you ever had a tattoo removed, Pasha? The ink stings a little going in, but it hurts ten times more coming out, you bastard.”
“Nope. Never had a tattoo removed. I'm not stupid enough to get something done that I might regret later. I sure as fuck wouldn't let a guy tattoo me without signing off on the artwork first. What kind of moron would do something likethat?”
Patrin spins around and leans against the kitchen counter. He's holding his glass like he might dump the water out onto the floor, smash the receptacle, and then grind the shards of glass into my face. “This is your problem, Pash,” he says. His voice is weary, tired, like he's sick of saying the same thing over and over again. “You just do whatever the hell suits you at the time. You never think of how your actions might affect others.”
