6. MILENA / MADDY

6

MILENA / MADDY

TWO YEARS AGO / TWO DAYS BEFORE SPRING brEAK

"Ladies, you two are like an angel and a devil," the cute guy says drunkenly, and both Maddy and I burst out laughing.

"Which one do you like?" I ask sassily, leaning against him while Maddy does the same on his other side.

His eyes widen. The rich boy is quite drunk, his head bobbing to the loud electronic music as we press against him from both sides, and he's sinking lower into the couch of my VIP section.

I've never seen him in this club, and considering he ordered Cierto tequila, he's used to getting the best.

Maddy and I exchange playful glances and cheer, then down our shots. I right away grab his and down it too.

"Easy, tiger." He smiles at me and wraps his arms around both of us. "Now that you asked, I think I like both of you."

Laughing, I jump up from the couch and start dancing, letting the hem of my tiny Givenchy dress ride up, giving him a show.

Maddy leans into him and murmurs something into his ear, her fingers sneaking between the buttons of his dress shirt.

I like this guy and can tell he likes me more than Maddy, though I don't care and neither does she.

Besides the fact that my hair is dyed blonde and hers dark-chestnut, we look like sisters. Same age, height, and body type. All dolled up and with layers of makeup, the resemblance is startling. When we wore wigs last Halloween, even my bodyguard mistook her for me, which was hilarious when he took her all the way from the club to her house, and then she said, "Now go pick up Milena."

The bodyguard almost had a heart attack, realizing his mistake. My father would've killed him. Or worse. There are worse things one of the richest men in Asia and Europe with ties to the mafia can do than killing. Trust me, I know.

"What's your name again?" the pretty boy asks. I think his name is Patrick.

I swing my hips, dancing closer to him, nudging between his wide-spread legs.

Maddy leans over. "Maddy. It's Maddy, baby."

And I burst out laughing. We'll totally fuck with his head.

I'd take him home. I'd enjoy him too. He might be useless, of course. Guys watch so much porn, and many of them still don't know how to fuck. But I only hook up with guys at Maddy's or during parties and getaways. Kolya, my bodyguard, always watches me like a hawk. The new one, Armén, is even worse. It's annoying as hell that I have to sneak around to get any guy action. Boyfriend? Not if I want to take a chance of his legs being broken by my father's goons, like the last one. Not when I am supposed to marry someone my father picked for me years ago. And that is… Yeah, in three months, right after I graduate.

This mental countdown has been messing with my head for over a year. The closer I get to the deadline, the more I contemplate doing something stupid to myself.

I swing my hips harder, getting lost in the loud music, sinking in the tequila drunk, and trying to forget that I have only three months to party my brains out. After that—goodbye to my career in psychology, goodbye freedom, goodbye to the US. Hello, married life and kids to a stranger that I despise and fucking Russia that I don't want to go back to.

Patrick can't take his eyes off me, so I lower myself onto his lap.

"So, what's next, stranger?" I murmur and lean over to give him a soft kiss on the lips.

He tastes like tequila and lime and cigarette smoke and freedom and sex—something I won't have very soon.

"My place?" he asks, turning to Maddy and kissing her next.

Our game has become more intense and reckless. Maddy feels like she's going to lose me soon. It's as if my desperation rubs off on her.

"Whoa," Patrick exhales when he lets go of her and turns to me. "I have an idea. Maddy."

" I'm Maddy," Maddy says, and I laugh.

"Wait-wait-wait," he murmurs, confused.

"Two Maddys," I say and wink at him.

I don't like bringing up my name. First, it's clearly Eastern European. Second, after what happened to my ex, there are rumors to stay away from Milena Tsariuk, the Russian mob princess, and I'd rather not take a chance of any warnings clicking in this guy's head.

"So, two Maddys," he says, amused. "Wanna go somewhere fun for spring break?"

My heart sinks. It's the first spring break my dad ordered me to stay in town. "I don't need any surprises. Not now, Mila," he said.

"I can't go, but she can," I say, running my finger along the cutie's jawline.

I need to get wasted to forget that soon I'll be sold like cattle to some wealthy Kazakhstani banker. Maybe, I'll just drink my brains out. I don't even need to graduate. Who needs a degree when you'll be pregnant and popping kids like hot cakes for the foreseeable future?

Patrick gives me sad puppy eyes. "Well, you might change your mind if I tell you what's up."

"What's up?" Maddy mocks him playfully.

"Wanna get on a private jet and go to a tropical island? Zion?"

I exchange glances with Maddy.

"You have a jet?" I muse, trying to figure out who he is. Maybe if I knew his last name, I could ask around. I know most of the rich kids on the East Coast. My father does, too, so I have to be careful.

"Nah, not mine. My buddy. Archer."

"Archer—?"

"Archer Crone," he says.

Holy shit!

"Wait." Maddy straightens up. "Archer Crone from Deene? The Secretary of Defense's kid?" Her jaw falls open.

"Yep." Patrick nods indifferently, and his eyes are on me. "So, does that change your mind?"

He smiles and leans over to me, and I kiss him, practically fuck him with my tongue so I can forget that I have no chance at partying on an island. My father knows the Secretary of Defense, yeah. No wonder Zion Island sounds familiar.

My phone on the bar table lights up. Even in a club, I have to be always aware. It might be my annoying bodyguard. Worse, it could be my father, ordering me to go home if Kolya ratted me out. Bribing my guard doesn't always work.

"One second," I say and step aside to text Kolya, telling him I'm spending the night at Maddy's. Sucks for him, because he'll have to stake out the house, and so will the second-shift, Armén, in the morning. Not that I give a shit. Maddy's house is pretty much the only one I'm allowed to stay at, and her parents are used to a black SUV parked outside their door.

When I return to the table, Maddy is already up, and Patrick is wobbling to his feet. "Sorry, gotta bounce. But, hey…"

His eyes lock with mine. "Friday at noon. Staton Airfield. Text me. You have my phone number. You are both invited." He winks at me, then Maddy, and in a minute, he's gone.

"Party's over," I say disheartened. "Can we just go to your place and get drunk on good tequila?"

She wraps her arms around my neck and drunkenly tilts her head onto my shoulder. "Babe, you don't have to ask."

This is my life: asking permission, reporting where I've been, being followed by my bodyguard, who sits outside Maddy's house all night and checks rooms at parties to make sure I behave.

He takes us to Maddy's, and I don't bother saying goodbye when we stalk on high heels to her house.

I like these nights. Drunk, happy, her house smelling of life, family, and the future. We sit on her balcony on the second floor and chat and share a joint before we go to bed.

When I get up in the morning, I brush my teeth and stare at the smudged makeup and my blonde bed hair when Maddy walks into the bathroom.

"Shiiiit, the hangover," she rasps as we stare at each other in the mirror. She sets her chin on my shoulder and plays with my hair. "You know, if you had dark hair, we could pass as twins."

"That wouldn't change much for me in the next three months."

"You might have a hell of a time messing with your bodyguards and your dad."

"Tsk, Mads, like you want any shit from my dad."

That traitorous lump in my throat comes back, a frequent visitor. I've been crying a lot lately, usually when I'm drunk and feeling sorry for myself. Diamond tears, Maddy calls them, because you can have all the money in the world, but a cage is still a cage.

"Fuck it," I say, determined, staring at my dyed blonde hair in the mirror.

Maddy lifts her pretty eyes in confusion.

I love her. I wish I were her. I've spent the last several years of my life wishing to be someone else.

"What is it, babes?" she asks dreamily.

"Where's that chestnut hair dye you use?"

Her eyes widen in shock. "Oh. My. Gawd. Yes! Let's shock Papa Tsariuk!"

It's amazing how one hour can change who you are, at least on the surface. Because when Maddy washes my hair, then blow dries and straightens it, all the while not allowing me to look in the mirror, I feel the familiar bitterness tingling in my veins—anything to aggravate my father. He likes me blonde, with tons of makeup, dressed in the best designer clothes. He likes me perfect, so he can boast about me.

Take that, papúlia , I say to myself bitterly when Maddy finally nudges me to look in the mirror.

My jaw drops.

"Mils," she whispers. "It's…"

It's incredible. Despite my straight bangs, Maddy and I look like sisters.

She runs out into the bedroom and comes back to snap a selfie of us in the mirror.

"Fuck, Mads," I whisper, still mesmerized by the sight in the mirror as she starts laughing hysterically. She stumbles out to the bedroom, and I hear her gasping, but I don't pay attention, staring at myself in the mirror instead.

Another loud gasp comes.

Oh, shit.

She's having one of those asthma attacks again.

Then her gasps turn into wheezing.

Shit-shit-shit.

"Mads?"

I run out to see her clutching at her throat with one hand as the other frantically rummages through the contents of her purse, which starts falling onto the floor by the bed.

"Mads! Mads!" I drop to my knees to help look for her inhaler. "There, there, calm down," I say as I make her take a deep breath.

But she's not doing well. "Mils, call Mom," she wheezes out. "This is… 'S one of those."

This has happened before, numerous times. So, I know exactly what to do.

I dart downstairs and find Mrs. Wise.

Twenty minutes later, an ambulance pulls up to the house and the paramedics crowd Maddy's room, checking her vitals.

"Sweetie," Mrs. Wise asks me, "Can you stay here until Charlie gets home? I'll keep you posted."

"Sure," I say, watching her grab her purse and hurry after the paramedics who take Maddy out of the house.

I pace around for a minute when my phone rings. It's Armén.

"What's happening?" he rasps.

"Nothing for you to worry about." He's new and annoying, always double-checking with my dad despite my phone equipped with a GPS tracker. "I'm staying here until evening."

I cut the call and find some of Maddy's clothes to change into since I'm staying.

The phone beeps. Not mine, Maddy's—she left it behind.

"Tsk, Mads…" She'll have a withdrawal if they make her stay in the hospital longer than a couple of hours.

I grab her phone by reflex. I know Maddy's password, we don't have secrets. I only intend to check the notification screen, but my heart leaps at the name.

Patrick.

Patrick: Hey, doll, u coming with on Friday?

My heartbeat spikes at the memory. I reply for her.

Maddy: Oh, you remember me? *smilingemoji

Patrick: You kidding me? *grinningemoji

The phone lights with a video-chat request, and my hands start trembling nervously when I stab the answer button.

"Hey, beautiful!" He's smiling.

"‘Sup, stranger?" I grin back.

I miss talking to people without being afraid that my dad's goons will go through my phone records and do an identity check.

He narrows his eyes briefly as if remembering something, and I wonder if he knows which of the two girls from the club I am. I look at my own picture on the phone, and It's surreal. I. AM. MADDY.

"Was wondering…" He's grinning. I'm grinning. He's so easy to talk to. And so freaking handsome. "Was wondering if you're still up for the spring break thing? You and your friend?"

So, he remembers.

"My friend is a no," I say.

He pouts, making me laugh.

But… I'm not sure if I'm about to answer for Maddy or me, and suddenly an idea comes to my head. An idea so desperate and crazy that it takes my breath away.

I can't possibly do this, can I?

Maddy will only laugh at it.

My dad will kill me. I might as well sign my death sentence.

But if I pull it off. If only I could… If only…

My chest tightens at the dare. This promise of the last bit of freedom is so tempting that suddenly I don't care for the consequences.

"I am," I say.

Patrick's eyes light up. "Yeah?"

"Fuck, yeah!" My heart thuds in my chest.

"Doll, okay, listen up. Give me your address. I'll pick you up tomorrow?—"

"No, listen, let's do this."

I keep talking, already having a plan mapped out in my head. For one night, I'll be a fugitive, pay with cash to stay in a crappy motel. If I can keep up the game until tomorrow, I can get on that jet and have the vacation of my lifetime. Do I care that I just met this dude? No. Does he care for me? No. There'll be plenty of pretty girls on that jet. I know how things work. Been there, done that. Again, zero fucks given.

When I give him instructions and cut the call, I do things methodically and slowly, trying to calm my trembling hands.

I find Maddy's passport in her closet and a stash of cash that she keeps for me for when I don't want my card to be tracked by my dad. I change into better clothes, stuff a couple of Maddy's dresses and a pair of heels into her travel bag, and put a baseball hat and sunglasses on.

I write down Patrick's number on a piece of paper—I can't bring my or Maddy's phone with me. My cards are traceable too, so that's a no-no. But I have a secret crypto-currency account online that I can access from any burner phone.

I stuff my belongings under the bed and creep downstairs.

I walk out the back door and into the backyard.

My heart pounding, the baseball hat low over my face, I take quick thievish steps toward the neighbors' fence.

I'm scared shitless. My father's anger has no bounds. But I can taste freedom, laced with adrenalin, on my tongue. And I'm ready to face the wrath of the man who knows over a hundred ways of slow torture.

If I am to live my last days of freedom, I'll go out with a bang and a weekend in paradise.

Zion, here I come.