Chapter 9

Marlena chewson the inside of her cheek while she sews. I wonder if she realizes she has the habit.

After I helped her put away clean towels and hang up the rest of her laundry, she brought out a dress from her bedroom closet. She let me bring her sewing table from the bedroom to the living room, so she’d have more room, but then she shooed me away to the recliner.

I’ve been watching her work for over an hour while fielding text messages from Sergei.

Andrei wants us to meet at Kraze tonight. If I’m late, Sergei will be unbearable for a week. He’s barely stopped complaining about having to wait for me yesterday.

“When did you learn to sew? Did your mother teach you?” I ask when she removes the last pin from her mouth and stuffs it into a pincushion.

“No.” As she looks up from the machine, the little light coming from it shines in her eyes. “My mom died when I was a baby.”

“How soon after you were born?” I question. Growing up without a mother is hard, especially for a little girl, I think. My mother passed away when I was twelve, a grown man according to my father. I still miss her today. I can’t imagine not having her while I was growing up.

“She had to deliver me with a cesarean. There were complications, and she didn’t make it out of the operating room.” Her shoulders sag for a moment then she dives right back into work.

“I learned to sew in high school. I took a fashion class as an elective, scraped up enough money from my part-time job to get a second-hand sewing machine, and taught myself anything the class hadn’t.”

“Your father didn’t buy one for you?” I watch her features as my question hits her. Tension builds in her shoulders again.

“No.” She tears a string, lifts the foot of the sewing mechanism, and maneuvers the fabric around again. “He didn’t.” She’s concentrating on her project.

“Why not?” When I have a daughter, she will be ruthlessly spoiled. Her brothers will hate it, but they will protect her at all costs.

The fact Marlena had nothing like that growing up doesn’t sit well with me. Without a mother to guide her, it was her father’s duty to step up. He should have drowned her in everything she needed.

She never should have wanted for anything. And she sure as fuck shouldn’t have been working to scrape together money.

She looks up from the machine. “There wasn’t much money left after he drank it or snorted it.”

My jaw tenses. Her mother was never there, and her father wasn’t either. The world is a cruel place, and she’s learned this from a very young age. Too young.

No wonder she is so resistant to having anyone involved in her life. No one’s ever taken care of her before.

“Do you still speak with him?” I’d like to have a conversation with the man.

She shakes her head and goes back to her work. “He died when I was sixteen.”

“Who were your parents then? Aunts, uncles?”

“No one. I chose not to go into foster care.” She continues with the dress.

“Where did you live then?” I imagine her at sixteen trying to find her way through the streets of the city, looking for shelter, a home, a friend. Anger fills me that she had to wander alone for so long.

“Here and there.”

“Is that when you met Jimmy?” Pieces are coming together now. The puzzle that is Marlena is taking shape.

“Yeah. Michael put me on his crew. Jimmy showed me how to get into cars, then he showed me how to lift them. By the time Jimmy went away, I was nineteen. I didn’t have to worry about Child Protective Services getting me anymore, so I got out. Michael let me walk away so long as I promised to stay out of the business altogether. No working for anyone else.”

“And when he saw you last night, what did he have to say then?”

“He asked about Jimmy. He wanted to be sure I’d kept my word about staying out of the car business.” She smiles as she says this. I try to imagine her working with the likes of Jimmy. Young, scared, unsure of what’s ahead of her.

“And?”

“I told you; I’m done with that stuff. That’s what I was telling Jimmy yesterday.” She dips her chin when she says this, leaving me feeling less than confident that she’s telling the full truth.

She slides the dress out and holds it up.

“That’s not for you, is it?” I eye the powder blue fabric with the lace trim with hesitation. It’s not her style. She has more attitude than that dress can hold.

“No. It’s for the girl upstairs. She’s standing up in her sister’s wedding next weekend. She just needed a hem.” Marlena puts it back on the hanger. “I’ll have her come try it on once more, then I can steam it for her.”

“Are you invited to the wedding?” If she is, I’ll take her.

“Thankfully, no. I don’t like weddings.” She disappears into her room for a moment, then comes back empty handed.

“You don’t like them as a guest, or you don’t want to have a big wedding when you get married?” Our wedding will be as big or as small as she wants.

“I’m not getting married,” she says as she begins to clean up her workspace.

“Of course you are.” I get up from the recliner and roll my shoulders. It was easier to watch her work from the recliner, but the thing is old. Sitting there for the last hour has left a kink in my back.

“No, Viktor. I’m not.” She shakes her head while telling me this lie. “I don’t want to ever get married. I don’t want to have any sort of serious relationship.” She lifts her eyes to mine when she makes this declaration.

“What sort of relationship do you want then?” This conversation isn’t heading in the right direction. It might need a course correction.

“None.” She lifts a shoulder and picks up her basket with her sewing shears and other equipment.

“None at all? What about that man you went on a date with? The one from the coffee shop?”

She makes a face like she’s trying to remember, and then she laughs.

“Oh, him. No. That was just dinner. I told you, we can’t be an us, because I don’t want an us. With anyone.” She leaves me standing in the living room while she takes her sewing basket back to her room. I grab the sewing table and carry it back to her bedroom.

“Did he kiss you?” I put the machine table in the corner and turn to face her. “On your dinner date, did he kiss you?”

“You can’t be jealous. You’re not my boyfriend. We’re barely friends.”

“I don’t spank my friends,” I grumble.

She frowns. “Good to know.” Her cheeks bloom into a sweet blush. “Then we’ll stay friends.”

“No.”

“No?” She cocks her head to the side. “I don’t think you get to make that decision.”

“We’ll see.” We can revisit labels later. She can think all she wants that I’m going to just turn and walk away from her, but she’s wrong.

She leans her hip against the door frame and crosses her arms. “Well, I’m done with the dress and the laundry’s all put away.”

“Yes?” I slide my hands into my pockets. Her eyes trail over me, leaving a heated path everywhere her gaze touches. I want more of it. More of her.

“So, I’d say our afternoon together is done.” Ah, the adorable girl thought it was finished when she said so. She really has no clue who she is dealing with here. It’s time I taught her.

I make my way to her, moving across the old carpeting with slow, steady steps with our eyes locked until I’m standing right in front of her. Trailing my fingertips along her jaw, I cradle her chin in my palm.

“We still have one more thing to do.” I lower my mouth to hers, brushing my lips across hers too gently to be considered a kiss. But it ignites a fire in her eyes.

“What’s that?” She breathes the words.

“It’s time for your reward. Get on the bed.”