Page 155 of Kingmakers, Graduation

I can smell her shampoo in the shower, the hand soap she bought in Danilovsky market, the last spritz of her perfume she pressed from wrist to throat before setting the bottle back on the shelf.

I roll off the bed and retrieve the bottle from the bathroom. It fits in my palm like a purple glass grenade, the lid missing or lost. I spray the perfume into the air. The mist settles on my outstretched palm. I cover my face with my hand, inhaling deeply.

Sabrina.

Sabrina …

The ache in my chest is too much.

I lay down on the bed once more, pulling out my phone. Starting at the beginning, I scroll through at every photo I have of her.

The very first is the one she sent me after Dubrovnik, crouching at the wheel of her bike, working the wrench. Looking back over her shoulder, eyebrow raised in mild surprise, a smile breaking out as she catches sight of whoever stood there holding the camera—probably her mom, or maybe her dad or brother or grandpa. Grease streaked under her eye like a baseball player, hair tied back by a filthy bandanna, little curls coming down. Her upraised palm gripping the wrench, bicep tensed like Rosie the Riveter, cheeky and fierce.

Next the photo of us in Cannon Beach, her arms wrapped around the waist of the ridiculously oversized teddy-bear I won for her, head thrown back, mouth open in laughter. I can hear that laugh, I can see the color in her cheeks, hot from all our battles. She was still egging me on, trying to get me to play her inHaloagain. I was determined to win her that bear—I aimed for those targets with a clarity of mind I’ve never known before or since, like it was the most important task in the world. Goddamn if I didn’t hit every one, even with that shitty rigged rifle.

Next is a video of her running on the beach with Nix, racing each other across the sand. Nix looks like Artemis, thighs flashing in the sun, barefoot and fleet, red hair streaming behind. Sabrina sprints with all her might, then flings herself into a cartwheel, whirling head over heels, before eating shit into a tidal pool, saltwater splashing everywhere, soaked to the waist, laughing and rubbing sand out of her eyes.

“Who put that there?” she cries.

Her voice is so distinct, it’s like she’s in the room with me.

I close out of the video, pressing the heel of my palm against my eye. Pushing hard until I see sparks.

I swipe through the images faster and faster—a selfie of the two of us on Arbat Street, Sabrina modeling her hazmat suit, a picture of her half-asleep at the kitchen table, chin on her palm, nodding off during dinner after one too many late nights at the lab. Then Sabrina in the diamond collar and heels, standing by the window, fireworks bursting into bloom over her shoulder, her naked body bathed in colored sparks. So beautiful that I never would have believed my own memory if I hadn’t taken a picture, if I weren’t looking at the image right now …

I had everything in that moment—everything I’d ever dreamed of and more.

How did I lose it so fast?

I swipe again, finding one of our last pictures together, taken at Neve Markov’s wedding: Sabrina’s looking at the camera, unsmiling, wearing the black dress that was only her second choice. Her eyes are dark, full of unhappiness.

I stand next to her, grinning, holding her tight against my side. Totally oblivious to the look on her face.

It’s good for YOU! You don’t care what I want, you don’t care what I feel …

Sabrina’s voice echoes in my head—furious, indignant, pained …

I switch folders, scrolling through our sex videos.

I find my favorite, the very first she ever made for me.

The camera jostles as she adjusts my phone on the bookshelf, angling it toward the bed. Then Sabrina crosses the frame, naked and bronze, hair a wild mane down her back.

I slip my hand down the front of my jeans, resting it on my cock.

Sabrina climbs atop my prone figure, straddling my face. Her thighs are strong and shapely, her hands grip the headboard.

She settles her pussy down on my mouth, arching her back, sliding her clit across my tongue.

I remember her scent and her taste. I lift my hand to my mouth, inhaling her perfume …

The Sabrina on my phone moans softly. She presses her bare breasts against the headboard, palms flat, fingers spread on the wood as if I were standing behind her, pushing her up against the wall …

Her head turns toward the camera, cheek against the plaster, eyes closed. Her lips part. She lets out a long breath that I feel in my own lungs, my soul coming out in that sigh …

My hand grips my cock, painfully tight.

She’s riding my face, slow at first, then faster. Her body rolls like a wave, breasts thrusting forward, ass arching back. She lets go of the headboard to push her hair back with both hands, her palms sliding down her cheeks, down her neck, down her chest, lifting her breasts, grasping them, holding them tight …

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