Page 12 of Vasily the Nail

I grab my phone, flip through the string of texts from Artyom that make it clear Iwillbe meeting the truck coming in from Sandusky, Iwillassist in unloading it, Iwilldo inventory on it, Iwillsettle the tab, and Iwilldivide it out for the trucks coming in.

Yeah, he heard what happened last night. He’s pissed.

I toss my extremely warm blankets aside and roll my knees up to my chest to get the momentum needed to pop upright on my feet, windmilling my arms to get the circulation flowing. Ana continues to stare at me, but I keep myself calm as I pluck my coat off of her and wrap my blankets around her like a burrito. “I go work,” I say, my voice admittedly grunty. It’s been a really long time since I’ve had to be cordial with anyone in the morning.

Another reminder of why the fuck did I do this. This is one more person to deal with.

But then I go to yell to Dima to see if he got assigned this shit, too, and I remember he’s not here. So maybe that’s why I decided to keep her. I’d just had the best sex I’ve had in a long time— which is absolutely disgusting to admit to myself, but that’s the truth of it— and something in my brain was probably tweaking to the fact that I’d be home by myself for the next few days.

With only the voices.

Lurking.

In the bathroom, I shave off a line of oxycontin, just to make sure I’m even. Clear-headed. Pleasant to the people I need to be pleasant to. I take a quick shower, brush my teeth, and run a comb and some gel through my hair. When I was in middle school, having just had my entire life ripped away from me and been thrown into a desert, I tried my best to learn the language and behave in the classroom. But I had this one teacher who looked at my pale hair in a standard crew cut, nothing crazy, and said it made me look how I sounded.

Like a thug.

And it just stuck with me. I’m a thug. What’s the point?

I dress in jeans and one of my usual pastel shirts because I was once told it made me glow in the dark, and I like that, too. I don’t want to blend in. I want everyone to see exactly where I am, that I’m not trying to hide, that I don’t need to. I’m not a coward. By the time I finish up and pass through the bedroom, Ana is gone. I’m unconcerned by this, though. Security— menin our employ— have been notified that I have a guest who is forbidden from leaving. Most of the building is Russian, in some way connected with the Bratva. Everyone knows. She won’t get far.

In fact, she’s only gone as far as the kitchen. She’s standing at the coffee maker, one cup on the tray and another in the sink that was empty last night, half my cupboards open and all the refillable pods lined up. I smell faint but offputtingly stale coffee, and she’s giving me the most baleful look.

I raise an eyebrow at her, and she crosses her arms over her chest. I notice then that she’s changed from the skimpy pajamas into my shirt that she wore last night.

It’s cute on her. Give her a belt, and it’d be a fashionable dress.

“I can’t figure it out,” she says softly. “Your pods look funny, and the first cup I brewed tasted awful.”

I scan the chaos. She’s got all those pods and the creamer out. There’s water in the tank, and I can see the spoon she stirred the first cup with. I glance at it in the sink and see that it’s paler than I like but not awful.

The only thing that’s missing is the coffee itself.

“You replace coffee, yes?”

She gestures to everything she’s got out. “I’m not stupid. Of course I put a new pod in.”

“But you replace grounds?”

“I—what? Like, the groundsinthe pod? How?”

I withhold any comment as I reach around her to flick open one of the inserts. “You dispose this.” Then I reach above her and grab the can of coffee that’s at eye level for me. I know she’s tiny, but it’s right on the ledge, plain as day. “And refill with this.”

Her expression turns peevish as she stomps to the trash can, attempts to empty the pod, and drops it right into the trash.

I snort.

She purses her lips and glares like she meant to throw it out in irritation, but I saw what happened. I nod to the trash can, and with a huff, she cringes and retrieves it, pinching it gingerly between her thumb and ring finger as though it’s diseased.

She hands it to me.

I could point out that she’s a big girl, she can handle this herself, but I don’t need to upset her any further. I rinse it clean and do the same for the second one she empties. I show her the measured scoop and fill the pods for her, making her at least start the machine.

“Am gone most of day,” I warn her as I get the kitchen back to how it was. “Food here. Breakfast. And leftovers.” I watch the way she nervously changes the pods even now that they do have fresh coffee in them. “You heat pizza on griddle, is best. Lower 300, top 425, leave until cheese melt. I send groceries, too. What you like?”

She shakes her head, and yeah, I definitely see wheels turning, but I’m not going to push it. It’s groceries. If she doesn’t like what comes today, I can ask again tomorrow. We’ve got a long road ahead of us.

“Diet?”

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