Page 77 of Dirty Roxie
Ronan
I take a seat near the front, meant for close friends and family. Or, in my case, part business associate, part enemy. No one dares sit too close. Leaving space enough for at least five on either side of me. I wonder if I should have brought one or two of my men with me. I know some have come on their own volition, but I opted to arrive alone, as a show of strength. I can only hope it’s coming across that way.
Some of Daria’s cousins surprise me by taking one side of my row. And I have to remind myself it’s just ego, wanting to keep half a row to myself, to look untouchable. And ego can make a man look foolish. I turn to greet them quietly, as more family comes in on my other side. Women with babushkas covering their heads, whispering heatedly amongst themselves. But in English, I think, or at least not in Russian.
The room quiets as the side doors open, and Daria and her immediate family members file in. Each pausing briefly to lay a hand on Viktor’s casket as they pass. All except for Daria, who doesn’t even glance at it. I admire her courage. By now, she would have told her family she was the one to kill him. And they would have decided upon her punishment, if any, given his involvement in Katya’s and her mother’s deaths. That Daria is still alive means there wasn’t much of one, if any.
They take their seats, and the priest moves to the pulpit and begins the service. I tune him out. Not to be disrespectful, but just because I can’t stay focused on much lately for too long without my thoughts turning to Roxie. And I wonder, once again, if I’m right in thinking it’s wrong to be with her. What if I didn’t hurt her? What if I could keep some semblance of normalcy without my damaged and fucked up psyche forcing its way in to destroy it?
It’s not like I’ve been able to get her out of my head since I left Medellín. She’s taken up residence and doesn’t appear to be leaving anytime soon. I see her wherever I look. Smell her everywhere I go. Imagine her in every place I visit.
The woman next to me rearranges her babushka slightly, her scent floating toward me. And goddamn if she doesn’t smell like Roxie. I glance at her while still facing forward. Her legs crossed, hands resting in her lap. Black stockings and ridiculously high heels that I imagine make her legs look long. A dress with a slim skirt and fitted top that must end at just above her knee. TheVin the dress revealing creamy breasts. I dart a glance in her direction to take in the whole picture.
She does not disappoint.
I’m more than a little surprised to feel my cock stirring in my pants. While I enjoy women, I’m not typically excited by mere visuals. At least not until I met Roxie. And certainly not since. While it should make me happy that another woman rouses feelings inside of me just by looking at her, I’m filled more with disappointment. Because I fear it means that Roxie was not as special as I know she is.
Or else it means I need to get laid.
I turn to look at her again, wanting to see something more than just the briefest hint of her profile.
She glances over as if she feels my gaze, but it’s a quick glance down toward my feet. She doesn’t come close to meeting my eyes. Red hair peeks out from beneath her babushka, reminding me of Roxie, once again.
I’ve developed a fondness for redheads.
That’s all this attraction to the random woman sitting next to me could be. Something about her drew me to her initially—an intuition about the color of her hair. Now that I’ve confirmed that’s all it is, I can tuck this desire to see her, to know her, to the back of my mind and forget about it.
Small, insignificant, innocuous thoughts.
But what if it is Roxie?
What if she came to Russia to support Daria? It’s possible, is it not? I mean, unlikely, but still a possibility.
Even if it is Roxie sitting next to me, what would I say to her?
That I love her?
I scoff at the ridiculousness of my own thoughts. I could never admit that I love her. I barely know what love is. Let alone how to express it or how to live in it.
That I miss her?
I do.
More than I would miss my right hand if I woke in the morning to find it gone. And isn’t that a jarring thought?
If I’m honest with myself, and with her, I would tell her I miss her. And, fuck, if I’m going to tell her I miss her, I may as well admit I love her. Because I do. I love that woman, whether it’s a smart idea or not. Whether I know how to do it or not. If the time away from her has taught me anything, it’s that Roxie is the only balm to mend the laceration in my heart. I would not have lasted another week without traveling to America to find her.
That said, it’s best it’s not her.
I return my attention to the front, where Daria’s brother stands at the pulpit, lying about what a great person Viktor was and how much people will miss him. Not to speak ill of the dead, even though I’m about to, I’m certain none of his children will miss him. Let alone anyone else.
I rub my knuckles absently. They’ve mostly healed from my altercation with Andrei, but faint marks from the scabbing still cover those on my right hand.
The woman next to me gasps.
I look over.
This time she looks right at me.
It’s Roxie.
