Page 75 of Dirty Roxie
Ronan
I dress slowly for Viktor Limonov’s memorial. Sliding my arms into my dress shirt, buttoning the front. Attaching the cuff links at my wrists. Selecting a black tie to offset the dark gray of my shirt. I’m still trying to decipher how I feel about my long-time nemesis being pulled from the playing field. It’s an odd feeling, to have someone who played such a large part in your life to suddenly be gone from it, and for there not to be grief surrounding it.
Because I don’t feel grief over Viktor’s passing. Or Andrei’s for that matter. That day with Andrei was so much more for me than I’d expected it to be. Ridding myself of him, somehow also rid me of other demons lurking just outside my consciousness. Demons I thought I’d banished long ago.
And how that felt. The emptiness inside. Because when you fuel yourself with only anger, and that anger dissipates, so does the life force. I didn’t think I’d get it back. In the time between Andrei’s death and Roxie’s shower, I’d never felt so bereft. Lost. Out of control. Then somehow, she breathed the life back into me.
I know, logically, there wasn’t a lot of time between the two events. Not in the actual passing of minutes or hours. But the desolation in my soul was life changing. Like when people say their life flashes before them? And everything changes for them after that? For a little while, in Roxie’s arms, I genuinely believed that it happened to me.
Then I woke up.
Figuratively and literally.
I opened my eyes to find an angel asleep on my chest. Her legs intertwined with mine—our breathing in sync, my heartbeat in tune with hers. And a perfect moment was born. Never to be repeated. Because that’s the thing with perfect moments, you don’t get a lot of them. Which is when I realized it couldn’t last. I would hurt her. It’s in my nature. Either physically or emotionally, she would be in pain at my expense. I did what any decent man would.
I left.
I had my driver turn back around three separate times on my way to the airport that morning. Only to have him turn back again halfway to the resort. What would I tell her if I went back? What if she’d already seen the note? And then she didn’t want me back? I fear that would hurt more than leaving in the first place.
Or worse yet, she hadn’t seen the note but had no intention of it going beyond one night.
I can’t afford to allow myself the pleasure of wanting someone. For multiple reasons. The foremost being they always leave. Whether or not at your own hands would remain to be seen.
I pull my hair back and secure it at the nape of my neck. I’ve yet to dye it back to black, but the roots are coming in dark and much of the blond has faded to a muted brown.
But I don’t want to touch it.
It’s the last thing I have left of her that’s tangible. Everything else is just a memory.
When I got back to Russia, I had my personal surgeon look at the bullet wound, just to make sure there wasn’t an infection or anything else untoward. Turns out Roxie had done a damn decent job stitching me back up. Even if I kept splitting them open.
I take one last look in the mirror, making sure everything is in place. This will be my first foray into the public eye after Andrei’s betrayal. A lot is riding on my appearance: physical and emotional.
I slide into the back of the limousine, my driver closing the door after me. I used to feel foolish having someone open and close the door for me. It was Viktor who told me that the ease in which you can let others serve you is a sign of power. I’m still not sure if it’s true, but I try to practice it anyway.
The drive to the cathedral is not long. The line of cars in front of it is. People exit chauffeur driven vehicles dressed to impress, waving to the paparazzi and the public as though at a movie premiere instead of a dead man’s memorial. The service is being held at Moscow’s largest cathedral. Because, even in death, Viktor demands the biggest and the best.
My driver circumvents the line, and the other cars let him because somehow, they know it’s me. And that’s what I need. Especially today. That reverence and respect. Not only because it’s my first outing but also because Daria will be here. And I must force myself not to ask after Roxie. A feat that may prove impossible.
My car door opens, and I exit, buttoning my jacket, facing straight ahead. A million voices clamor after me at once, hands pull at my clothes trying to get my attention, I shake them off—answer no questions, meet no eyes, looking without seeing—and make my way up the steps into the building.
