Page 11 of Ravaged Innocence

He leads me down a row of cars to the last spot where his sits alone, nowhere near the other cars.

“Is that your car?” I ask as soon as I see it. I know nothing about cars. I can’t tell the difference between a Honda or a Toyota, but I can tell this car is higher up the pyramid than either of them. It’s black and sleek and looks like it should be on the set of a Mission Impossible movie.

“Yes. If I have to use a car, this is the one I like.” He brings me to the passenger side and opens the door.

“This one? How many do you have?” I look up at him, the door now between us.

“Here in New York? Three. Plus, my motorcycle, which I prefer. But I don’t want you on the back of it just yet.” He nods toward the seat. “Get in.”

The seat is leather and plush and the most luxurious car seat I’ve ever been in. He rounds the front of the car. When he touches the door handles, a beep sounds and the lock unlatches.

“Your door was still locked?”

“The doors unlock with my touch.” He explains as he presses the ignition button, firing up the engine. I expect a rough rumble, but instead it purrs.

“So, you can’t just unlock the car? You have to physically touch the handle?” I look at my door for the locking mechanism and find nothing.

“It’s a safety feature,” he says, handing me my book and notebook.

“Safety for who?” I ask.

“Everyone,” he answers and shifts the car into gear, pulling forward through the parking spots.

“So, can I unlock my door to get out?” I ask while he navigates into traffic.

“No.” He leans forward to check for oncoming cars, then turns into the stream.

“No?” This is the part of the movie when the protagonist realizes she’s riding with a murderer who is taking her to an undisclosed location to kill her.

“It’s safer this way.”

“I think you and I have very different ideas on what is safe.”

He chuckles. “You’re right.”

“So, you don’t live here in New York permanently?” I ask after several minutes pass in silence.

“No. I split my time between here and Moscow.”

“What do you… uh… do that makes you travel like that?”

He raises an eyebrow and turns toward me. “Do you really want an answer to that, Pchelka?”

I swallow. “Probably not.”

He winks. “Right again.”

His car rings. Like a telephone. He touches the screen to answer the call. I know you can sync your phone to your car, but this isn’t that. This car has its own damn phone system.

“Luka, I have—”

“Ya ne odinok. Govorit’ po-russki,”Luka barks, cutting off the person on the other line. The conversation switches to Russian. I have no idea what they’re talking about, but I can tell whatever this guy is telling Luka is making his brow wrinkle and his jaw tense.

He rattles off what sounds like orders, then hits the screen to end the call.

“Good news?” I ask as he pulls into a parking space a few doors down from my apartment.

“For me, yes.” He turns off the car and climbs out. I have no choice but to wait for him to come around to open my door for me. As soon as the door opens, he takes the books from my lap, then offers his hand to help me out.

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