Pairing Off (Red Hot Russians #1) (8 page)

On the subway home, he pretended to forget the way, and made her navigate through the stops. When they came out into the familiar bustle of Taganskaya, he gave her a high five. “Think you can you find your way around now?” he asked, as they walked to her apartment.

“Yes. It’ll be nice to explore some places besides my neighborhood.”

“Stay around city center, it’s safest there. Not that there’s anything to be afraid of, but it’s like any big city. Use your head.” He paused and slowed his pace. “You should have my phone number. In case you need anything,” he added quickly.

“All right.” She tried to hide her surprise. To be polite, she programmed it into her directory, though she couldn’t imagine ever using it.

He took his phone out. “What’s yours?” She gave it to him. Though Galina regularly sent email, it was reassuring that another person in this huge city had her phone number.

They’d reached her building. It was dark now, but traffic still streamed past, busy as ever. “Do you have big plans for weekend?” he asked.

“Not really. If the weather’s nice, I’ll go sightseeing. If not, I might cook.”

“Cook? Really?”

“I like cooking. Nothing fattening, I promise. But I’ve learned my way around the supermarket, so why not? Maybe I’ll try making borscht. How about you?”

“I can’t cook anything except pancakes.”

She laughed. “I meant your weekend plans.”

“I’m going to see Olga.”

The jealous twinge returned. She quickly squelched it, but hoped Olga appreciated her handsome, devoted boyfriend. The only man in Carrie’s life at the moment was a fame-hungry D-lister. And Dad, who hadn’t replied to her emails in almost a month. “Is that what you do every weekend?”

“Sometimes she comes here, but mostly I go to Lake Shosha.”

In his voice was the same resignation she’d heard when he talked about giving up hockey. Something here wasn’t quite right. She hesitated, wanting to him to stay, knowing he couldn’t.
If you invited him, he’d come upstairs.

She had a vision of them naked in her bed, making passionate love, then falling asleep in each other’s arms.
You’d like that, wouldn’t you?

She would like it. Down to her very soul, she’d like it. But it would only create terrible problems, cause terrible guilt. She forced a smile. He had a girlfriend waiting. She had laundry.

Chapter Ten

She spent the next three days haunted by regret.

Not regret for spending time with him. The best pairs had an off-ice rapport that infused their skating. What she regretted was the long-ago morning in the Amsterdam airport when she heard the final call for a flight to Moscow two gates over.

She hadn’t gone to say goodbye, exchange addresses or make plans. She had a boyfriend, a football star whose father was one of Dad’s closest friends. She could hardly dump Mike for a boy figure skater—worse, a Russian boy figure skater. Her parents would have had heart failure and things at home were bad enough already. She stayed hidden among the Silverettes, but watched the crowd, aching for one last glimpse. If she’d gone to find him, would he have been there for her when life fell apart six months later? Could she have turned to him and poured out all the guilt and pain? Would he have heard the awful story and loved her anyway? The dangerous questions plagued her all weekend.

But there was no way to know and no way to change the past, no matter how badly she wanted to. Nor did she have any right to grieve. Her pain was nothing compared to the trouble she’d brought her family. The only thing to do was suck it up and deal.

As the weeks passed, she found a routine. She took the subway to practice, having swapped her bulky rolling skate bag for a shoulder hockey bag, similar to Anton’s. At night, she read and cooked. On weekends, she explored the city.

She visited the Kremlin, taking pictures of the towers and a bell so big she could have crawled inside it. She shopped at GUM, a high-end shopping mall on Red Square, which was carved out of a Soviet-era department store. She paid too much for a beautiful leather-and-shearling winter coat at the UGG Australia store, but passed on the shapka, the furry hats that were everywhere, even in September. She tried on a white one that made her look like a Q-tip. The Princess Leia earmuffs were passable, but God forbid it ever got cold enough to need them.

She went to art galleries, museums and street markets. And everywhere she went, there were churches.

They fascinated her, from the grand cathedrals to tiny neighborhood chapels. She photographed ornate bell towers, stacked rows of gilded arches, towering, tent-shaped roofs and onion domes, gilded in gold or splashed with bright colors. Her guidebook said the sloped roofs and domes were to prevent the buildup of snow. Whatever the reason, they were beautiful, compelling and mysterious. Though not once did she venture inside.

By early October, the trees were dappled red, yellow and gold. The mornings were crisp, but the afternoons still warm. One day after the gym, she stopped at the Coffee Bean near the Metro. On a concrete bench outside, she sipped a skim latte and opened her guidebook.

Izmaylovsky Park was best known for its big weekend tourist market. She had little interest in wooden nesting dolls or fake fur hats, but the park also held the ruins of a tsar’s hunting estate. The forest had trails, ponds and wildlife. It seemed like months since she’d seen any wildlife besides pigeons, and there was a short, mile-long trail she could complete before dark. She took the purple line north.

At the park entrance, a wooden sign carved in the shape of a hand, pointed to the trail. But the place was deserted, and the silence was creepy. Maybe a solo walk in the woods wasn’t the best idea. Then from behind, a van pulled into the parking lot. A troop of little girls in blue T-shirts scrambled out, followed by a female park steward in a khaki uniform and two middle-aged women.

Carrie made eye contact with one, silently seeking an invitation to follow them through the woods. Apparently deciding she looked harmless, the woman shrugged and nodded.

She walked behind the group, but still close enough to hear the girls’ laughter and see their names stenciled on the backs of their shirts. The clean, fresh air and gentle whisper of breeze rustling through towering larch and birch trees touched a part of her that had been sorely neglected since coming to Moscow. Above, the autumn sun shone down from a brilliant blue sky. Part of the trail was buried under bright yellow leaves, and as the girls shuffled noisily through them, so did Carrie.

At the trail’s end, the girls and their guide boarded a waiting van. Carrie turned back to the trail, now deep in shadow. It would be dark before she could make it back to the other side. But across the street, she spotted the familiar Metro symbol, an arrow and a Russian word, НОВОГИРЕЕВО. According to her GPS, the station was less than a mile.

Good thing, because this neighborhood wasn’t nearly as nice as the one north of the park. She passed blocks of drab, concrete apartments surrounded by weed-choked lots. Instead of the earthy fragrance of the woods, there was the stench of stale cooking grease from a restaurant with smudged windows. The cracked sidewalk ended at an on-ramp to the MKAD, the busy highway that formed the city’s outermost ring. High above, cars buzzed past.

“No way,” she muttered. There had to be another route. She reset the GPS and went back the way she came, this time ending up right in front of the entrance of a dingy apartment tower. The exterior was cracked and chunks of concrete veneer had fallen away. The base of the building was covered with graffiti. Was the station here? She didn’t see the Metro sign, but in front of the building was a large sign with a word she recognized. НОВОГИРЕЕВО.

Cripes. There must be two Hobo-Peebos and she definitely didn’t like the look of this one. Nor did she like the four teenagers in tracksuits and cheap bling lounging beside a rusty car at the curb. She quickened her pace, staring straight ahead. Show no fear, pay no attention and thugs usually left you alone. American thugs, anyway. She hoped Russian thugs were the same.

As she passed, a mean-looking kid with a shaved head called out and thrust his crotch forward. “
Ei shmara, idi glian chyo est u Bolshogo Olega
!”

Bolshogo Oleg
. Big Oleg. Doubtful.
She bit back a snort and kept walking.

The catcalls followed, but fortunately, Big Oleg didn’t. She crossed another street. The park had to be close, but nothing looked familiar. At the next block was a street sign. НОВОГИРЕЕВО.

She’d stumbled into the damn Twilight Zone.

She tossed her phone into her bag and grabbed her map and pen. She scribbled down the name of the cross street—whatever it was. Somewhere there had to be a place she could sit down, get her bearings and call a cab. Suddenly, voices echoed from up the block. She turned. Big Oleg and his pals were straight ahead.

This was bad. Very, very bad. If she ran, they would chase her. Even if she found the park, they’d follow her into the woods. Desperately, she glanced at the buildings lining both sides of the street. On one was a word she recognized. Кафе.
Café.
She ducked inside.

It was more of a bar than café, reeking of cigarette smoke and full of unsavory types no friendlier than Big Oleg and the Tracksuit Boys. Everyone turned to stare. Clutching her bag, she sat down at a corner table and took out her phone.

The recorded message at her regular cab company said to expect an hour wait. Her backup company said the same. She tried a third, but the person who answered didn’t speak English and hung up.

The only other number in her directory was Anton’s.

He’d said to call if she needed anything, but people said stuff like that all the time. If she didn’t call him, she wouldn’t have to feel disappointed when he made an excuse why he couldn’t come. But she wasn’t afraid of that. Not really. What scared her more was knowing he would drop everything to get to her.

She looked at the map, where he’d written their names, and bit her lip, wondering what to do. Then came muffled laughter through the window.

“
Privyet, malyska
!” Big Oleg and his friends leered. She tensed, ready to run but they weren’t coming in. They were waiting for her to come out.

She swore under her breath and called Anton.

He answered in English. “I saw it was you. What’s going on?”

“I’m lost. I was trying to find a Metro stop and my GPS kept taking me to the wrong Hobo-Peebo.”

“The wrong
what
?” The laughter in his voice infuriated her. “What is Hobo-Peebo?”

“It’s what the word looks like to me in your freakin’ alphabet! Don’t laugh. It’s not funny!”

“No, it isn’t,” he said, apologetically. “Where are you?”

“In a café. Actually it’s more of a bar. I don’t know the name, but it probably translates to ‘Bucket of Blood.’ I wrote down the street name. I can’t read it, but I can spell it. The first letter looks like a Western
B
.”

There was a pause. “Like in Hobo-Peebo?” He was laughing again. “Sorry, I couldn’t help it. Okay, what’s next?”

“Something that looks like a pi sign with a broken leg. After that comes an
A
, then the hat with legs. Do you know what I mean?”

“Hat with legs is
D
. Go on.”

“A backward
N
, an
M
, another backward
N, P, C, K, A
and backward
R
.”

Another pause. “How the hell did you get there?” he said, angrily.

“If I knew that I wouldn’t be lost, would I? You should also know there’s a bunch of guys in tracksuits staring at me through the window.”

He muttered something that sounded like “gob-nik.”

“I’m coming right now. I’m not far. Stay there and don’t talk to anyone.”

That wouldn’t be a problem. Pretty much everyone was drunk, including the group directly behind her; two heavily tattooed couples about her age. The girls looked like they could slit her throat without blinking. Then Big Oleg slapped his palm on the window and French-kissed the glass, leaving a smear. She gulped and clutched her phone. “Anton? Please don’t hang up.”

“I won’t. Tell me about your afternoon.”

For the next twenty minutes she watched the street, reassured by his voice on the phone. She talked about Izmaylovsky Park, and her walk in the woods. He told her he’d grown up north of the park and she should return and buy a shapka at the Saturday market. She asked if he owned one. He did, an old one of his father’s. She asked if it was ugly. He laughed and said it was, but fashion really wasn’t the point. She ought to reconsider the Princess Leia earmuffs.

It was almost dark when he pulled up outside the Bucket of Blood.

“Don’t park,” she said. “Just pull as close as you can to the door. If you honk to distract them, when they turn to look, I’ll run out and jump in.”

“Carrie, that’s crazy. Like something from movie. I’ll come in to get you. I’m not afraid of them.”

“No!” She didn’t doubt Anton could kick Big Oleg’s scrawny ass, but four to one weren’t good odds, and the thugs might be armed. If he got hurt, she’d never forgive herself. “Please...let’s do this my way.”

He sighed. “All right. Get ready.” The car moved into position. She grabbed her bag. The horn sounded, long and loud. The boys turned to look. She dashed out the door and raced to the Audi. She was almost at the curb before they noticed and began shouting.

Anton pushed the door open and she dove in, landing face first in his lap. She bolted up so fast she almost hit her head on the steering wheel. She slammed the door. The locks engaged. He gunned the engine and they roared off down the street.

“Oh. My. God.” Shrieking Euro-punk had never sounded so good. “I’ve never been happier to see someone in my life.”

“What the hell were you doing?” he shouted. “Trying to get killed? I told you to stay near city center!”

She stared, looking for Anton, not this furious, wild-eyed stranger. “And you also told me about the park where I could go hiking! Look, I’m not your employee and I’ll go where I please. I got a little lost. It could happen to anyone.”

“But it didn’t happen to anyone. It happened to you!”

Carrie felt her eyes grow wide. Was he suggesting she wasn’t expendable? Or was his real concern the hassle of finding another Olga replacement? Much more likely. Her chest tightened and it was hard to breath. “Yeah, well I’m sorry to be an inconvenience. If I’d known you were going to yell at me, I never would have called.” She fumbled for her map and shook it open. “The subway’s two blocks that way. Drop me off. I’ll get home just fine.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not dropping you at subway,” he muttered. “I was close by anyway. It’s good you called.”

“Otherwise you’d be auditioning new pair girls tomorrow.”

He jerked his head around, and shot an angry look across the car. “Is that what you think I care about?”

“Isn’t it?”

The tense silence was filled by the muffled sounds of traffic outside. Jaw tight, Anton turned his gaze back to the road. “You and I are in this together. Partners, like I said before.” His voice softened. “Not just two skaters making tricks.”

As he said it, the caveman act became less infuriating. Beneath the anger was real concern. He had told her to stay near the center of the city. This was his home turf, just as she knew what parts of Atlanta and L.A. to avoid. If he had stumbled into one, even accidently, she’d react the same way.

Safe in his car, she relaxed and glanced over her shoulder, out the back window. No thugs in hot pursuit, but in the backseat was a cardboard box with two cans of paint and plastic bags of supplies. Last week, she’d noticed a smudge of red paint on his elbow, a sign of his life outside the rink. Curious, she wanted to ask about what he was working on, but a low rumble in her stomach reminded her that she’d not eaten in hours. Maybe Anton was hungry too. He’d saved her from Big Oleg. The least she could do was offer to buy dinner. “Hungry?”

A pause. Then his shoulders seemed to relax, as did the tension in the car. “I could eat. I know good place, not far.”

“Then let’s go. This time, it’s my treat.” She settled back in her seat, listening to the throbbing bass, atonal, distorted guitars and female vocals screeching like feral cats in heat. She liked to rock out as much as anyone, but this stuff was painful. “What is this?”

His reply sounded like he had a mouthful of hot stones. “In English, translates Venereal Rage. They’re Finnish,” he added, as if that explained something.