CORALINE
Getting drunk on a Tuesday night was beyond a shitty decision. I know that before I even peel open my eyes for the morning, sun beating in the window onto my stiff figure.
I'm warm, though, atomically warm. Like I've been sitting next to a furnace in a Texas summer, warm. Like if I so much as move a tiny bit I'm going to break into a full body sweat type of warm.
I was going to blame it on whatever material I'm laying on, but then I realized that said material is hard but a little squishy and has a breathing rhythm. And then I reconsidered, because there's no way I could generate that much heat on my own.
I groan, pushing myself off the body below me, checking to make sure he's wearing a shirt before going too far.
His head is tucked against his shoulder on the side of the couch, hair a mess, eyes still shut.
"Sash," I mumble, poking his stomach, "Sasha." My head is pounding.
He jumps a little with the third poke, yanking his head up and looking around, "what?"
"Please unwrap your leg from around mine, I need to pee." And probably shower.
"Hm?" he stretches out his legs anyway, which is instantly not a good thing because it shifts his hips upward and presses his morning wood against my thigh. I hop up pretty quickly after that, not exactly eager to deal with any of that.
"Can I use your shower?" I ask, pressing my hand into the side of my head.
"Go for it," he mumbles, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, "I'll make something to eat."
"Thanks," I take his permission and walk toward his bathroom, eager to rinse alcohol sweat off my body.
The shower is surprisingly not all that confusing like most people's showers are, it's just a dial. On the other hand, his shower head is quite a lot higher than what I've seen normally but I suppose that's a product of his habitation here.
On the sides of the shower, he's got two bottles, one for shampoo and one for conditioner, thank god. There's even a bar of soap that looks well used and a facecloth as well. His shower score is much higher than most men I've been around.
That's a thing I like to check on when I meet someone new, girls with too much stuff in their shower are most likely a little nuts, some of them are insanely friendly, but they're all way over the top and intense about many things. It depends on your taste in friends with that. Men with too much stuff in their shower are absolutely unheard of and men without much in there are either sweet but smelly as hell, sweet but creepy, just plain creepy, or should still be living with their mothers. Normally it's all of those options.
Sasha's shampoo smells like cedar, which would explain why he smells like that too. His conditioner appears to be the same and is very much not made for my type of hair but it'll work until I can shower at my own house. His soap is very very standard and I appreciate it because I feel somewhat safe using it to wipe off my face as well as my body.
The only thing I don't mess around with is the facecloth, because it feels a tad too personal.
"Cora," he knocks on the door as I'm rinsing one last time, "towel and optional change of clothes are outside, I'm making omelets at whatever else I can think of."
"Thanks," I chirp back, shutting off the water.
He's smart with the spare clothes, though I don't know if I want to wear spares or deal with my own gross clothes from yesterday. At this point I have to go directly to the shop and his clothes might be weird as hell to show up in. Though not that bad if I can get in and get into my coveralls before they see me.
I pull the little pile into the door, drying off and observing what he gave me. It's an old racing shirt, it appears to be, at least. Instead of Starikov on the back, though, it says Sokolov. On the front is a little logo that says KTM Factory Racing.
It's a dirt bike racing shirt.
It's not the most suspicious thing in the world, so after pulling on my day-old bra, I toss that on over the top instead of my sweaty police-chase surviving ratty t-shirt.
The shorts that he offered, however, are not going to cut it for having to be in the mechanic shop all day, so after pulling on my underwear, I have to mentally complain and get back into my cargo pants.
The moment I open the door, I realize again that this man is a chef from back to front. My nose takes me straight to the kitchen and then immediately to one of his island chairs, not even bothering to say anything before sliding an omelet plate toward myself.
"Shower alright?" He asks, still sounding rough and hoarse from sleep.
"Yeah," I mumble through a mouthful of eggs, "this is good."
"Thanks," he doesn't have the energy for a sarcastic addition and on one hand, I'm grateful, but on the other, I kind of miss it.
"Who's Sokolov?"
He shrugs, "it's just the name I used while racing. Starikov would've drawn too many eyes."
I nod, "have you considered changing your last name once you get out of this?"
"I have all the papers filled out, if that's what you're asking."
"Are you changing it to Sokolov?"
He shrugs, "sounds similar, I'm already somewhat known for it, but no."
"So you're parting yourself off in all the little spots of your life?" I take a sip of water, "Sasha Sokolov, professional motorcyclist, Sasha Starikov, son of a mob boss, Sasha whatever, chef?"
He nods, "easy way to keep it organized."
"If you get married, will you take theirs? Sasha whatever, married man?"
"Maybe."
That's good enough of an answer for me, considering the headache I have and all that. He seems to be in the same exhausted boat, rubbing his temples and flipping a second omelette.
"When do you have to be at work?" He asks, fork in his mouth already.
"Fifteen minutes until my first appointment but I can make up time," I sigh.
He raises his eyebrows, "are you sure?"
"Yeah," I say into my glass of water. "I'm already an hour and a half late so what's another ten minutes."
"Wait but-"
"I have to be early to set up the shop and do that shit, plus, the first appointment I have isn't your Dad so I'm not too afraid of finishing twenty minutes late. That's not the worst thing in the world. I'd be more worried if it was one of your Dad's cars."
"You need to back out of that," Sasha says, mostly to his plate. "Safely."
"I know," I sigh, "but, it's money, it's a lot of money. It's a heap of money. I need that."
"It'll get you killed," he mumbles, "the first thing you do wrong will get you killed. You're disposable to them."
"I know," I respond, but it makes my shoulders tense up with fear. I want to lean into him but I don't. "I wish I'd suggested someone else when they came in."
"That wouldn't have done anything, they still would've probably killed you," he sighs, "anyone that does them wrong or harm is done for. I wish you hadn't come to the restaurant and nattered me about motorcycles. That's what did you in."
"But then I wouldn't have met you."
He shrugs, "and only one of our lives would be in danger," it's his response and as much as I hate it, he's right.
"Can you drive me?" I look over at him.
"Yeah, truck or motorcycle."
"Truck, my Dad would kill me, kill me and know who you are and I doubt that's a good idea."
He gives a weak smile, "good to know I'm on your Dad's blacklist."
The ride is almost silent, just Sasha tapping his fingers on the wheel listening to something quiet from the radio and me dozing off against the window. It's too domestic but I'm too hungover to care.
He stops on the backside of the shop, ruffles my hair and tells me he'll text. Our next big event is the party and we need to be ready for that like nothing else.
The door to the shop is cold, handle freezing against my fingers. Sasha is idling, waiting to make sure I get inside.
I'm stopping outside, though, watching through a slit in the blinds, my brother has his arms up, arguing with my father.
The door handle was cold but the door is colder against my ear.
"It's almost like she fucking knew that we'd be talking about this today!" Briar shouts, "I can't do this shit with her, she's so fucking frustrating. Who is she to make us stay here and then act this unprofessional? She's making us do all the work and for what? So she can go hang out with her friends? I have a fucking wife that I need to be around right now."
"I know, Briar," Dad responds, clearly trying to calm him down but frustrated all the same, "having a kid is a huge deal and you need to have job safety for that. Cora has been slipping, I know."
Having a kid?
I turn my eyes back to Sasha and wave at him to get out of here, giving him a little thumbs up in hopes that he doesn't realize that I'm freaked out.
I shove open the door and don't miss a beat before snapping at the two of them, "so clearly I'm missing a lot of fucking shit."
"Oh, amazing, you're here," Briar drops his hands, letting them smack against his legs, the look on his face is nothing but disbelief and irritation. "And hungover, it looks like it. On a fucking Wednesday, that's real nice. Way to show your colors. Who's shirt is that?"
"Just a friend's." I snap back at him. "Nice of you to tell me you're having a fucking baby. How long has that been going on?"
The look on his face is nothing but malice, "not before you tell the two of us why you're out fucking people while we're working our asses off in this shitshow of a business to keep the fucking mafia entertained!"
"I wasn't out fucking people!" I shout at him. Sasha is a girl's name in their heads. "This is just Sasha's shirt, we had a drink or two together last night and nothing the hell more."
"Oh, so you're having sex with girls now," Briar snaps. "You don't have to lie."
"I. Didn't. Have. Sex. Last. Night." I shout, jamming my finger into his chest with each word. "What the fuck is wrong with you and why do you care so fucking much."
"Don't think that I don't know that you're going around with girls, that's fucking-"
"So what if I am?" I shout. "If you're gonna have a kid, you need to get over that homophobic act real fucking quick because there's a real good chance they might turn out queer and then where the hell are you? The shitty fucking Dad who wants to stuff them back into a box, that's where you are."
"Don't lecture me about my own fucking kid, Coraline," he warns.
"I'll lecture you all the hell I want and if that kid comes to me about something because you were an awful person about it, you'll never hear the fucking end of it. So fucking what I'm bisexual and have had sex with women, why on Earth does it bother you?"
"Because-"
"Justify it." I snap at him. "Justify it without religion."
He shuts his mouth, trying to come up with an answer, "it's just wrong."
"It's observed in literally every species so how the hell is that wrong?"
"It just is!"
"You're a stupid fucking sheep, Briar Laurier, you know that? You're a stupid fucking sheep that follows around the pack that tells him that he's supposed to hate something with no reasoning other than I fucking said so."
"I agree with him," Dad calls from the other side of the shop.
"And who's the only one in the room with a college education? That's me. Use your fucking brains for once."
"It's probably a good time to tell you," Dad appears at Briar's side, "that we're not coming back after the end of the week."
"What?"
"We're done," Briar shrugs, "I need job stability, he needs job stability. I'm having a fucking kid in six months and he's almost to retirement age, we can't keep fucking around with this shop."
"You never told the other shop no?"
"Actually," Briar shrugs, "I told the other shop hell yes after you signed your little contract with the mob."
I chew the inside of my cheek, "fine, then. I'm in charge. I have a degree in fucking finance, I'll be fine."
"Good, glad that's settled," Dad pats my shoulder. "Now you've burned an hour out of your first appointment so make it fast."
"Briar," I turn to him, "Anna has been pregnant for three months and you didn't tell me?"
He turns away, "because you act like this all the fucking time, I honestly don't want you involved."
"Oh, yeah, that's just so brotherly of you." I snip at him. "Bet you don't want Mom involved either."
"No."
"Okay, then it's probably a good time to tell you that she's moving back to fucking Korea so I'd say get your apologies in before August 28th."
"Cora, I really don't care. You can cling to your little girl fantasies of having a perfect family but I'm alright with just Dad, this is my family. I'm fine with it. Mom can fuck off to Egypt for all I care. She hasn't bothered with me in years."
"Well that's-"
"That's?" He looks over at me, slinging a towel over his shoulder, "that's what? There's no excuse for it, she doesn't care about me. She probably doesn't care about you. How often does she initiate anything with you? This is your problem, you don't know when to stop. You don't know when people don't want to talk to you and you exhaust the shit out of them. Long live Marie for being able to handle you but she probably only seems like that because she's so damn quiet."
"You're a piece of fucking shit, Briar."
"Why, because I'm right? Because I'm pointing out something about you that you don't want to hear?"
"No, you're just-"
"Get out of my shop space," he waves at the yellow tape. "Go annoy someone else until they stop talking to you. I have work to do and a new family to provide for."