beauty of the
landscape—rolling green hills tufted with shaggy clumps of trees and patches of
pale-purple flowers like exquisite throw rugs tossed here and there over the
velvet grass. From somewhere behind the house came the splashing of water and
she followed the sound, rounding a trio of elegant saplings and emerging onto a
grand field that dropped off into nothingness in the distance.
Alexi lay on his back, naked and golden, at the edge of a
small lake, a silver Thermos by his side. Even in its relaxed state, the member
he had teased her with, stroked her with under rough denim, was thick and
smooth, as bronzed as the rest of his skin. She looked away, up to the
waterfall that plunged into the lake, narrow and deeply blue, churning up a
shallow layer of foam as it hit the water. Nothing about this assignment had
been what she’d signed up for when she joined OSO, but this—this was beauty,
peace and sensuality like she’d never imagined. If he had been an ordinary man
and she an ordinary woman ¼
He did not open his eyes as she cast her shadow over his
supine body.
“You didn’t have to do that, disable the van.”
“You should have checked hotel,” he countered mildly. “Take
all security measures.”
“Why didn’t you just take it yourself and leave?”
“Sit with me, krahsniy . Look at the water. Maybe we
are both off duty for one minutes, okay? Tell me you were not little bit
relieved to see mobile phone all smashed up.”
She sat, tucking the hem of the robe around her knees. “I
told you I have no superior. And neither do you. Warlords make their own
rules.”
He sat up and shaded his eyes. “Warlord? Is that what they
call me in your shiny American office?”
“That and worse.”
“Yes,” he sighed. “I spoke to you before of home, but your
ears were closed.”
She watched a golden plover dive close to the water and snap
its beak around the body of a dragonfly. It rose into the air and circled once,
as if in triumph, before disappearing behind a screen of leaves. She knew what
home meant better than he did, and for the opposite reason.
America was a dream of home, a place she didn’t see until
she was seventeen. Her uncle would come to visit the family in Bangkok or
Burma, take her fishing on lakes not unlike this one, and tell her stories
about home. Her father never rose far in the diplomatic corps, being shuttled
from one less-than-luxurious country to another, but as a little girl, she knew
no other way of living. Travel light, don’t make too many friends, be ready to
pack up your toys every three years and fly to another place whose language you
did not speak, whose customs were strange and whose kids had already found each
other and had no need for a gap-toothed, red-haired American interloper.
Home was a fantasy of Hershey bars and neon-bright
television shows, soda pop and water that was safe to drink, skyscrapers and
trendy clothes. What she would never tell Alexi was that when she finally made
her way there, it felt nothing like home at all. It was another foreign country
with strange customs, smooth, salty foods, sterile, empty streets and kids who
had already made enough friends. So she built another one in her heart, and it
was this America—this phantom of home—she would kill or die to defend.
“I was listening,” she said quietly.
He shook his head. “Guns, freedom, baseball—pauf! You have
immaterial constructs, ideas only, for which you kill men.”
“I don’t kill—”
“The truth, please. Now we are neither of us at home. Why
not enjoy it?”
“Because the great thing about immaterial constructs is they
travel well. If you need your fearsome mountains to keep you going, I feel
sorry for you. The idea of freedom lives within me, and yes, I will kill for
it. That’s why I won’t run away. I have a job to do. Now answer my question.”
“ Nyet . I am in control.”
“Control? There’s a bullet in your leg. What’s to stop me
from dropping a
landscape—rolling green hills tufted with shaggy clumps of trees and patches of
pale-purple flowers like exquisite throw rugs tossed here and there over the
velvet grass. From somewhere behind the house came the splashing of water and
she followed the sound, rounding a trio of elegant saplings and emerging onto a
grand field that dropped off into nothingness in the distance.
Alexi lay on his back, naked and golden, at the edge of a
small lake, a silver Thermos by his side. Even in its relaxed state, the member
he had teased her with, stroked her with under rough denim, was thick and
smooth, as bronzed as the rest of his skin. She looked away, up to the
waterfall that plunged into the lake, narrow and deeply blue, churning up a
shallow layer of foam as it hit the water. Nothing about this assignment had
been what she’d signed up for when she joined OSO, but this—this was beauty,
peace and sensuality like she’d never imagined. If he had been an ordinary man
and she an ordinary woman ¼
He did not open his eyes as she cast her shadow over his
supine body.
“You didn’t have to do that, disable the van.”
“You should have checked hotel,” he countered mildly. “Take
all security measures.”
“Why didn’t you just take it yourself and leave?”
“Sit with me, krahsniy . Look at the water. Maybe we
are both off duty for one minutes, okay? Tell me you were not little bit
relieved to see mobile phone all smashed up.”
She sat, tucking the hem of the robe around her knees. “I
told you I have no superior. And neither do you. Warlords make their own
rules.”
He sat up and shaded his eyes. “Warlord? Is that what they
call me in your shiny American office?”
“That and worse.”
“Yes,” he sighed. “I spoke to you before of home, but your
ears were closed.”
She watched a golden plover dive close to the water and snap
its beak around the body of a dragonfly. It rose into the air and circled once,
as if in triumph, before disappearing behind a screen of leaves. She knew what
home meant better than he did, and for the opposite reason.
America was a dream of home, a place she didn’t see until
she was seventeen. Her uncle would come to visit the family in Bangkok or
Burma, take her fishing on lakes not unlike this one, and tell her stories
about home. Her father never rose far in the diplomatic corps, being shuttled
from one less-than-luxurious country to another, but as a little girl, she knew
no other way of living. Travel light, don’t make too many friends, be ready to
pack up your toys every three years and fly to another place whose language you
did not speak, whose customs were strange and whose kids had already found each
other and had no need for a gap-toothed, red-haired American interloper.
Home was a fantasy of Hershey bars and neon-bright
television shows, soda pop and water that was safe to drink, skyscrapers and
trendy clothes. What she would never tell Alexi was that when she finally made
her way there, it felt nothing like home at all. It was another foreign country
with strange customs, smooth, salty foods, sterile, empty streets and kids who
had already made enough friends. So she built another one in her heart, and it
was this America—this phantom of home—she would kill or die to defend.
“I was listening,” she said quietly.
He shook his head. “Guns, freedom, baseball—pauf! You have
immaterial constructs, ideas only, for which you kill men.”
“I don’t kill—”
“The truth, please. Now we are neither of us at home. Why
not enjoy it?”
“Because the great thing about immaterial constructs is they
travel well. If you need your fearsome mountains to keep you going, I feel
sorry for you. The idea of freedom lives within me, and yes, I will kill for
it. That’s why I won’t run away. I have a job to do. Now answer my question.”
“ Nyet . I am in control.”
“Control? There’s a bullet in your leg. What’s to stop me
from dropping a
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