He Travels the Fastest Who Travels Alone pt. 2
Aug 23, 2019 1:57:31 GMT -5
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Post by Roman Novack on Aug 23, 2019 1:57:31 GMT -5
“Are you happy now?”
Nadia’s expression was off putting; even more so, her tone.
“Very,” Novack replied. Bright blue, devil eyes refused to submit to her scowl. She could smack the smugness from his face easily.
“And?” Nadia asked.
“She’s perfect,” he replied, complete with dramatic eye roll and slump deeper into the cleopatra chaise. “A business woman. The definition of class and sultry. A platinum babe.”
The woman fixed a neat whiskey for them both and sat at the polished, ebony baby grand. “Networking for business or pleasure?”
He chuckled. “Why limit myself with one of the other? The world is my oyster.”
The woman was always so judgmental. Type casting him in the role he played too well.
“You’re allergic to molluscs,” Nadia smarted, the cool smirk on her face taunting him from across the room.
“I want to see Xie again,” he stated. Nadia paused mid drink and cut her eyes sharply to him.
“Oh?” she replied. He had her attention.
“It could come in handy,” Roman replied as he dug his hand into the pocket of his navy slacks in search of his phone. Pulling the device from his pocket, he quickly jumped to his playlist and began his scroll.
The ice melted slowly, watering the godawful and pretentious taste she had in alcohol down perfectly for him to gulp down quickly.
“Plan on having many sword fights in the ring?”she questioned him.
He rolled his eyes.
“I think I’ll learn capoeira when we go to Brazil as well.” He was dismissing her completely now. Whose words best spoke to his soul?
“Do you plan on having this much free time?” Nadia asked.
He did.
“I do.”
“When you’re not sneaking off with trash?”
That was cold. True but cold. Even Maxx had used the word earlier. Responding would only give her the satisfaction of striking an exposed nerve.
“You have an appointment tomorrow to be checked,” the woman said coldly as she crossed her legs at the ankles. The way a lady should in a dress she had always said.
“For?” Roman asked, though he cared not really the answer.
“A wellness check,” Nadia replied. She smirked. Oh, did she smirk. He sat up immediately and made eye contact with her.
“Well—“
“Lying with dogs gives you fleas, Romochka. Doctor Sadat will give you a physical as well as run you for any nasty diseases you could have picked up from this girl as well as any nasty substances you could be putting in your body.”
Internally, he fumed. She was having him tested, like an animal—like a criminal.
“Bit much even for you,” Roman mumbled. He sank back into the purple plush seat and sulked.
“Tell me about the other—.”
He didn’t feel like conversing anymore, and pressed play on a random song that began blaring over her words.
The woman grumped the way she always grumped and stood. She poured another drink, and he finally had his out of anger. Exposed nerves.
“Xie will be hard to reach for a while!” Nadia shouted over his music. “Out of country on holiday but I will put in a word.”
He politely lowered the volume so she didn’t have to shout and rolled on to his side to watch her strut about in her peacock like manner.
Showboating and gloating for her small victory. God, he loathed her. Visions of his hands and her neck—.
“You’re wrinkling that new suit,” she bitched.
Could you blame him?
“You let me get hit in the face but you’re worried about my suit?” He laughed.
“I don’t let you do anything,” she replied.
That was truer than true.
“If you’re getting hit in the face, Romochka, that is your fault for not dodging,” she said with her usual condescending manner.
He wanted to choke down another several ounces of raw whiskey to numb her out completely, but he remained limp atop the chaise propped on one elbow watching her skirt about the room.
Like a snake she slithered from the crystal tumblers and decanter to the perfectly polished bench of the piano. Her ass swished dramatically as she walked in a manner he assumed she had carefully adopted from some classic silver screen bombshell long forgotten by time.
He imagined for a moment how pleasant her head would look stuffed with sawdust and lifeless glass eyes against a cherry wood plaque. Perfectly capturing her resting smugness for eternity on the wall of some esteemed English gentleman with a deep passion for trophy hunting.
He thought of her lifeless and as flat as pizza dough—just a rug of suntanned skin stitched to a Neiman-Marcus gown stretched out before a blazing fire.
Imagination was getting the best of him by the moment the idea of her being locked forever in a filthy asylum began creeping into his mind. She’d rattled off more excuses as to why she behaved so protectively towards her younger ward.
“You are a man now,” Nadia Volkov said, but the cackle that erupted from Novack cut her short. She fumed as he wiped at faux tears.
“My God do you hear yourself sometimes?” Roman choked out through fits of laughter. “As if I’ve come into puberty only a day ago.” She was the very definition of the delusional wealthy woman that oppressed the men in her life to the point of matricide. (If she had been his mother, that was, of course.)
Novack cursed his father’s name beneath his breath for ever bringing the woman into his life. He cursed his grandfather for adding her as his guardian in the final days of Pop Piotr’s life, and he cursed his mother for being more in love with the soporific effects of her pill cocktails than his father—the very act that had cost her her life and driven her husband into the arms of the au pair.
“—it would do you well to seek out Ishmael to discuss continued training now that you are accommodating more opportunities for business. I certainly don’t want to see all of Kroll’s hard work dissipate because you were ill prepared.”
Novack had only caught the tail end of her sentence and forced a thin smile that oddly resembled the false enthusiasm of a yellow smiley sticker. Such an iconic little image that many happily plastered on their media posts—and teachers plopped atop graded papers. That little yellow bastard and his grin which always left Roman feeling as if he was being taunted. (As if by non verbally expressing condescension through its beady black eyes and curved line smile.)
“Ill prepared,” he repeated. “Kroll.” He and the Israeli had not spoken in some time. It would be good to see an old friend, Roman thought.
“I’m certain he has the time now that he’s gone civilian.”
Civilian? Had it been that long? He thought for sure Kroll would have left the Israeli defense force for a position in Mossad, but he seemed to sit corrected.
“Civilian?” The world just didn’t make sense even saying it aloud.
“It would do you good to keep up with the people in your network, Roman,” Nadia said coldly. “Ish has been out of duty for some time. He’s taken a young bride as well—newly pregnant I hear.”
He grunted a response—the sort of gurgle of disbelief one makes when at a loss of words. He wondered for one brief moment if life did really pass you by when you’re unintentionally wasting it away.
“If its a problem,” he rattled out but the words died in the air almost instantly as he thought of how oblivious he had been to the changes around him. “Call Natalia.”
“No,” Nadia curtly said. ”I won’t have you harassing Ms. Tal for your silly hobbies.”
He shrugged and stood, feeling the very light effects of the drink warm him. He could stand several more. Novack crossed the room to where her decanter set atop the bar and fixed himself a knock of it.
He reflected on the last moment he and Ish Kroll had spent in one another’s company. They’d finished an intense week of combat training with a large jug of sangria Ishmael had acquired from a Spanish beauty. They poured glasses of punch down their gullets and discussed neoclassical literature from Paradise Lost to Gulliver's Travels.
And when the sun began to rise in the next day sky, the two drunken fools stumbled to their respective rooms and passed out for nearly a day.
It all seemed a lifetime ago now.
“Whom would you have me harass then?” Roman asked as he pressed his fingers to his forehead and massaged between his eyes. He could feel the onset of a migraine--or was the alcohol foreshadowing a hangover?
“The man--the one you’ve spoken about--did he agree to work with you?” Nadia’s interest was alarming, but he answered with a simple yes. He glanced at the time on his watch and sighed.
“I should go,” Roman mumbled. “I have work to do.”
Nadia scoffed and cut her eyes towards him. The smug look on her face spoke volumes. She had beaten him down. He said nothing else to her and departed for his room to change suits. The only objective he had was to drown his frustration in poker and whiskey.
He played cards badly that night.
Something to be said about sure thing deals. Feel like I’ve said this before. Maybe several times, but it’s likely fallen on deaf ears. About like everything else I have said since popping up in this sport.
People pay very little attention to those who speak softly whether they carry a big stick or not.
A man who would rather lose himself in the pages of literature than dispute whose flaccid cock swings the lowest is a man disregarded.
By this statement alone I could stand, but that saying about living on bread and water—well, you know the drill.
Losing’s no skin off my back. I can take the fall with dignity, dust myself off, and climb right back up on that ladder.
Ladders are meant to be climbed, not kicked. Even Jacob’s never ending ladder to heaven leaves promise of ascension to a divine greatness.
And what is greatness but an ideal we place on the works of others?
This entire business is utterly fascinating.
Brodie is the type that holds a peculiar allure—I know this will be no easy fight. I can only hope to survive and walk away with a better understanding of what she wants when she sees me.
Never been one to refuse a woman what she desires, even if it means dragging me to hell. Oh, how sweet the climb will be from the pits of brimstone and fire to glory. Almost—poetic.
Nadia’s expression was off putting; even more so, her tone.
“Very,” Novack replied. Bright blue, devil eyes refused to submit to her scowl. She could smack the smugness from his face easily.
“And?” Nadia asked.
“She’s perfect,” he replied, complete with dramatic eye roll and slump deeper into the cleopatra chaise. “A business woman. The definition of class and sultry. A platinum babe.”
The woman fixed a neat whiskey for them both and sat at the polished, ebony baby grand. “Networking for business or pleasure?”
He chuckled. “Why limit myself with one of the other? The world is my oyster.”
The woman was always so judgmental. Type casting him in the role he played too well.
“You’re allergic to molluscs,” Nadia smarted, the cool smirk on her face taunting him from across the room.
“I want to see Xie again,” he stated. Nadia paused mid drink and cut her eyes sharply to him.
“Oh?” she replied. He had her attention.
“It could come in handy,” Roman replied as he dug his hand into the pocket of his navy slacks in search of his phone. Pulling the device from his pocket, he quickly jumped to his playlist and began his scroll.
The ice melted slowly, watering the godawful and pretentious taste she had in alcohol down perfectly for him to gulp down quickly.
“Plan on having many sword fights in the ring?”she questioned him.
He rolled his eyes.
“I think I’ll learn capoeira when we go to Brazil as well.” He was dismissing her completely now. Whose words best spoke to his soul?
“Do you plan on having this much free time?” Nadia asked.
He did.
“I do.”
“When you’re not sneaking off with trash?”
That was cold. True but cold. Even Maxx had used the word earlier. Responding would only give her the satisfaction of striking an exposed nerve.
“You have an appointment tomorrow to be checked,” the woman said coldly as she crossed her legs at the ankles. The way a lady should in a dress she had always said.
“For?” Roman asked, though he cared not really the answer.
“A wellness check,” Nadia replied. She smirked. Oh, did she smirk. He sat up immediately and made eye contact with her.
“Well—“
“Lying with dogs gives you fleas, Romochka. Doctor Sadat will give you a physical as well as run you for any nasty diseases you could have picked up from this girl as well as any nasty substances you could be putting in your body.”
Internally, he fumed. She was having him tested, like an animal—like a criminal.
“Bit much even for you,” Roman mumbled. He sank back into the purple plush seat and sulked.
“Tell me about the other—.”
He didn’t feel like conversing anymore, and pressed play on a random song that began blaring over her words.
The woman grumped the way she always grumped and stood. She poured another drink, and he finally had his out of anger. Exposed nerves.
“Xie will be hard to reach for a while!” Nadia shouted over his music. “Out of country on holiday but I will put in a word.”
He politely lowered the volume so she didn’t have to shout and rolled on to his side to watch her strut about in her peacock like manner.
Showboating and gloating for her small victory. God, he loathed her. Visions of his hands and her neck—.
“You’re wrinkling that new suit,” she bitched.
Could you blame him?
“You let me get hit in the face but you’re worried about my suit?” He laughed.
“I don’t let you do anything,” she replied.
That was truer than true.
“If you’re getting hit in the face, Romochka, that is your fault for not dodging,” she said with her usual condescending manner.
He wanted to choke down another several ounces of raw whiskey to numb her out completely, but he remained limp atop the chaise propped on one elbow watching her skirt about the room.
Like a snake she slithered from the crystal tumblers and decanter to the perfectly polished bench of the piano. Her ass swished dramatically as she walked in a manner he assumed she had carefully adopted from some classic silver screen bombshell long forgotten by time.
He imagined for a moment how pleasant her head would look stuffed with sawdust and lifeless glass eyes against a cherry wood plaque. Perfectly capturing her resting smugness for eternity on the wall of some esteemed English gentleman with a deep passion for trophy hunting.
He thought of her lifeless and as flat as pizza dough—just a rug of suntanned skin stitched to a Neiman-Marcus gown stretched out before a blazing fire.
Imagination was getting the best of him by the moment the idea of her being locked forever in a filthy asylum began creeping into his mind. She’d rattled off more excuses as to why she behaved so protectively towards her younger ward.
“You are a man now,” Nadia Volkov said, but the cackle that erupted from Novack cut her short. She fumed as he wiped at faux tears.
“My God do you hear yourself sometimes?” Roman choked out through fits of laughter. “As if I’ve come into puberty only a day ago.” She was the very definition of the delusional wealthy woman that oppressed the men in her life to the point of matricide. (If she had been his mother, that was, of course.)
Novack cursed his father’s name beneath his breath for ever bringing the woman into his life. He cursed his grandfather for adding her as his guardian in the final days of Pop Piotr’s life, and he cursed his mother for being more in love with the soporific effects of her pill cocktails than his father—the very act that had cost her her life and driven her husband into the arms of the au pair.
“—it would do you well to seek out Ishmael to discuss continued training now that you are accommodating more opportunities for business. I certainly don’t want to see all of Kroll’s hard work dissipate because you were ill prepared.”
Novack had only caught the tail end of her sentence and forced a thin smile that oddly resembled the false enthusiasm of a yellow smiley sticker. Such an iconic little image that many happily plastered on their media posts—and teachers plopped atop graded papers. That little yellow bastard and his grin which always left Roman feeling as if he was being taunted. (As if by non verbally expressing condescension through its beady black eyes and curved line smile.)
“Ill prepared,” he repeated. “Kroll.” He and the Israeli had not spoken in some time. It would be good to see an old friend, Roman thought.
“I’m certain he has the time now that he’s gone civilian.”
Civilian? Had it been that long? He thought for sure Kroll would have left the Israeli defense force for a position in Mossad, but he seemed to sit corrected.
“Civilian?” The world just didn’t make sense even saying it aloud.
“It would do you good to keep up with the people in your network, Roman,” Nadia said coldly. “Ish has been out of duty for some time. He’s taken a young bride as well—newly pregnant I hear.”
He grunted a response—the sort of gurgle of disbelief one makes when at a loss of words. He wondered for one brief moment if life did really pass you by when you’re unintentionally wasting it away.
“If its a problem,” he rattled out but the words died in the air almost instantly as he thought of how oblivious he had been to the changes around him. “Call Natalia.”
“No,” Nadia curtly said. ”I won’t have you harassing Ms. Tal for your silly hobbies.”
He shrugged and stood, feeling the very light effects of the drink warm him. He could stand several more. Novack crossed the room to where her decanter set atop the bar and fixed himself a knock of it.
He reflected on the last moment he and Ish Kroll had spent in one another’s company. They’d finished an intense week of combat training with a large jug of sangria Ishmael had acquired from a Spanish beauty. They poured glasses of punch down their gullets and discussed neoclassical literature from Paradise Lost to Gulliver's Travels.
And when the sun began to rise in the next day sky, the two drunken fools stumbled to their respective rooms and passed out for nearly a day.
It all seemed a lifetime ago now.
“Whom would you have me harass then?” Roman asked as he pressed his fingers to his forehead and massaged between his eyes. He could feel the onset of a migraine--or was the alcohol foreshadowing a hangover?
“The man--the one you’ve spoken about--did he agree to work with you?” Nadia’s interest was alarming, but he answered with a simple yes. He glanced at the time on his watch and sighed.
“I should go,” Roman mumbled. “I have work to do.”
Nadia scoffed and cut her eyes towards him. The smug look on her face spoke volumes. She had beaten him down. He said nothing else to her and departed for his room to change suits. The only objective he had was to drown his frustration in poker and whiskey.
He played cards badly that night.
♤♥♧♦
Something to be said about sure thing deals. Feel like I’ve said this before. Maybe several times, but it’s likely fallen on deaf ears. About like everything else I have said since popping up in this sport.
People pay very little attention to those who speak softly whether they carry a big stick or not.
A man who would rather lose himself in the pages of literature than dispute whose flaccid cock swings the lowest is a man disregarded.
Mark Twain said, “it’s not the size of the dog in the fight but the size of the fight in the dog.”
By this statement alone I could stand, but that saying about living on bread and water—well, you know the drill.
Losing’s no skin off my back. I can take the fall with dignity, dust myself off, and climb right back up on that ladder.
Ladders are meant to be climbed, not kicked. Even Jacob’s never ending ladder to heaven leaves promise of ascension to a divine greatness.
And what is greatness but an ideal we place on the works of others?
This entire business is utterly fascinating.
Brodie is the type that holds a peculiar allure—I know this will be no easy fight. I can only hope to survive and walk away with a better understanding of what she wants when she sees me.
Never been one to refuse a woman what she desires, even if it means dragging me to hell. Oh, how sweet the climb will be from the pits of brimstone and fire to glory. Almost—poetic.