Costco Blues Ch. 01

Something light and sweet while I work on GoT (Bent by Steele is still stuck in the pipeline)

Just so we're clear: every character's 18+, consenting, and fully on board for this ride.

The alley behind the supermarket always smelled like burned coffee, weed, and lost ambition.

It was where the staff came to rot on milk crates and smoke. It was where they pretended their lives hadn't stalled at the back of a big box retail store.

Jake was twenty-five, had a degree in something no one needed, and a name tag that said "Team Member." Anya was twenty eight didn't have papers, but she had heels, opinions, and an attitude that made HR nervous.

======

"He say he wants to take me out," Anya said in her heavy Russian accent. "He say he looking for serious relationship... for short term. We go out. He take me to McDonald's. I cry. So much mayonnaise. This is freedom? Then he say he wants something wild." She patted the bulge in her white work pants. "I unzip and say, 'Hope you stretched, cowboy.'"

Leroy and Grace burst out laughing. Leroy's joint flew from his lips and landed near Jake's feet.

"You're the worst, Anya," Grace wiped tears.

"Don't you fucking dare!" Leroy screamed as Jake stepped toward the joint, heel raised.

"You throw out half a cigarette?" Anya narrowed her eyes. "In Moldova, that's called betrayal. We put you against wall. Make nice funeral, bury you in cardboard. Sometimes leftover fridge crate. Depends if it rained."

"Thank god I live in the fucking USA," Jake said, hopping over the joint instead of picking it up. "In the USA, buying and throwing shit out isn't just normal, it's a national hobby. You know what we don't do in the USA? We don't leave our coworkers on a cigarette break, then disappear for an hour."

"Work-life balance," Anya shrugged.

"I work, you get the life? Where's the balance?"

"It started with cigarette. Then turned into joint. Then into existential crisis under loading dock. Very productive."

"Fuck you, Anya."

"I thought you never ask, little Jake." Anya wiggled her hips touching her futanari bulge. "You stretch, okay? Don't want first time to be emotional collapse."

"You're the reason HR put those flyers in the breakroom."

"They spelled 'boundaries' wrong. In Cyrillic, it mean 'fun.'"

They were in the loading dock behind the warehouse. Rusted metal pallets leaned against graffiti-tagged walls. The air smelled like hot asphalt, weed, and despair, that special American cocktail. This was their kingdom. The exile zone where corporate aspirations came to suffocate.

"Come on," Jake sighed, nodding toward the supermarket. "I've got a load of angry customers."

"I make them more angry."

"You make me angry."

Anya sighed but rose slowly. "Men in USA have no backbone."

"You mean we're not suckers."

She picked up the joint and took a long hit before giving it back to Leroy. "I mean they ghost after one date. I don't chase, by the way. I just leave quiet voicemail like, 'I know where you live, peanut.'"

"Charming."

======

The deli counter buzzed under flickering fluorescent lights, the glass smeared with fingerprints and dried salami grease. The place where dreams go to die.

Another shift that never ends.

"No samples. This isn't Tinder. You commit or you leave hungry," Anya told the tall customer in the black trench coat.

"Then just turkey breast. Two pounds, please."

"You look like man who needs more thighs in life," she beamed. "Just kidding. Customer always wrong. Or right. Or left. I forget which." She began slicing the meat with clean, surgical precision.

"So, " she turned to Jake, "where was I?"

"Your landlord," Jake said, still unloading trays of bread from the oven.

"Ah, yeah... My landlord, raise rent again, pizda," Anya said. "I say, 'You raised three months ago.' She say, 'Economy sucks.' I raise eyebrow. She raise middle finger. We now in Cold Lease."

"Landlords suck ass," Jake muttered. "Mine promised to fix the hot water all week. Yesterday, instead of a plumber, he sent his idiot nephew, "

"This is unacceptable." A sharp voice sliced through the warm haze of bread and deli meats.

The angry woman at the counter had on tortoiseshell glasses, a vintage denim jumpsuit, and a fedora that screamed farmers market but make it ironic.

Tell me you're a hipster without saying you're a hipster, Jake thought. "What exactly is unacceptable, ma'am?" he asked.

The woman clenched the strap of her hemp tote like she was trying to strangle it. "She's not wearing her hairnet, you talk to each other all the time, and you're taking forever. I've been waiting for fifteen minutes."

"Yotfoyomat," Anya muttered in Russian. (Go fuck your mom)

Jake raised an eyebrow. "Translation?"

"'Madam, we work here. We don't play,'" Anya said sweetly.

"I want to speak to your manager," the woman snapped.

"He is manager," Anya said, thumbing towards Jake. "Talk to him. He has opinions about everything, from sandwich structure to moral decay."

"He is not your manager."

Jake pointed at Anya. "You're fired!"

"See? He already has so much manager in him he channel McDonald Trump vibe. Next time you see him, he is President of United States of America."

Anya wrapped the meat neatly and slid it across the counter to the tall customer with a radiant smile. "There you go, sunshine." Then she turned to the hipster woman. "Now you, Madam Unacceptable, chicken, cake or beef? What we feeding today? Children or disappointment?"

Jake couldn't help but laugh.

She was pretty, Anya, in a very unapologetic way. She was also funny, in an even less apologetic way. And she was a futanari, in the least apologetic way of all.

Blonde hair, almost white, the kind that came across the Atlantic from a country next to the Black Sea. No chemistry wonders needed. Six foot one barefoot. Tall enough to reach the top shelf and slap your ego on the way back down. He'd never seen her in anything less than four-inch heels.

"Flats? No. Flats are for interns, nurses, and women who apologize during sex. One time I wore sneakers. My reflection spat at me."

Blue eyes, always smiling.

Nose, broken. (You should see the other girl. Actually, no. You can't. She moved countries.)

Mouth, a little too big. (It had to be, she said, to fit all the sarcasm. )

She wasn't a ten.

She was an eleven on the "stay away, this is a walking disaster" scale. She took long naps on the couch outside during work hours. She treated customers like the enemy. Jake once caught her in the staff toilets, polishing her massive nine inch rocket with a copy of Velvet Men Unzipped.

"Yes, I was masturbating. Yes, with a magazine. Yes, with that magazine. You want page number or a towel?"

The only reason she hadn't been fired was simple:

There wasn't exactly a line of people dying to take her dead-end job.

But Jake liked her, even if she took her naps at his expense. She made his shifts feel shorter, with her wild stories, her sarcasm, and that undefeatable, pessimistic optimism. Jake called it opsimism, the kind that expects the worst but still shows up in lipstick.

She was like a funny rainbow in a world of gray, but still a part of this world he hated. A world he'd promised himself he would leave behind. Because Jake was destined for greater things.

Because this wasn't life, this wasn't even in-between.

This was never the plan.

He'd own a business. He'd have a trophy wife. He'd drive a sports car.

Soon.

Any minute now.

He just needed a little money. A little luck.

Then his grandfather died.

======

Someone was sobbing in the staff restroom. A series of small sniffs, then a heartbreaking sob. Like a five year old who lost his mom in the crowd. Then sniffs again.

It was a private moment, and Jake never felt comfortable around feelings.

Then he gave it a second thought.

It was probably Sandra. Not the first time she'd come to work in tears. Hakeem, her boyfriend, must've done something horrible again. Maybe he hit her this time. Maybe cheated, again.

This could be his moment.

He'd 'accidentally' walk in, offer a shoulder, be an emotional pillar. She'd look up through mascara-streaked eyes and finally see in him what she'd been missing all these years. Oh, Jake, I always thought I loved bad boys who drive Camaros, but all I needed was a man with a Hyundai Accent and emotional depth. Take me. Let's have babies.

Okay... maybe not that exactly.

But this could be the moment. The pivot. The script flip.

He took a breath, squared his shoulders, and pushed the door open just enough to slip in.

Your knight in shining armor, Sandra. Here I co...

It wasn't Sandra.

It was Anya.

Sitting on the closed toilet lid, knees pulled to her chest. Eyeliner smudged, not the kind she wore like war paint, but the kind that came from rubbing your eyes too hard for too long.

Jake froze.

He'd never seen her like this. No lipstick, bite or armor.

Just... Anya.

Exhausted, crying like someone else. Like her body had been abducted and replaced with something breakable.

Just a girl in a shitty bathroom stall, trying not to fall apart.

Jake's hand slipped off the doorknob and he stepped back without a word and let the door close.

Ten minutes later, he was still so shocked he didn't even notice Sandra and the cheerful "Good morning, Jakey Jake!" she tossed his way.

She paused when he didn't look up. Usually, that line earned a shy grin and cartoon hearts practically popping out of his head.

"Yo, Jake, you there or what?" she pressed.

"Oh, hi. Didn't notice you." He was still watching the bathroom door nervously.

"What do you think of my new dress?"

She spun like a ballerina on tiptoes. Sandra was a tiny, hot Latina with coal-black hair and curves that could start wars. She knew she was a knockout, and she wielded that fact like a weapon, sugar and spice with a dagger behind her smile. The sundress was strappy, floral, and so short it rose up her tanned legs like an invitation for fun.

"Oh, wow," he said, finally registering her. "You look cheerful."

"And hot," she gave him a radiant smile.

He blushed then pulled his thumb up.

"I broke up with Hakeem last night," she said.

"Oh. Wow." His eyes flicked back to the bathroom. "My... condolences? Are you okay?"

"Honestly? I'm vibing." She shrugged. "That dude was a total waste of time. My sister saw him with Diana, you know, that chubby clown from Lincoln, and they were legit making out."

"Oh, shit. I'm so sorry."

"I'm not even trippin'."

That's when Alex appeared, rolling on her mini forklift from storage, sleeves pushed up, hidden behind scratched sunglasses like she'd just walked off a bad indie film set.

"Good morning, beautiful," Alex gave a low whistle. "You look so fucking hot today, good enough to eat."

Sandra grinned. "See, Jake? That's how you compliment."

"That's how you get a restraining order," Jake sniffed.

"Maybe," Sandra gave another prom queen spin, "you'll never know unless you give it a shot."

Oh, shit. Was she flirting? Maybe?

"I broke up with Hakeem last night," Sandra turned to Alex. "Cheated on me for the last time."

"Good on you, girl." Alex took off her shades and gave Sandra an appreciative stare. "I always thought he was a douche who couldn't handle that much woman. You know what you really need right now?"

"Key his car and bleach his sneakers?"

"Cool! Yeah, you do that, call me if you need a hand." Alex flexed her biceps. She had bodybuilder arms and a truck driver belly. "But what you need right now is hot, meaningless sex to take your mind off the pain."

Sandra giggled. If this was pain, she was clearly enjoying it with sprinkles.

"I know how you feel, baby," Alex nodded. "Raw, meaningless sex with someone safe. It's also a great opportunity for exploration."

"Totally," Sandra chirped. "I've been dying to do Bali. Or maybe Sedona. I need a solo trip, self-searching kind. I met a hot guy at Tlaquepaque Village once who used to take people on treks."

Jake rolled his eyes. Then gave it a second thought. Sandra was more of a tease than dumb. She got Alex's message loud and clear.

"I don't hike to find myself," Anya said, suddenly appearing and punching Jake's shoulder. "I already found myself. She was indoors, drinking coffee and judging hikers."

Sandra pressed her lips together. "Yeah, well, I need to get back to the register or Sylvia'll freak."

Jake always thought the Anya and Sandra didn't like each other much, each for their own reason.

"Hop on Seabiscuit, princess." Alex tapped her forklift. "I'll get you there in no time." She motioned for Sandra to sit on her lap.

Jake sighed as he watched both girls roll off into the sunset, or at least into fluorescent lights, minimum wage, and coupon meltdowns.

"Fear doesn't keep your bed warm, little Jake. Boldness does. Stupidity sometimes. But fear?" Anya tapped her temple. "Fear gets you polite hugs and loneliness with Wi-Fi."

"Huh?"

Anya smacked the back of his head. "Tak. Those who don't dare, don't fuck. You wait till someone with balls steals your dream girl, now that she's on the market? Grow a pair, you idiot. Want to borrow mine?"

He finally turned to her.

There was no trace of what he'd seen earlier in the restroom. Her makeup was flawless. Her eyes, clear. Not puffy. Not red.

"Are you okay, Anya?" he asked gently.

"Okay? Never been better."

"I saw..."

"What?"

"It looked like you'd been crying," he lied. Whatever she did had wiped every trace clean.

"Me...?" Her expression shifted to mock alarm. "I never cry. Sometimes I release facial toxins through eye sockets. Very holistic. Gwyneth Pillowthrow sells it in a jar."

No honesty from him, none from her. Fair play.

He almost told her he saw her crying her heart out in the bathroom, but decided against it at the last moment.

"If you want Sandra, Jake, you need to make a move before big dyke Alex makes move like McDonald Trump and grabs the cat."

"Pussy," he twisted his mouth. "And it's politically incorrect to call people dykes."

"Alex crushes watermelons with her thighs. You want me to call her a flower arrangement? She likes women. Nothing wrong with it. You like women. She just likes them faster than you. You stay behind in the race. Keep having sex with right hand and sex toy you buy from Igor at sex store."

Jake sighed. "I don't know how. Never been good with women."

"You say 'Hi, Sandra.' Complement eyes. Say they black like... like unpaid debt. Then you shut up and wait. Not babble. Not panic. Wait. See what she does. It's called feedback. Very sexy."

"I thought you disliked Sandra."

Anya shrugged. "It's mutual."

"I got that."

"She's nineteen. Still emotionally transitioning from high school prom queen. She sees a good-looking girl like Anya and thinks, competition. She scans for weaknesses. Split ends. Visible pores. Anything that says, 'I'm still winning.'"

"That's why you dislike her?"

Anya scoffed.

Then, just for a second, she looked away, toward the alley wall, like something back there might need judging.

When she turned back, her tone was colder.

"Tak. Why I dislike her is none of your goddamn business! By the way, did you get money from dead grandpa?" She changed the subject quickly, graceful as a tank.

"Oh shit!" Jake slapped his forehead. "That's today, the reading of the will. The family meets with the solicitor downtown at three. I need you to cover for me."

Anya saluted. "Aye aye, Captain Jake Sparrow. Anya will hold the fort while you go get rich."

Jake shrugged. "Probably not. The old miser was loaded, but he hated my dad so bad I wouldn't be shocked if he donated everything to a dog shelter. He liked me and my sister, though, so maybe...? We'll know today."

"If you get filthy rich, you share some fortune with loyal co-workers, no?" She pointed at herself and winked.

"That's a Moldovan tradition?"

"In Moldova, someone tries to take money you earned from your dead grandfather's will? You don't call lawyer. You call cousin with a shovel and no Google history."

======

Leroy was slouched on an upside-down mop bucket, shirt already stained with bleach and resignation. Grace sat on a milk crate beside him, uniform damp from a busted pipe she probably had no tools to fix. A cigarette dangled from her fingers like it had been there since 1902.

Between them stood Anya, white work pants spotless as usual, a bag of off-brand chips in one hand and a look that said she'd already judged him before he opened his mouth.

"Well?" Anya asked, turning her head. "You look like someone slapped your soul and ran, little Jake. No money, huh?"

"He did give one million to the poor."

"Fuck yeah," Anya gave him a thumbs-up. "I'm poor. Where do I get my share? I got Venmo. I'll send invoice."

"But he left me and my sister and our two cousins his big house. It's about one point two million, each."

"What?" all three cried at once.

"Man," Leroy jumped to his feet first and slapped Jake on the back. "Jesus, dog, been nice working with you. Too late for your family to adopt me, huh?"

"I don't get the money right away," Jake smirked. "There's a clause. We only get the money after we all settle down, marry and start a family. My sister's already married with kids, and both my cousins have a family, meaning I'm the only one who doesn't get to see that money."

The three stared at him like they were seeing him for the first time. Grace and Leroy looked envious. Anya was her usual smiling self.

"Well, no problem," Anya said. "Today you say 'hi' to Sandra, no? Maybe in fifty years you bold enough to ask her out. Two hundred years from now, you get money."

"I have a year," Jake sighed.

"What do you mean?" Leroy squinted.

"My grandpa wrote that unless I marry in one year, my money goes to Emma."

"Who's Emma? Your sister?"

Jake nodded.

"That's fucked."

"That's my grandpa. He always loved to play us like that. Probably sitting in hell, looking at us and laughing his ass off."

Leroy lit a joint, took a hit, and passed it to Jake, who took a drag and handed it off.

"Shit, man," Leroy said. "My grandpa left me a receding hairline and squat, so I hear your whining, but it almost makes me wanna drown you in the mop sink."

"Let's say your sister gets your one point two million." Grace took a slow hit from the joint, held it, then took a sharp drag from her cigarette like she was doing lung math. She exhaled both, coughed once, then took another pull from the joint, calmer now. "She can't be that hoggish, right? What are the odds she keeps your share and hers? Don't you trust her?"

Jake made a so-so gesture with his hand. "It's not Emma I'm scared of. It's that greedy snake of a husband she's married to."

"I have perfect solution," Anya said.

"I want to get rich, not a life sentence."

"Nothing like that. I can be subtle. You don't kill anyone, you marry Anya."

"Marry you?"

"I make top-notch wife material. In Moldova I win fourth place in making borscht and Mamliga, and third in, " She mimed a blowjob.

"Not sure that's the recipe for a happy marriage."

"You don't want recipe, you want senile grandpa money, no? You marry me. I get Green Card, you get money, you get rich like Jeff Bezosaur and Elon Tesla, we divorce. I take your money. It's a win-win circulation."

Jake laughed.

"You don't have a Green Card, Anya?" Grace looked surprised.

"I have red card from Alejandra with picture of lips. Very sensual. She gave me yesterday."

"The girl who works the corner on 2nd Street?"

Anya nodded. "Alejandra say, 'One hundred dollars for sucky sucky.' In Moldova, that buys a goat, two funerals, and a husband. I say, 'What you give for two dollars?' She gives middle finger. I take."

"You know what, Jake?" Grace nodded like it was a genius idea she just had all by herself. "This is an easy solution to your problem. She gets a Green Card, you get the money. Good trade."

"Dude, I'm... I wouldn't marry Anya with a gun pointed to my head."

"Wait," Anya took out her phone. "I ask ChatGPP. He know everything. Dear honorable Mr. GPP: Where can I get gun to point at Jake head so he marry me?"

She stared at the screen.

"He say, 'Fucking everywhere. This is America.' Oh shit, "I accidentally DMed Igor, I think."

"You can say what you want about being married to Anya," Leroy laughed. "It won't be boring, that's for sure."

======

In the end, they didn't need a gun, just a judge by the county courthouse and Grace and Leroy as witnesses.

Anya said the only thing remaining was for them to consummate the marriage.

"I'm amazing in bed. Not good. Not 'oh wow', amazing. I change lives. I heal childhood wounds. I realign spines."

"Nope," Jake said.

"I know what you're thinking, little Jake: 'Anya's intense. Anya's intimidating. Anya could probably bench-press me.' All true."

Jake said if she touched him, he'd shoot her for real.

Then came the awkward part.

"Where's the ring?" the judge asked.

Anya blinked. "I have onion ring in bag."

Jake shrugged. "I have a twist tie from a bread bag."

They used both.

And that was that.

Minus a few legal and emotional hurdles.

Or so they thought.

======

The more he thought about it, the more Jake realized this was a bad idea. He DMed his mom about his unexpected marriage, sold it as a quick infatuation with a coworker. Then he turned off his phone.

When he opened it again, there were 56 messages from her.

And two from his dad.

The phone call that followed was full of lies, half-truths, and outright bullshit. He promised to bring his new bride to the family barbecue on Sunday.

He warned Anya in advance.

"My family's not the easiest to swallow. Some of them, like my in-law, are downright toxic."

"Please," she scoffed. "I eat passive aggression for breakfast and use guilt trips as cardio."

She asked him to pick her up at the bus stop near the store.

Weird, he thought. Maybe she was shy about where she lived?

On Sunday He parked his Hyundai near the stop and waited. After twenty minutes, he cursed and called her. "Anya, you're late."

"I'm never late. Sometimes time just struggles to keep up with me."

"Seriously? For one day, can you act like a normal human being? Where the hell are you?"

"Waiting at the bus stop for my idiot husband to arrive. Thirty minutes already."

"I'm here, and no, you're not. Wait, are you even at the right station? You know what, screw it, I'm sending you a request on 'Find My Friends.' Do you have it?"

"Since Soviet times. We called it KGB. Very efficient. You disappear, they already know where you are."

"Anya, please... We're already late."

"Accepted. Christ. Don't get your Sponge-Bob panties in a twist, Jake."

"It says you're right next to me, I..."

"Tak. Jake, is your car a Hyundai that looks like an elephant shit it out, then changed his mind and tried to suck it back in?"

"... Ahhh." And then it hit him.

She'd been standing right there the whole time. He'd only ever seen her in that ugly white work uniform, hair shoved under a net, oversized overalls hanging off her like she stole them from a butcher's locker.

Now?

Now she was in a short floral sundress that clung in the right places and flowed in the others. Her long legs caught the afternoon sun like they'd been sculpted, not grown. Her hair was braided down one shoulder, freshly washed, still damp at the ends.

No makeup. No net. No sarcasm armor.

Just Anya.

Lean, toned, almost wiry, like a gymnast raised on rage and self-loathing instead of protein shakes.

"Wow!" He said it out loud. "I married a smokeshow. Who would've guessed?"

"My knight in dented Hyundai." She folded her long legs getting inside his car.

"Sorry. I didn't recognize you," he nodded. "You look..."

"Yes...?"

"Nice."

"I didn't slip into this dress using blackmail and body oil just to be called nice."

"You look amazing, Anya. I had no idea you looked that good."

That seemed to satisfy her.

"Now you feel like sucker that you did not want to consummate marriage, huh, Little Jake?"

"Maybe don't call me that in front of my family? I'm five-nine. Pretty average, by the way. Not little."

"That's why Anya wore sandals with no heels," she said, lifting one foot to show off her flat leather ankle-straps, the kind that hugged her legs like they were designed for sin, not support. "So you could kiss me without emotional scaffolding."

"You do know we're not really married? It's just pretense."

"You do know, with attitude like a Balkan donkey passing a kidney stone, you're not gonna fool anyone?"

"Exactly!"

"Exactly," she mimicked his voice, then added, "Idiot."

"We need to be more in sync, Anya. You know, for when we're asked stuff about our relationship, things we're supposed to know. I don't want my mom to freak out."

"Like what kinky stuff we like to do in bed?"

"Exactly the first thing my mom would ask. Did you ever get your brain checked, Anya?"

She nodded. "They found a backup memory of every insult I've ever received since 1998. Yours are at top of list."

"Sorry."

She showed him her middle finger.

"Okay, so maybe just be a little bit less yourself today?"

"You want Anya Lite™? With 30% less emotional damage and zero flavor?"

"If possible?"

"She died in womb. I came out cursing in six languages and slapped the nurse."

Jake exhaled.

"This is gonna be fun."

======

Jake's mother looked like she was trying hard to hold herself together.

"This was so sudden, Jake."

"I was surprised too, Mom. It was one of those weird things. You know how I always told you I just didn't meet the right person? So there you go. When you know, you just know."

"I knew when he held the deli door open for me and didn't stare at my behind," Anya nodded. "That's how I knew he was either husband material... or dangerously repressed. Both work."

They held the get-together at Grandpa's old house, on the front lawn and in the garden. Between the small ponds, now just algae-filled puddles, and the neglected patches of roses guarded by chipped garden gnomes. His nephews and nieces played hide and seek and occasionally tried to murder each other. The same garden that had been strictly off-limits to Jake and Emma growing up.

Now, a shiny For Sale sign was staked in the lawn.

The house itself was an old Victorian monster, two turrets, ivy scars on the brick, and windows that always seemed to be watching you. It sat in a neighborhood that was rapidly transforming, trading old-money for new-money tech affluence, start-up millionaires and biotech execs.

The real estate agent said four point eight million was reasonable.

"This marriage had nothing to do with Grandpa Carl's will, right?" Ben, his in-law, had a bald head like an ostrich egg, liked fishing scandals, and throwing emotional grenades disguised as innocence. Jake always imagined him spending his free time kicking panda cubs.

"It had everything to do with the will," Jake said. "Me and Anya have been dating on and off for two years, and we talked about tying the knot long ago. Grandpa simply made me sit down and realize where my heart was."

"Heart was with grandpa money." Anya curled her fingers into a heart and held it up like a sarcastic emoji come to life and blew Jake an air kiss. She was acting surprisingly... almost normal.

"Two years?" Ben smiled. "Funny how we've never heard of it before, no? No disrespect."

"Jake very discreet. Like CIA and Mossad," Anya gave Ben a stink eye. "I didn't know we were dating three months into our relationship."

"Where are you from, Anya?" Ben wasn't even trying to hide the fact that he was staring down her cleavage. Jake didn't think it was possible to hate him more, until now.

"I'm from a small place between despair and morally poor decisions. Lovely in spring."

"Russia?"

Anya rolled her eyes. "Tak. I don't do ballet, I don't say da like it's cute, and I haven't poisoned or invaded anyone this year."

"Sorry?"

"Moldova. My grandma spoke Russian, my school taught Romanian, and the government lied in both."

Ben blinked. The Anya effect had hit. He looked like he'd expected shy giggles and got a borscht storm instead. "It's just, I've heard, in those places, a lot of Americans go to get young, beautiful brides."

Anya smiled, sharp and deadpan. "Ah yes. The American tradition: fly to sad country, a place where economy cries in corner, wave passport and hope someone says yes before they learn English."

"Hey, I'm not judging. Everyone's gotta hustle, right?"

Jake noticed the vein pulsing in Anya's forehead and decided to intervene before the Cold War ended with nukes on the lawn.

"Anya works with me at the deli. I didn't order her by mail, Ben. It's this crazy little thing called love." Then he leaned in and kissed her gently on the cheek.

She looked surprised, almost vulnerable, for a split second. Then something changed. Her hand slid to the back of his neck, firm and deliberate. And before he could fully process it, her mouth was on his.

It wasn't a performance. Not a peck. Not polite. It was full throttle.

Warm lips, soft but certain. Tongue sliding in like it belonged there.

She didn't taste like a deli co-worker. She tasted like danger, passion, and domination, and not a little bit of desperation.

Like she'd been waiting for this moment.

She kissed him like they were naked and alone in bed, not surrounded by family and judgment. Her body pressed into his, not overly, just enough to make sure he knew exactly who was in charge.

Jake's pulse did something weird.

Like pressing the gas pedal on a sports car, sudden, sharp, and way too fast. For a fake marriage, this was more real than anything he'd ever felt.

"Oooh, slow down, you mad kids," Ben said, half-laughing, half-flustered. "This is a PG-13 zone."

Anya turned and gave him a look, the kind that promised death, but only after prolonged torture. Still, she let go of her fake husband.

Jake lowkey wished she hadn't.

Then he was glad she did.

What the fuck?

He stared at her.

Still Anya. Still his toxic co-worker. Still beautiful.

And still very much a futanari.

He'd seen the thing between her legs once. It was twice the size of his.

He was alarmed by her unexpected passion, and even more alarmed by how easily he'd reacted to it. It made him question his own sexuality, and since people don't like mental work that requires changing their worldview, he shoved it, almost violently, into the corner of his mind.

======

"There you go, darling, we're big meat eaters around here, hope that's not a deal-breaker." Jake's dad, Henry, piled Anya's plate with sausages and two rump steaks. "Hope you're not a vegetarian."

"In Moldova, 'vegetarian' means sick or a monk. Or both."

"Where do you guys live, by the way?" his father asked.

"We're off Maple," Anya said. "Near the gas station. Gives sense of incoming explosion. Very motivational."

"Oh, but Jake told me you're at his place on Fifth, near the park," Ben added, smirking like he'd just won a blowjob.

Jake's mom exchanged a confused look with her husband, then clenched her jaw.

Jake imagined himself Googling poisons that leave no trace in the body. "We're on Fifth, near the park," he said. "I mean, we used to live off Maple, but we just moved to my place on Fifth." He tried to spin it, but his gut clenched when he caught Ben's smug smile.

"It's okay to start small," his dad said, ignoring the slip. "At your age, me and your mom lived in an apartment we used to call 'the Dog Kennel.' Start small, dream big. Welcome to the family, Anya. Sorry about the family name."

"Why sorry for family name?"

"You don't know Jake's last name?" Ben's smirk widened. "I thought you two dated for two years."

Anya raised an eyebrow. "Jake, err... Sparrow?"

"It's Schloffenkranz," Jake's dad offered.

"Gesundheit," Anya deadpanned. She turned to Jake. "Poor you. Must've been hard as kid."

"It builds character."

"And phlegm."

Jake shot his dad a worried look. They really should've done some homework.

He could practically see the wheels turning in his in-law's head, calculating how to get his hands on Jake's one-point-two million.

They sat for lunch outside, gathered around Grandpa's old iron garden table, with twisted legs and chairs that creaked like they were judging your posture. His whole family was there, along with his mother's side cousins, the ones sharing the will, and their respective broods.

The air buzzed with noise: silverware clinking, soda cans popping, babies crying, a Bluetooth speaker playing the Beatles ("Here Comes the Sun"). Ethan, eldest son of Jake's cousin, was in the middle of a handstand competition with himself on the lawn, failing spectacularly and still shouting "Nailed it!" every time he collapsed.

It was enough background chaos to let Jake and Anya speak unheard.

Her hand rested on his thigh, possessive, and a bit too loving. If she was playing the part, she was committing with more zeal than he'd asked for.

"What the fuck was that?" he hissed.

"What the fuck was what?" she asked. "I don't know your last name. Schlof-blah-bluh. Still don't, by the way. It sounds like vaginal infection."

"No, I meant the kiss back there."

"I kiss my new husband! Problem?"

"Well...?"

"You liked it, no?"

"It was too much," Jake whispered, flustered.

Her hand pressed firmer on his thigh, brushing against him in a way that made him jolt. "Your tongue said otherwise. It went on tour in Anya's mouth and started naming cities."

"I..." He felt himself blushing.

"It's okay to want Anya, baby. Not your fault I'm so hot."

He felt himself hardening under her touch. "Anya. Stop..."

She shrugged. "Not my fault. I don't try to be hot. But sometimes I just stand there, and people start confessing sins they haven't even committed yet."

"I bet. Dude, take your hand off."

She didn't. Instead, she gave him a quick peck on the cheek, then leaned in and bit softly at his neck. Her hand slid lower, fingers brushing over the front of his pants, dragging slowly along the outline of his hardening member.

Jake jolted.

"Stop it!" he hissed.

They were sitting at the edge of the table, and the tablecloth covered the action, but that didn't make it safe. Jake wasn't an exhibitionist. He wasn't even sure what he was anymore.

"You're playing with fire," he whispered.

Anya's voice was a purr. "That's why you melting, little Jake?"

She kept her hand there. Lazy. Confident. As if this were the most natural place in the world to stroke her fake husband's ego, and more.

Jake tried to shift away without making it obvious. He elbowed a plate. It clinked. Someone glanced. His mother, maybe.

"Anya," he gritted through his teeth. "Seriously."

"Nobody sees." She gave his member a light tap. "Don't you like?"

"I don't want a hand job."

"Okay." She licked her lips like a lazy kitten. "But Anya think playing your magical flute during family lunch inappropriate."

"Don't!"

She sighed. "You set tough terms, husband. No mouth, no hands. Very kinky. Anya like." She shifted in her seat so she was facing him more directly. "Lucky for you, like good ex-Soviet girl, with flexibility, rage, and no childhood, I did gymnastics."

"What?"

"Didn't win medals," she said casually. "Judges said attitude was problem. Apparently, glaring at opponents and saying 'I will end you' during warm-up is not 'sportsmanship.'" She threw up double air quotes. Then, with the same casual ease, she lifted her right foot and placed it in his lap, directly on his crotch. "Don't worry," she said sweetly. "I trimmed my toenails. Mostly."

"When did you get your sandal off?"

"Shhh..." She pressed a manicured finger to her lips. "Don't make scene. Mom already hates me. Daddy is cool, though. I like him."

"My mom doesn't, oh God, hate you..."

Jake's voice caught as her bare foot began massaging him under the table. He swallowed hard. Her toes pressed and rubbed against the fabric of his pants. He could feel each toe as it curled and hit the right spot.

He swallowed hard, his breath hitching as she increased the pressure. Above the table she smiled and leaned in then she giggled as if he just told a silly joke

Her lips curved into a wicked smile as she leaned back in her chair.

"Stop it!" he whispered

"Very unconvincing, Jake." Her her foot slid up and down the length of his cock, the friction making Jake's hips jerk involuntarily. "You like that, don't you, Jake?" she murmured, her voice low and sultry.

She slid her foot down the length of him, her arch cradling his shaft as she rubbed him through his pants, the fabric dampening with precum.

"Fuck," Jake breathed, his eyes flicking to his mom and dad. Luckily for him, Ethan started a stand-up comedy act, which was just as embarrassing as his gymnastics.

Ethan: "I tripped in the cafeteria and my sandwich flew, now they call me the Flying PB&J!"

Anya's foot was relentless, her toes pressing against the head of his cock.

"Oof," Jake breathed out, the sound escaping before he could trap it behind his teeth. His thighs tensed as her big toe circled the sensitive tip, somehow finding exactly the right spot even through his pants.

Anya's foot paused, just long enough for him to think she'd stopped, before pressing down with perfect pressure, not enough to hurt, just enough to make his cock throb painfully against his zipper.

"Mm, you're getting so hard for me, aren't you?" She teased.

"Sorry, did you say something?" Jake's mom turned to them.

"I was saying Ethan really committed," Anya slipped her leg off sideways under the table. "He commits to every word. No matter what happened to the audience."

Jake's father laughed. "I like her, Jake."

Anya's foot rose slowly, once his parents' eyes were no longer on them. Her toes teased the head of his cock, drawing out the pleasure until Jake was panting.

"Please, fuck, Anya, please."

Anya's foot moved faster, her arch cradling his cock as she worked him relentlessly. Her toes, delicate and teasing, brushed against the sensitive tip of his erection. Encouraging.

He forgot all about her futanari physiology.

Then she stopped.

"Not so terrible being Anya's husband?"

"Oooh, shit." He shook his head.

She lifted her leg off and lay two hands over the shape of his cock, feeling what was under the material. It had grown even harder, its thickness pressing tight against the fabric, the thick rib that would run the underside pressing out now too. Anya traced its shape with her fingertips.

Then she grabbed it. Anya had a strong Soviet grip, and Jake bit his lip not to groan.

"Okay," She suddenly sat back, folding her arms across her chest like she hadn't just committed an international crime under the potato salad.

"What the fuck?" Jake whispered.

"I suddenly remembered you say kiss was 'too much' and decided to be insulted ad hoc."

"Seriously?"

"I gave you passion. You gave me Yelp review." She gave him a smug smile. "Too much? Next time I'll just shake your hand and pat your back like pervert school principal. We'll see how 'not too much' that feels."

He kissed her cheek, gently.

She shook her head, disgusted. "Wow. Tender. Intimate. I felt that in my tax records."

"Sorry."

"I bet you are."

He reached for her neck.

Anya didn't wait.

She grabbed his jaw like she was claiming territory, pulled his mouth to hers, and kissed him hard, fast, deep, no permission asked. Her fingers tightened behind his head, anchoring him. Her lips moved like she wanted to taste his very soul. Like she was tattooing herself inside his mouth. Like she knew this might be their last kiss, and she refused to waste it.

Tongue, teeth, breath, all in. No filter.

Jake forgot where they were.

Forgot the family. The food. The fake marriage.

There was only her.

"Jesus, you guys, get a room or something," Ben muttered. His tone was mockingly disgusted, but his eyes gleamed like he was drinking in the whole show.

Jake pulled back, flustered and angry. He wasn't even sure if it was at Ben, Anya or himself.

Anya gave Ben the sweetest of smiles promising tar, feathers, and a slow revenge involving his toothbrush, his ass, and absolutely no lube. Her right hand went below Jake's belt, slipped into his fly, found his hard cock constrained in his suit pants and stroked.

"Oh, shit, yeah," he whispered. "Right there."

"Look how bad you want it," she said and gripped his cock. She choked it, in his pants. He was staring off toward the horizon when she turned his chin, almost forcing him to look at her.

"I want to see how my Jake looks when he's pleasured."

The way she said 'my Jake' felt like an untuned string, too possessive, too sharp.

But there wasn't enough blood left in his upper head to object.

His green eyes locked on hers, jaw clenched, breath steady through his nose as his skin tingled under her slippery grip. She began to jerk him a little faster, watching for that moment, when his eyes would roll back, or his mouth would fall open.

Her left hand slid to his thigh, found his hand, and guided it onto her calf. She drew his fingers upward, lifting the edge of her short dress just a little.

She smiled, bit her lower lip, eyes half-lidded.

"Jake," she breathed.

"What?"

"I know I mess with you a lot. Can't help it. I just... like you. A lot more than I should."

"What?"

She took his hand off her thigh and pressed it between her legs and Jake, for the first time in his life, touched a cock that wasn't his.

He freaked out.

Suddenly, it was too real, like a haze had turned into a slap in the face.

Because that was Anya too.

Long, much longer than him.

Thick, so much thicker.

And so, so hard.

Pulsing.

"What's wrong?" Her voice cracked just enough to betray her. She tried to cover it with a crooked smile, cocked her head like it was all still a joke, but it didn't hold. Not this time. Her eyes didn't sparkle. They didn't tease. They pleaded.

And in that split second, Jake saw her again. The same way he saw her in the restroom that day.

Small. Raw. Crying like a stranger had stolen her soul.

He felt his gut twist. Because this, this flinch, this fear, wasn't new. Some other guy had probably made her feel this way before. Some jerk had probably pulled away, recoiled like she was a mistake. And now here he was, doing the same damn thing.

He was a lot of things, immature, selfish, clueless on good days. But not cruel.

At least, he didn't want to be.

"Nothing's wrong," he said, wrapping his hand around her length like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Anya stared at him, half shock, half confusion, and a hundred percent lust.

Her eyes darkened as she smiled slowly. "I like being married to you."

His fingers traced the new contour, familiar yet utterly foreign. It wasn't his first rodeo; he'd ventured to Palm-Ville plenty in college. But someone else's village? Never.

Am I gay now? He tried imagining it as just a very long clit, but his brain short-circuited when he found the head.

Anya's breath hitched.

He stared at her, eyes widening in surprise. Her lips parted slightly, caught mid-breath, her blue-gray eyes gleaming with a mix of desire and something softer.

He tried again, closing his fist around it.

"Good?" he whispered.

She nodded, biting her lip. No sarcasm, no wise remarks. Just silence.

His hand moved boldly under her short dress, slowly lifting the fabric. He kept watching her, like a novice chef eyeing the head cook for approval, waiting for cues.

His fingers slid between her legs, beneath the fabric, slow as a dream.

Someone shouted. He jerked his head, alarmed. Caught? Relief hit when he realized it was just Ethan's stand-up act, something about dolphins not being fish, and very angry about it.

His fingers resumed, tracing her inner thigh until they met the triangle. Beneath her lacy underwear, he found an impressive sack. He caressed it, and Anya's hand left his cock, gripping the table's edge.

No woman had ever reacted to him like this.

He cupped her left ball, feeling its solid heft as he massaged gently. Anya's balls were massive, full, powerful.

So, I like cock now?

He couldn't tell.

His finger traced the length of her hard cock. It was so big, so firm, it strained against the elastic band of her underwear, the head peeking out.

Anya bit her lip.

Her tongue flicked out, a curious, seductive snake. He leaned closer, their breaths mingling, and when her tongue ventured again, he met it with his own, grazing the tip with a teasing touch.

Anya blinked rapidly.

He grew bolder, excited, a traveler in a strange land, stumbling upon treasure. Anya's breath hitched under his fingers, her thighs tensing, her lips parting with a sound, not quite a moan, but not nothing.

He'd never seen a woman react like this. Not to him. Not to his touch.

It struck something deep, boyish, primal, twisted together, like he'd unlocked a secret door with hands he never knew could open anything. A rush hit, sharp and hot, pumping through his veins like cocaine with better payoffs. He wanted more. God, he wanted to chase that sound from her again, to hit her with lust until she begged.

No going back now.

She was heat and flame under his touch. He gripped the shaft, dragging his fingers up slowly, like a matchstick igniting a spark.

Anya arched her back slightly, pressing her curves against the restrained silk and his hand. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she gave a soft gasp.

His fingertips danced around the head, feeling the sensitive ridge. He closed them gently, applying a light "juicing" motion, like squeezing a lemon.

Anya's leg shuddered, a visible blush crawling up her neck.

Bold now, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her lacy underwear. With a surge of confidence, he tugged. Anya lifted slightly, just enough to let him pull them off. He leaned in, slid them down her legs, and ducked under the table, finding himself between her spread thighs.

Her panties bunched awkwardly around her knees, so he eased them lower, inch by inch, until they slipped off her feet. He stared at them for a second, then pocketed them.

Her cock, hard, now tented her dress. If she stood, it would be obvious. He stared at it, up close and intimate for the first time.

Her member was circumcised, revealing a smooth, defined crown. It was impressively long, with a commanding presence, and girthy. Formidable. Longer than his, probably longer than any he'd seen. Pulsing with life, a large drop of precum gleamed at the tip. He touched it gently, running his finger from tip to balls, tracing the full length.

Above him, Anya whispered something in Russian or Romanian, he couldn't tell.

"Where did Jake go?" His mother's voice came from above.

Jake sprang up and slid back into his seat. "Sorry, just dropped my spoon."

Anya leaned into him as he sat, her breath hot against his ear. "I want to eat you up," she whispered.

"Do you now?"

"I want to keep you. Break you open and make you beg. I want to leave marks so deep they don't fade."

Jake blinked. "Ah... cool."

She rested her forehead against his. "I wanted you..." She stopped herself, alarmed by her own words. "My Jake."

And then everything came tumbling down.

Ben turned toward them, smirking. "Hey, that you on HeartSpark?" He held out his phone, screen lit with a big, smiling photo of Anya in a low-cut red dress with a thigh slit so high it could be considered a shortcut.

He read her bio aloud, theatrical: "Swipe right if you like danger, wine, and legs longer than your attention span. I'm the mistake you'd want to make twice."

Ben chuckled. "Sure sounds like you."

Anya's blush deepened. "Forgot all about it. Meant to take it down forever ago." She glanced at Jake, no longer her bold, sure self. "It's not..."

They weren't really married. Jake knew that. She had every right to be on a dating app, hell, he was still on a few himself. So why did her panicked stare feel like a betrayal?

Then Ben squinted, his smirk sharpening. "Wait. Are you a futa? It says you're a futanari."

Jake frantically motioned for him to zip it, but the damage was already done.

Jake's mother turned. "Who's a futanari?"

"Oh, I didn't know it was a secret," Ben said, all fake innocence. But he wasn't exactly giving De Niro, his glee was all too real.

His mother blinked, her eyes scanning the table, then locking on Anya. "What do you mean, Ben? Who is a futa?"

"Rachel..." Jake's dad put a hand on her shoulder, trying to calm her.

She shoved it off. "What's going on here, Jake?"

Jake's brain short-circuited with panic. "Mom, it's, "

"Don't play dumb with me, Jake," she snapped, her voice rising. Now every eye at the table turned toward them. Ethan, still mid-performance, made a dolphin noise into the silence.

"Is she a futa?"

"You say it like it's a crime," Anya said, her voice tight as she locked eyes with her.

"What's going on, Jake? A futanari?"

"You know it's just a word, Mrs. Jake's mother," Anya was really making an effort to tone it down. "It's just a word. It doesn't define me or who I am."

But Jake's mother was no longer looking at her. "You brought that into our family and thought I wouldn't notice? A man in a dress and heels, Jake."

"Sorry for not fitting into your little boxes, Rachel. I'm a woman..." Anya's voice cracked but didn't break. Her stare was steady, proud.

Rachel folded her arms, jaw tight.

"Rachel..." Jake's father pleaded softly. "I think-"

His wife cut him off. "I taught you right from wrong, Jake. And you bring that into our home like it's normal? Into your grandfather's house? What would he say if he saw this circus at his table?"

Anya opened her mouth to reply, but Rachel leaned forward, her voice like acid.

"Are you two really married, or is this just your latest way to stick it to me, Jake?"

"Mom, please..." Jake said, but Rachel didn't stop.

"Does Jake even know? What you really are?"

Anya's face went still, her body rigid. Her skin paled like porcelain under too much heat. She nodded once, sharp, automatic, then pushed her chair back with a scrape.

She grabbed her purse and held it low in front of her. Jake immediately understood why.

Her panties were still in his pocket, and she was likely still hard. Not for long, though. Not after this.

"Thank you for lunch," she said, stiffly formal, eyes focused on a spot just above Rachel's head. "I..."

Her voice caught. She turned abruptly and strode out, barefoot, fast but composed, like a woman fleeing a fire and refusing to scream.

She didn't run.

Running would mean she was hurt.

Jake stared after her.

And then her shoulders trembled once, just once, before she disappeared behind the street corner.

Jake wanted to run after her but couldn't find the strength. He wanted to kill Ben. He wanted to shake his mom. But he knew the guy he was most furious with was the guy in the mirror. He closed his eyes. The image of Anya, her face twisted, fighting back tears, was etched deep.

Right now, even two or three million didn't sound like enough. She wasn't his wife, and she wasn't his lover, but she was still a friend. And a good person. Behind all the outrageous stories and armor was a generous heart that always had his back. And now...?

Now he doubted she'd ever talk to him again.

He sat down and tried not to cry.

"I am married to her, Mom. And I did know."

"And you think that's okay?"

"I think Grandpa would be rolling in his grave if he saw the way you treated her. She didn't deserve that."

Her voice softened. "You might not understand right now, but eventually you'll-"

"Rachel, that's enough." His father rarely raised his voice. He was a gentle man. Big. An ex-Marine. But on the rare occasions that he did, everybody listened.

"Jake, inside. We need to talk."

"Dad, I need, "

"Now!"

=====

His dad paced across the stripped-down living room, boots heavy on bare wood. The furniture was gone, sold off or divided, like inheritance always is, leaving behind echo and dust.

Jake sat in the only thing left: the old straw chair his grandfather used to smoke in, carved with years of elbows and ash. He felt twelve again. Small. Guilty.

Like the air itself was waiting for the next blow, and his father's silence was louder than yelling.

"Who would've thought that her being a...? It's nobody's business," he tried. "I never thought it would be brought up. That Ben, I swear, Dad, I'm gonna kill him. Not even kidding. I'm gonna bash his ugly egg head with a baseball bat."

"I don't care about that," his dad ruffled his thinning hair. Jake had never seen him this angry. Not even when the police brought Jake home for trying to buy dope.

"I don't care about that at all."

"Mom does."

"I'll deal with Mom." His dad paused. "And Ben. That's not what this is about. Are you really married to her?"

"Wanna see the certificate? I've got it on me."

"You never dated this woman. You barely know her, and you clearly don't live together. Never have. This is about your Grandpa's will and the money, right?"

"It's one point two million, Dad."

His father nodded. "Probably more."

"Yeah, I married her for the money. Why does that make me the villain? There's no clause in Grandpa's will that says the marriage has to be out of love."

"So you chose fraud."

Jake raised his voice, and thumped his chest. "I deserve this. It's all been downhill since college. Don't you get it? I want this money. I need it. It's mine. I need a fucking win so bad."

His father took a long breath. "What does she get out of it?"

"A Green Card."

"I figured it was something like that. When does her visa expire?"

Jake closed his eyes. "She..."

"I get you," his father nodded. "I get you loud and clear. How long has her visa been expired? Or did she come in undocumented?"

"I think... less than a year ago."

His father growled in frustration.

"You gonna ground me now? Spank my ass like when I was a kid?"

"How many times have I beaten you, Jake?"

"Twice. Both well deserved. Look, I get where you're coming from. You don't trust her. You think she's after more than just the Green Card. And you're right, I don't fully trust her either. That's why we signed a prenup. She can't touch Grandpa's money. I'm not as dumb as you think I am."

"Jesus, Jake." His dad leaned against the mantle, taking a deep breath. Jake suddenly noticed how much thinner he'd become over the past year. Almost vulnerable.

It was painful, because when he was a kid, he thought his dad's only weakness was kryptonite.

"When I was your age..." his father said. "Do you know what I did before I started working as a defense attorney at Madsen, Trent & Doyle?"

"You were a Marine."

"I meant after college. Just before you were born."

"You worked for the public prosecutor in Dallas?"

His father nodded. "Then two years with ICE."

"I didn't know that."

"Building cases against guys like you."

Jake frowned. "What the hell did I do?"

"Marriage fraud. 8 U. S. Code § 1325(c). It's a felony."

"We married, we didn't rob a fucking bank."

His father rubbed his eyes, he sounded tired and frustrated. "You did something worse, legally speaking. You lied under oath. You submitted government forms under penalty of perjury."

"Jesus, Dad, "

"You could get five years in federal prison, Jake. A quarter-million dollar fine. And she-"

"What about her?"

"She gets a lifetime ban. Immediate removal. No path to citizenship. No reentry. Not even on a tourist visa."

"Crap!" Jake felt the world tilt sideways. His breath caught, and for a moment he just stared at the old wallpaper like it might crack open and swallow him. Then he straightened up, forcing a smirk. "Well, we did marry. I'm not gonna tell them it's fake. Neither will she."

His father didn't smile. "Jake... you don't get it. There's interviews. Paperwork. Site visits. They don't just take your word for it."

"So we'll do the interview, "

His dad stepped closer. "What address are you going to give? Hers or yours? Wait... do you even know her old address?"

Jake hesitated. "We said she moved in with me, "

"When? Can you prove it?" His dad's voice grew louder, more frustration bleeding in. "Got mail? Bills? Photos? A shared lease? Neighbors who've seen her come and go? Or were you planning to wing it with charm and puppy eyes?"

"We'll figure it out," Jake muttered, trying to sound confident. He wasn't.

"Jesus, you sound twelve," his dad snapped. "You walked into federal fraud like it's a prank on TikTok. You didn't even Google it. You didn't even Google, Jake!"

That stung more than he expected.

His dad ran a hand through his hair, visibly trying to keep it together. "You think they don't check? They do checks. Random ones. They knock at your door when you're not expecting it. They look at your fridge magnets. They ask what side of the bed she sleeps on, what kind of shampoo she uses. You think you can bluff your way through that?"

Jake opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

"You didn't even learn the rules before breaking them," his dad said, voice low now. "It's not just stupid. It's childish."

Jake threw out another lifeline, hoping to sound more in control than he felt. "So we'll start living together. Do our homework, learn all the correct answers, bed sides, toothpaste brands, all of it. In a couple months, she gets her Green Card, I get Grandpa's money, we file for divorce. Clean break."

His dad stared at him like he'd just suggested robbing a bank with finger guns. "You think they stamp a Green Card like a loyalty card at a sandwich shop? It's years. Two years, minimum. And that's still not permanent."

Jake opened his mouth, then closed it again. His stomach turned.

His dad stepped forward, eyes dark. "And here's the fun part. You divorce before the two-year mark? It sets off every red flag in the system. She gets flagged. You get investigated. It doesn't matter if you both keep your mouths shut. They assume it's fraud."

"Shit. Fuck." He buried his face in his palms. "Two years with Anya?"

"For a temporary Green Card. We're talking four years, at least, for the entire process."

"What do I do?"

"Did she file already? For the Green Card, I mean."

Jake nodded. "I think so. Yeah. Application's in."

"Then file for divorce. First thing tomorrow. Say it was a mistake, that you got cold feet, and you're not willing to commit a felony."

"What happens to me?"

"You'll need a lawyer. I'll help. Worst case? A fine or community service. Maybe a warning. They're more lenient with people who come clean."

He nodded, then paused. A long, heavy silence. When he finally spoke, his voice trembled. "And Anya?"

"If she's out of status and has no other grounds to stay? She'll be removed. You walk, she gets deported."

"Jesus. She doesn't deserve that."

His father exhaled. "What other choice do you have, Jake?"

======

The Rack-Shack smelled like sex, smoke, and sadness, borderline desperation. Even Candy, currently swirling half-heartedly around the pole, looked about as enthusiastic as Wesley Snipes doing his taxes.

Anya nimbly whirled past a cluster of frat bros who smelled like trouble and Axe body spray. When a lonely middle-aged guy reached for her ass, she hit him with such an emasculating glare his balls shriveled on the spot and fell off.

"Hey, my favorite Russian bitch." Ray blocked her path.

"Not Russian, and not today, Ray. Not in the mood."

"When are you ever?" Ray, the Rack-Shack manager, blew her an air kiss that made her flinch. His black hair was slicked back with something between hair gel and kitchen grease, and his cologne hit like pepper spray in a sauna.

"Look, you see that guy in the black suit?" He nodded toward the one who'd tried to grab her ass. "He really wants a lap dance. Asked for you specifically."

"He look like wet cardboard with wedding ring. I wouldn't sit on his lap if it was made of diamonds."

"Come on, Anya. Brigitte and Shanika are both out sick. You could fill in. It's good money. He likes your dominating vibe, and he's a regular, so..."

"Tell your regular friend that next time he wants a woman on top, he try therapy. Or his wife. If she's still alive inside."

Ray pulled out his wallet. "I'll throw in an extra fifty if you do it. Good money. Plus, you keep the tips."

"I'm a waitress, not a whore. I carry drinks, not daddy issues."

She finally got to the table waiting for the drinks and placed each one with a look that promised agonized death to the next person talking to her.

"Hey," someone said tenderly from her right.

"Say 'hey' one more time. I swear I turn this tray into Slavic frisbee. You, " She froze as she turned. It was Jake.

All the annoying feelings, the butterflies she couldn't help but feel around him, rose up like little traitors. All the emotions that made her want to break stuff whenever he looked at Sandra with smitten puppy eyes.

"What you doing here?"

"Anya, " he started tenderly.

"How you know I'm working here?"

"I'm so sorry. You can't believe just how much. I'm so, so sorry. I never meant-"

"Shut up!"

She hated so much the fact that he saw her in the Rack-Shack uniform: red hotpants that rode up with every step, and a cropped tank top so tight her nipples should've been on the payroll.

"I never meant... I mean, that idiot Ben, "

"I give fuck all about that bald pizdos!" She added a string of curses in both Romanian and Russian. "I was never humiliated like that in my entire life."

"I never meant to hurt you..."

"And what's with your mother? My village took water from well, but your mom came from some prehistoric cave? A man with a dress? Really?"

"I'm... She's... I didn't know... I mean I knew she, "

"And you sat there like fish." She puckered her lips and opened and closed her mouth in slow, stupid motions, flapping her hands like gills on either side of her face. "Like this. Blup blup. Nothing come out."

"Her father, my grandfather, used to be a priest, before he retired. First Reformed Baptist Church of Eden's Promise. They-"

Anya nodded. "I know them. 'God made two lanes. If you're a traffic jam in the middle, don't blame Jesus.' Those guys, right?"

Jake nodded sadly.

She wanted so much to kiss him like she did earlier, which infuriated her even more. "I hate you!"

"We need to talk, Anya."

"I blocked your number. I never wanna talk with you again. Not now, not never."

"She's my mom, Anya. What was I supposed to do?"

"Dan! Hey, Dan!" she shouted at the massive bouncer near the bar. "This guy!" She pointed at Jake. "Very handsy. Put his family where he shouldn't."

"Seriously?"

"You heard the lady," Dan strolled over, slow and sure. He was big as a tank, and his shoulders had the wingspan of an Airbus. "You walking out, or am I throwing you out?"

Jake didn't move. "You think I'm proud of what happened?" he said, his voice breaking just a little. "You think I'm not ripping myself apart over it?"

Dan grabbed his shoulder. "Wrong answer, Romeo."

======

Jake sat in his car outside the Rack-Shack. His shoulder and ego were bruised, but he felt he had no other choice.

He couldn't just ditch Anya under the ICE bus.

It was almost 2 a. m., and she still hadn't come out.

Jesus. No wonder she fell asleep during the day on the couch outside. He checked his Find My Friends app and cursed.

She was moving. Somehow, he'd missed her leaving. He must've dozed off. He wasn't a night owl.

He followed her location. To his surprise, it didn't head toward Maple, which he thought was her last address, but back toward work. There weren't any residential buildings in that area, or so he thought.

He drove past her location. The app said she was nearby. He circled the block three times and still couldn't figure it out. Finally, he parked near an alley behind the store. The app pointed him in that direction.

He got out of the car.

The asphalt back here reeked of rotting vegetables cooked in heat. The alley smelled like stupid decisions and armed robbery.

He sighed. Maybe the app glitched? Probably some fluke.

There was nothing here. The biting chill of the night air seeped through his clothes. Exhaustion hit, and every muscle begged him to do the rational thing and go home.

He turned around to head back, but then he heard a wet cough.

Soft. Wet. Human.

"Anya?"

Nothing.

He stepped further into the alley, firing up his iPhone's flashlight. There, at the back of the alley, something moved.

Behind the trashcans, against the wall. A blur of pale limbs under gray cloth.

"Anya?"

She was curled on a makeshift bed of cardboard. Her legs were bare.

"What the actual fuck?" he said.

"What the fuck?" she fired right back, squinting like an owl against the light. "How you find me?" Then she slapped her forehead. "The stupid, 'Find My Friends' app. Doesn't it know you're not a friend?"

"I am a friend. What the hell are you doing here?"

She shrugged. "Living the American dream."

"Did you fight with your landlord?"

"We didn't fight. She cried, I packed. Very mutual."

"What?"

"She said cash or eviction. I said good luck moving me." Anya shrugged.

"And?"

"Go home, Jake," she said gently.

"I brought your sandals. They're in my car."

She nodded, but didn't move.

Jake stared at her for a beat. Then quietly pulled off his hoodie and stepped forward. He draped it over her shoulders without a word.

She flinched at first, like she expected a slap instead. But she let it fall. She didn't thank him, just held the cloth tight around her.

"Don't you have anywhere to sleep?"

"Tried the homeless shelter on Seventh. Warm meal and bed included. Turned out attempted rape was also included. Probably in the fine print."

He rubbed his eyes, suddenly so tired. "Jesus, how long have you been sleeping like this?"

"Three weeks."

"Why...? Why... Why the fuck didn't you say anything? I'd let you crash in my place."

"Wouldn't want to ruin the pure straight non-futa harmony in your house."

"You're not a futa, you're a big lump of Moldovan donkey. I've never met anyone more difficult... Jesus." Jake sank down beside her, the asphalt cold under his jeans. "I'm not my mom, you know. You got to come home with me."

"Nope."

"You gotta come live with me and pretend to be my real wife for like... four, five years."

She shook her head.

"I'm not asking. I'm not going to jail because of you. It's either that or I cancel the marriage, say it's a mistake, and ICE will come for you. They'll deport you back to Moldova."

"I can't go back home."

Jake didn't say anything for a long second. He just sat there, staring at the cracked bricks across from them.

Then, slowly, he held out his hand.

She looked at it. Didn't move.

He waited.

Eventually, like it hurt to do it, she slid her hand into his. She didn't grip it. Just... let him hold it.

"Anya," he said quietly.

She didn't answer. But she didn't let go.

======

To be continued...