by Zavarelli, A
She nods. “Yeah, I wait tables over at the diner on Fifth. It’s nothing to write home about, but it pays the bills.”
It doesn’t look like it, but I don’t tell her so.
The apartment door creaks open, and another woman who looks older than Kat pokes her head out. “Kat? I thought that was you. Everything okay out here?”
“Hey, Rachel.” She waves at her friend. “I’m just talking to… uh…”
“Lev,” I fill in the blank.
“Right.” The blush on Kat’s face deepens. “Lev was just returning my scarf.”
“Okay.” Rachel eyes me with curiosity before she eases the door closed. “See you in a few.”
Kat nods, and the door shuts with an audible clunk. Silence lingers between us. I want to know what she’s thinking, but as it turns out, I don’t have to ask.
“I can’t believe I never even asked your name,” she blurts. “I’m so sorry if that came off as rude. But you just surprised me being here. How did you even find me, anyway?”
“Your driver’s license,” I remind her. “I went through your bag last night and confiscated the fake ID, remember?”
“Right.” She rocks back on her heels. “And then you remembered my address and drove all the way over here to bring my scarf back?”
It sounds even creepier when she says it.
“I also thought you could use a meal,” I offer lamely. “I wasn’t in the best mood this morning, and I wanted to make up for it.”
“Are you asking me to dinner?” Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
“Are you accepting?” A smile tugs at my lips, but I resist.
“Dinner would be nice, actually,” she says. “I’m starving. Could you just give me two minutes to change?”
“Take your time.” I plant myself in the rusty lawn chair. “I’ll just be out here enjoying the view.”
3
Kat
I’m not sure pink is still my favorite color, but I’m so happy Lev brought the scarf back. It’s worn, the yarn coming apart in places, but I don’t care. When I wear it, I feel safe.
“He’s cute,” Rachel says, waggling her eyebrows.
I pass her and head to my bedroom, trying to suppress my excitement. “I guess.”
She follows me in. “You guess? I saw how you were looking at him. And how he was looking at you.”
I can’t help but smile when I turn to her again as I pull my uniform over my head.
“It’s not like that. He’s just being nice.” I get a whiff of fried onion rings from the diner. It’s probably in my hair too.
“Nice. Mm-hmm. Thought you said you spent the night at Nina’s.”
“Think I have time for a quick shower?”
“I can go keep him company if you like.” She winks.
“Don’t you dare.” I hurry into our shared bathroom and push the curtain back to start the water. It always takes a few minutes to warm up.
“Tell me,” she says, perching on the closed toilet seat as I rummage in my drawer for a razor.
“He just helped me last night. Nina had gotten me a little something special for my birthday, but well, it didn’t go as planned.”
Watching her face when I say it, I see it change as she grows more serious, and I instantly regret having told her that part.
“Kat—”
“It wasn’t a big deal.” I’m not in the mood for a lecture right now. “Everything turned out fine.”
Stripping off my underwear, I step under the warm flow. I’m quick, shampooing once and working conditioner into my hair before shaving my legs. I didn’t have time to shower before my shift at the diner, and between last night’s escapades and today’s various food smells, I stink.
Rachel pushes the curtain open just enough to peer inside.
“Hey, this is serious. You have to be careful. You can’t just buy something at a nightclub and expect to get what you think you’re paying for. There are really bad people out there, Kat, and they will take advantage of you when you aren’t in control of yourself.”
“I know. It was stupid, but it turned out fine.” Rachel is a recovering addict and doesn’t have much patience for anything like this. “I didn’t even like it if it makes any difference,” I try, rinsing the conditioner out of my hair, forgetting to comb it out first in my hurry.
“Do you remember everything, then? The whole night?”
I shake my head even though I know I should lie and tell her I do.
She hands me a towel, and I wrap it around myself. She takes my hands, and I look at her.
“Be careful, Kat. It’s not just the drugs. I mean, you don’t even know this guy. Do you even know what happened after you passed out?”
I pull away. “Look, if he’d done anything, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t bother to drive all the way over here to bring me my scarf. And besides, I’d know if something like that happened.”
“Not necessarily.” She leans against the doorframe with her arms folded across her chest. She looks so much older than twenty-five, and although I don’t know her whole story, I know enough.
I turn my attention to the meager offerings in my closet and decide on a pair of jeans and a tight black long-sleeved T-shirt.
“Kat—”
“I’m not planning on doing it again, Rach. I promise.” I hug her.
“Good. Because you got lucky once. That doesn’t tend to repeat.” She walks away, and I hate feeling as though I’ve disappointed her.
I run a wide-tooth comb through my hair, wincing when it catches on the tangles. I don’t have time to dry it, so I squeeze as much moisture out of it as possible and tie it into a high ponytail, leaving a strand out on the right side of my face. He’s already seen my arm. I don’t need him to see the gash on my temple too.
After I apply mascara and lip gloss, I rummage through my jackets for a leather one. Well, it’s pleather, but at least nothing had to die for it. Not that I’m vegan. I just don’t have money to spend on luxuries.
I sit on the edge of the bed and consider the boots I wore last night. They’re lying discarded in a corner of the room, but I can’t imagine squeezing my feet into those after a nine-hour shift at the diner, so I reach for my worn and very comfortable Chucks and slide them on.
One final glance in the mirror and I wonder if he’s expecting me to look like I did last night. I don’t. I never look that way, actually.
I remember what he said about my hair. I don’t remember all the details, but some things I don’t think I’ll ever forget. At least I hope not to. He asked me why I dyed it when my natural color was so pretty. I’m a redhead, that golden-red that looks more girl-next-door than anything else. It’s the same color as my mom’s had been. But unlike her, I don’t have too many freckles. Just three tiny ones scaling my right cheekbone in a neat little row and one on the very tip of my nose.
“You look great,” Rachel says, coming back into the room.
I smile.
“Here.” She holds out a small canister of what I know is pepper spray. “In case.”
I sigh. Sometimes she’s too much. “I don’t need that, Rachel. I’ll be fine.”
“Just take it. It’ll make me feel better.”
I’ve been renting my room from Rachel for just under a year, and in all that time, I’ve never seen her go out on a date or bring anyone home.
“Fine.” I take the canister. “But I won’t need it.”
“I hope you don’t.”
“See you.”
I tuck the pepper spray into my purse, do a quick count of my cash—tips from today—and tuck my phone into my pocket. Picking up the scarf Lev returned, I head through the apartment to the front door and realize I’m nervous. I haven’t been nervous, not like this, not that good kind of nervous, in a very long time.
I open the door and step out into the early evening. The fall air is crisp. He’s watching the sunset, and I take a moment too. It’s beautiful.
Lev stands up. He lo
oks me over, and I’m hyper-aware of how I look. And of how I don’t look like I did last night.
“I didn’t want to leave you sitting here while I dried my hair or put on makeup.”
He cocks his head to the side and steps a little closer than what most people would consider comfortable. I smell him when he does that. Take in the scent of aftershave and remember how I’d liked his smell last night, too.
Tonight, though, it makes my mouth water.
“I like this better,” he says.
I feel my face heat and bring my attention to wrapping my scarf around my neck.
“It’s not cold enough for that, is it?” he asks.
I shrug a shoulder. “I just like to have it.”
“Come on,” he says, one big hand moving to my lower back as he guides me to his Audi. He even opens my door and waits for me to get in before walking around to the driver’s side.
I take it all in. The sporty car, his leather jacket, his hair which he absently pushes off his face even though it falls right back down. I like it like that. He looks like a badass but cute too. And sexy.
It smells like him in here. Woodsy and clean and very masculine. The car itself is impeccably clean. I think if he saw my room, he’d flip.
“What do you feel like eating?” he asks as soon as he closes his door.
This is strange. We’re going on a date. “Um, I don’t mind. Italian? But anything’s fine.”
He nods and starts the car. “I know a place.”
I look at him, wondering how he knows a place in my neighborhood, and then I wonder what he’s waiting for. When he leans over me and he’s so close, I think he’s going to kiss me. I lick my lips, staring into his chocolate eyes, but nothing happens. Well, a corner of his mouth curves upward into a one-sided grin, and his eyes narrow a little as though he knows just what I’m thinking. I wonder how old he is. How experienced. If he works at the club, he must meet girls all the time. He must take girls upstairs all the time.
I feel my face flush with heat, and that one-sided grin widens to spread across his face. He knows exactly what he’s doing as he reaches for my seat belt and drags it across my chest, his face still inches from mine, hand not quite touching me but close enough that I swear electricity sparks between us.
“Safety first,” he says with a wink. His gaze slides downward momentarily before he’s back in his seat and shifting the car into first.
I touch my face. It feels hot. I adjust my shirt because what he was looking at were my nipples trying to tear through the fabric in anticipation of our kiss.
“Safety first,” I repeat. Can he hear my disappointment at the non-kiss?
He pulls expertly out of the parking lot, driving fast but fully in control of the sporty Audi. I watch as his big hand shifts gears seamlessly, merging with traffic, his body relaxed, casual as he glances at me, then back at the road.
In profile, he’s not so much cute anymore as hyper-masculine and very sexy. It’s his jawline, chiseled and hard and with that perfect five o’clock shadow.
“What are you looking at?” he asks me.
I snap my gaze straight ahead, embarrassed and still nervous. I’ve never really dated. Well, a few times since I moved in with Rachel but no one like Lev. No one I ever felt this way around.
I turn to him. “Why did you come all the way out here to bring me my scarf?”
He glances at me momentarily, dark eyes clear. There’s something wild inside them. Something carnal.
He licks his lips before he answers, and when he swallows, I watch his Adam’s apple work. Can a man’s Adam’s apple be sexy?
Something is seriously wrong with me.
“I wanted to see you again,” he says, and it’s what I want to hear. “Tell me your story, Katerina Blake.”
I’m taken aback, wondering how he knows my last name. But then I remember he’d taken a photo of my driver’s license. The real one. That was how he found me in the first place.
“I don’t know your last name,” I say.
“It’s Antonov,” he answers shortly after turning his attention back to the road.
“Where are you from?”
“I asked your story first.”
“I’m pretty sure yours will be more interesting than mine.” Never mind the fact that I don’t like to tell mine. It’s not a pretty one.
“Tell me and I’ll let you know.”
“Okay.” Here goes. “I’ve lived here since I was a toddler. I mean, not here in the apartment but in the area, mostly just outside Philadelphia. Graduated high school last year and have been on my own since. I go to night school at the local community college in addition to working at the diner.” CliffsNotes version. “See, boring.”
“What do you study?” he asks.
We’re in the city now, and he’s taking a turn onto South 2nd Street. I wonder where he’s taking me. I rarely get to this part of the city although I love it.
“I want to become a teacher. You know, work with kids. Help them.”
He gives me a look like he’s surprised and pleased at once. “And your family? Your background? I thought Eastern European.”
“Why did you think that?”
“Bone structure. But then your eyes and hair made me think Irish?”
I’m surprised. “My mom was Irish. No one ever notices, I think.”
“Then they’re not paying attention. We’re here,” he announces as he snags a tight spot between two parked cars on a side street off South 2nd.
I look around but don’t see much. “Where are we going?”
“Giacomo’s,” he says, climbing out of the car and closing his door.
I’m just undoing my seat belt when he unexpectedly opens my door and holds out his hand.
I’m…surprised. He’s a gentleman.
Placing my hand in his, I let him help me out. He locks the doors, drops his keys into the pocket of his jeans, and with a hand at my back, he guides me around the corner to a tiny place that I would probably not look twice at. But when he opens the door and I smell the delicious smells of Italian, my stomach growls. I’m just glad it’s noisy and hope he doesn’t hear it.
“Only Italians. And us,” he says.
He nods to someone, an older man who smiles widely and gestures to the only empty table in the place. I walk ahead of him, weaving through the closely situated round tables, and take a seat in the one the older man pulls out for me, liking the casual place, the red and white checkered tablecloth and rickety table and chairs. A candle burns in the heavily waxed-over Chianti bottle on the table and the kitchen opens onto the restaurant so I can see the cook.
“It’s old-fashioned, but the food is delicious. I hope you like it.”
“It’s great and smells wonderful. We’re near Elfreth’s Alley, right?”
“Yep. You like it there?”
“Yeah. I like walking around there when I have the time.”
The older man who’d smiled to Lev comes over, and they shake hands. He gives us two menus. Lev orders a bottle of wine, then turns to me. “Red okay? I know you’re underage, but…” he trails off purposely, and I know he’s taking a dig at me.
“Red’s great,” I say as the man leaves. “And can I have the ID back that you took from me last night?”
“No, you cannot,” he says, reaching to take my menu.
“I haven’t even looked at it yet,” I say.
“Do you read Italian?”
I glance down and see the laminated but still worn-out menu is in Italian. “Oh.”
“You like gnocchi?” he asks.
“I love it.”
The man returns with the wine, opens the bottle, and pours two glasses. Lev orders for us and picks up his glass. He waits for me to do the same.
“To seeing you again in one piece and able to talk and walk on your own,” he says.
My smile vanishes, and I put my glass down. “Are you just going to lecture me about last night? Because if you are, then…” I t
rail off, because then what? I’ll take a taxi home? I don’t want to leave.
He reaches over to put his hand over mine. “Relax. I’m not going to lecture you, but I am going to tell you that it was a pretty stupid thing to do buying that shit off someone you don’t know.”
My shoulders slump, and I pull my hand out from under his.
His smile is gone, and although he doesn’t look angry, his eyes are harder, like they got a few times last night.
“Not to mention letting me take you upstairs when you were in that state. Another man may have taken advantage. They might have hurt you, Katerina.”
“All right, I’m done.” I move to stand, but he closes his hand over my knee. I look down. It’s so big it covers the whole of it, wrapping almost entirely around it.
“Stay,” he says, the single syllable a quietly spoken command.
Something stirs in my belly, but I don’t let myself think about that. Instead, I glare because I get the feeling I don’t have a choice.
“You need to be careful, especially at a place like Delirium. Don’t come back there, got it?”
“Don’t worry, I won’t now that I know I’m not welcome.”
He pulls his hand back and leans toward me. “It’s not that you’re not welcome. It’s just not…safe. You don’t belong there—”
“I don’t belong there?” I should feel angry. I wish I felt angry, but I just feel hurt. My shoulders cave, and I hug my arms around my middle, sliding the one underneath the sleeve of my shirt to that spot, scratching at the bumpy skin, wincing when I reopen a cut.
“Don’t you remember what I told you last night?” he asks more gently.
I search his eyes, looking for a sign that he’s mocking me, but he doesn’t seem cruel. Doesn’t seem angry even.
“What does your name mean?” he continues when I don’t answer.
I draw my hand out from under my sleeve, wipe the little bit of blood on my already red napkin, and pick up my glass. I pretend to take a sip because I can’t swallow right now.
“Katerina means pure. That place isn’t good, and I’m not usually there, Kat.”
I feel like he’s warning me.
