by Lara Hunter
He shot me one of his megawatt smiles.
“See you tonight.”
“See you tonight!”
I hurried off to the bathroom so I could skip around its small interior unseen, whispering “Yes, yes, yes!”
Nighttime and the launch party came in what seemed like seconds. Seconds to finish up my work, race home, and get changed into the teal, jeweled wonder that was my dress. Seconds to feed and walk Oscar. Then, a split-second to fly out the door and into the limo that was picking me up, where Khabib was waiting inside.
At the sight of me, his grin became a jaw-dropped look of awe.
“Lucy, you look…”
I took a worried look down, to make sure my dress hadn’t gotten wrinkled or drooled on by Oscar or something.
“Is it all right?”
He nodded, his face still star-struck.
“You look gorgeous. That dress suits you even more than I thought it would.”
I flicked my gaze to my hands. I couldn’t bear looking at him as he said that; how I felt about him would be written all over my face.
“Thank you, Khabib. For this dress, inviting me, for everything.”
Leaning over to close the door behind me, Khabib stopped inches away from my face with a soft smile.
“Don’t thank me yet; the night’s not even begun.”
And he was right. The limo ride was comfortable and wonderful, with the two of us chatting easily, and the driver even offering us drinks at a stoplight. The car launch, however, was something else.
The second we got to the venue, I knew I was in for a big night. The Majestic Downtown Event Hall was almost unrecognizable, with the whole exterior transformed to resemble Samara Motor’s first fully electric sports car, the Samara Reseda. Its sleek noir exterior glinted more the closer you got, with lights that seemed to beam out in all directions.
At the wide-open doors, Khabib paused and turned to me.
“You ready?”
I nodded, and he squeezed my hand.
“Let’s go, then.”
Inside was a whirl of well-dressed people, waiters with hors d’oeuvres, and cocktail waitresses in Samara-logoed dresses. Around the edge of the room was a partition-separated platform, where people were test-driving the Reseda. Another one of the cars was on a slightly raised platform, its doors opened, people clambering eagerly inside. At the sight of the Sheikh, everyone seemed to come alive, greeting him like the prince he was.
Khabib greeted them all warmly, as if they were old friends. To the various questions fielded my way (“Who’s your pretty friend?”, “And who, may I ask, is this lovely lady?”) Khabib only smiled mysteriously. Each time he declared, “She’s the most important woman in my life,” the words sent a new torrent of butterflies rushing through me.
The dinner itself was sublime, with more food than you could ask for—sushi, lobster, filet mignon, lamb—with each dish more delicious than the last, which didn’t even seem possible.
Although everyone seemed to have something to say or some question to ask Khabib, his conversation and attention, invariably, returned to me. First it was chitchat about work, the people, the display. But then, as the spread of food before us was replaced with a spread of desserts—luscious cakes, tarts and pastries alike—Khabib turned to me with a knowing smile.
“So, you have a dog?”
“How did you know?”
He laughed, shrugged, took another sip of his drink, then raised it.
“I have my sources.”
I raised mine to his.
“Well, yeah. Oscar is my little pug. He’s grumpy, chubby, perpetually constipated, and I love him to bits.”
At this, Khabib’s drink shot out of his mouth. He began choke-laughing, attracting the attention of several people around us.
“Sheikh Khabib, sir, are you all right?” one of the suited men asked.
Still laughing, Khabib nodded.
“Yes, yes, I’m fine.”
With one final laugh-cough, he turned back to me.
“Sounds like he’d get along splendidly with Bruno, my wiener dog.”
I tilted my head at him.
“No.”
“What?”
“You do not have a wiener dog.”
“What—why not?”
“You just…you can’t. You must have, like, a husky or something. No way do you have a hilarious little wiener dog.”
Now Khabib was tilting his head at me curiously.
“Why not?”
“Just—I mean, I figured…you’re a sheikh, the CEO of Samara Motors. You’d be the type to—”
“Have a fancy, expensive dog like all rich, successful people?”
There was a note of hurt irony in his voice, but I could only nod my head in agreement. Khabib shrugged.
“I like things that make me happy. Whether it’s nice cars or every ice cream flavor that was ever made, I like what I like because it makes me happy, not because it gives me status. When I saw Bruno, with his chunky little body like a wobbly hot dog with legs, I couldn’t help but love him.”
We laughed together, but after, Khabib was still regarding me with a hurt expression.
“I thought you understood, Lucy.”
His voice was low, so I whispered my answer.
“What do you mean?”
Under the table, his hand clasped mine.
“That you and I, we aren’t like these other people. We don’t value the same things, live the same lives.”
His honey eyes were searching mine for understanding, agreement. But my mind was blank, my heartbeat pounding like gunshots. All I could think was that I didn’t want him to stop clasping my hand.
“And now, a few words from the head of Stateside operations—Sheikh Khabib bin Samara!”
The announcer’s excited voice boomed us back to reality. Releasing my hand, Khabib rose. He didn’t look at me, instead extending his gaze to the crowd, all who were paying such attention to him that they’d stopped eating.
“I was enjoying myself so much that I forgot I was here to launch a car!”
He chuckled along with the crowd, then his face grew serious.
“But it’s good, really. Because, at Samara Motors, that’s what we want our cars to do for you. Effortless luxury that makes you forget that you’re in a car, driving even—that streamlines every single aspect of the driving experience.”
Applause.
“Now, we’ve been known for this effortless luxury of our vehicles, and you can’t argue that we’ve accomplished this to the utmost. Leather seats that mold to whatever body is placed in them, increasingly adaptive artificial intelligence technology which is removing the need to even click or press controls—you name it, we’ve done it. But tonight, we’re here to celebrate something a bit different.”
He strode over to the wall and pressed a button. The lights snapped off and a holographic image appeared in the center of the long table. More applause sounded, which Khabib quieted with another raise of his hand.
“Tonight, we’re here to celebrate what is nothing less than a revolution. Ladies and gentlemen, what you are looking at right now, is the future.”
Now the Sheikh had a remote in his hands, and was pressing it. The illuminated car in the center of the table did a slow 360 spin, then started to move.
“A future where we aren’t burning away the planet, a future where we roll across the earth as easily as a stone, a future of luxury, and longevity.”
More applause, but Khabib wasn’t close to finished with his speech.
“Samara Motors doesn’t want you to have to choose between high-class and high mileage, saving the planet and saving time, treating yourself and treating Mother Nature. We’ve created a vehicle that meets all of your needs—needs you have now, and needs you might have in the future.”
As Khabib spoke, the car’s sunroof, back doors, and trunk opened, revealing a surprising amount of space.
“The Samara Reseda is going to
change the way the world thinks about electric cars. So, here, tonight, I invite you to raise a glass and, more importantly, write your names on our order sheet. This is a one-night-only deal for all the valued guests that are here tonight. As of tomorrow, the price will be going up—if you’ll even be able to get this sold-out superstar in the next few months, that is. So, to one, to all, to the future, to Samara Motors!”
At this, the crowd of attendees and I raised our glasses, clinking exuberantly and repeating, “Samara Motors!”
The applause continued as Khabib snapped the lights back on and returned to his seat beside me. He turned to me with a pained, nervous expression.
“So, on a scale of 1 to 10, how bad was that?”
“Khabib, are you kidding me?”
This time, the right corner of his mouth was twitching unmistakably, so I batted him playfully. Immediately when my hand came in contact with his arm, I realized my mistake, a spark of electricity flowing through my body.
“Sorry, sir, I wasn’t thinking—”
Once again, under the table, Khabib clasped my hand.
“Please, Lucy. Enough with this formality. We’ve spent enough time together that I’d prefer you think of me as a friend, rather than an uptight boss.”
“But—”
“That’s an order.”
His voice was stern, but his laughter afterwards was infectious. The beautiful, tall presenter at the front was still making announcements in her melodious voice. Khabib nudged me with his elbow.
“What do you say we step outside for a bit?”
To my uncomprehending stare, he continued, “I just did my part, made my speech. No one will expect anything of me for at least another twenty minutes.”
At my continued silence, he shrugged, released my hand, and got up from his seat.
“See you in twenty, then.”
Chapter Eight
Lucy
The Sheikh was a few paces away by the time I caught up to him.
“Khabib, wait.”
He grinned.
“Yes...?”
Taking his arm, I declared, “I’m coming with you.”
As we walked out, I told him, “But it’s only so I don’t finish off that pastry plate.”
We laughed together and he grinned wolfishly.
“It’s something, isn’t it? Every one of those little pastries is different, a custom design. Delicious.”
We were outside then, in the night, and Khabib’s hand slipped to mine, guiding me.
“Now, there’s something I want to show you.”
“I don’t know, Khabib…”
He was leading me past the lit-up windows of the Majestic, towards its abandoned, tree-filled back.
“That’s ‘Boss’, to you.”
Another chuckle and we were there at the edge of a hill. The Sheikh sat down, and I sat down beside him, looking out at the lights half-visible through the trees.
“It’s something, isn’t it?”
I let myself relax, taking the view in and trying to remember to breathe.
“It’s beautiful.”
His hand was still in mine.
“It’s silly but, being here, in your country—my country, now—I enjoy the wildness, sure, all the things I couldn’t do back home like the clubs, dancing, drinks…women. I enjoy it, sure, but it’s the simple things like this, the quiet majesty of nature, that I find myself drawn to, time and again, no matter what else I’ve been doing.”
In the quiet, I found my voice.
“I’m the same. The wild nights you talk about…they never attracted me, I never really enjoyed any of it—the drinking, dancing, that sort of fun—until I met you. Nature, though, quiet nights with Oscar or my mom…for me, nothing beats them.”
“Why not?”
Khabib’s fingers were clasping and reclasping mine, as if untwining the balled-up truth I didn’t want to tell him.
“I’ve never really thought about it, but I guess it’s because of my mom. Too much drinking and craziness gave her a boyfriend and me a dad who didn’t give a damn. She was always well-meaning, but she had it tough. She got her dream job but, years later, lost it for no good reason. She started drinking again, and then she fell, ended up in a wheelchair. She’s not drinking now.”
At this sudden, horrible admission, I pulled away my hand. Khabib caught me by the wrist.
“Lucy, I’m sorry.”
He was looking at me; I could feel him looking. But I couldn’t look back.
“No, I’m sorry. We should go back inside.”
Khabib turned my face to his. Then, I couldn’t look away, had to see. His gaze was flicking from my parted lips to my eyes, and his face came closer and closer to mine, then…
“You’re right, we should. I’m sorry.”
He took my arm, and led me inside without another word. The rest of the night was heavy with it, with what had almost happened, what I had almost let happen.
For the rest of the launch, I didn’t talk to him, could hardly look at him. Regardless, Khabib lingered by me for a few more minutes before giving up and doing the rounds, talking to all the people he was supposed to, saying all the things he was supposed to.
I didn’t know what to do, so I ate the pretty pastries that were just as delicious and unique as Khabib had claimed. I drank some more, watched as the people slowly filed out, steeled myself for what was coming. Once everyone was gone, Khabib waited a minute before coming over to me. And when he did, he looked sad.
“May I sit?”
I nodded, still not looking at him, and he sat down.
“Lucy, I…words can’t express how sorry I am. I never meant to disrespect you or take advantage of you. I just got carried away by the night, us talking.”
“It’s okay. I got carried away, too.”
I still didn’t look at him. As long as I didn’t look at him, when he was close like this, I would be fine.
“I…You probably want to go home now, right?”
I nodded again.
“Would you…want to take a test drive in the car with me first? I can drop you off in it; there’s just something I want to show you first.”
At my silence, he continued, “Please, Lucy, I really want to make it up to you.”
Standing up, I took a step back, then looked at him. No, I couldn’t say no to Khabib. Not now, and probably not ever again. Refusing the kiss had been hard enough. My heart felt heavy with guilt; the spying was getting to me.
“Okay.”
As soon as he took my arm, I knew I’d made a mistake. Every step we took only dug my crush in further. I couldn’t help but think about how delicious Khabib smelled, how comfortable my arm felt in his, how I wished I had let him kiss me.
Inside the car, it was worse. I sat in the front and was immediately aware of how close he was to me. How caring and funny he was, as he poked me to remind me to put on my seatbelt.
“If you die, I can’t ever make it up to you.”
The whole ride to wherever we were going was one easy conversation, one long laugh. Khabib seemed genuinely interested in me—my silly little scrapbooking hobby, how I still took Oscar to obedience courses time and again, even after he’d peed on one councilor, knocked one over with the force of his head-butt, and even frightened one into a corner with his exuberant barks.
When I explained, “Oscar just doesn’t like being told what to do. He doesn’t trust anyone other than my mom and me”, Khabib chuckled.
“What?”
“Your dog, you. That’s what I love most about you, Lucy. You see the best in everything.”
Suddenly, he wasn’t looking at the road anymore, but me. The light changed and the horn of a car behind us blared. Khabib jerked back to face the front, slamming his foot on the gas.
“Whoops. We’re almost there, anyway.”
“There” as it turned out, was nothing less than the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen. After Khabib exchanged a few words and a grin with a guar
d in a booth and parked the car, he opened my door and took me there, to the low stone wall on a hill that overlooked the city. Then, he was sitting once again, patting the top of the wall beside him. I shook my head.
“I could fall.”
“Do you think I would let you fall?”
Silence, then we both laughed. Khabib crossed his arms and made a face, feigning annoyance.
“Get over here. I mean it.”
“All right, all right.”
I gingerly sat down beside him, clutching the wall with white knuckles.
He was close beside me, too close. I had sat too close to him and now it was too late to move; the whole sides of our bodies were touching, our legs nearly intertwined.
“Would you just look at that,” he said, though there was no need.
No, the sight before me, the spanning expanse of lights, the little celebrations of luminescence needed no introduction. This was Los Angeles, the City of Angels, of beauty, my home.
A soft finger brushed my cheek.
“You’re crying. Why?”
With his finger poised there, his face inches from mine, I was about to say it. To explain. But his gaze was flicking to my lips, and saw mine doing the same. So, it wasn’t his fault, really, what he did next. It was our fault.
His lips were soft and insistent, his hands equally so. It was like he was enveloping my entire body with his, like he had been waiting for this, wanting this, as long as I had. When we finally broke apart, when we were warm with arousal and excitement and breathless, he smiled again, gently.
“That was…” Remembering himself, his smile fell. “I’m sorry. Was that wrong of me?”
Now I was the one smiling, shaking my head.
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
Relief washed over his face, then he grinned again.
“Can I show you something else, then? One more thing?”
“I’d love you to.”
It was only when we were back in the car and on the road that he mentioned that that one more thing was in his penthouse apartment. Seeing me tense up, Khabib squeezed my hand.
“Spoiler alert: it’s my fat wiener dog.”
I smiled, and on we drove. By the time we pulled up to the towering skyscraper Khabib lived in, I didn’t feel so worried anymore. No, my worry only returned when we got to the top floor, when the elevator doors opened to reveal clear glass doors in front of the most stunning room I’d ever seen.
