by Raine Miller
“I had to work my second job,” she says. “Nothing exciting.”
“Where do you work?”
“At the Tangiers, serving drinks. It’s terrible work but I make good tips.”
I’ve been inside that casino and I know what the cocktail waitresses wear to work. They show a lot of skin, as is the case for most casinos. Scarlett in such a uniform would indeed make her very good tips. The idea of men ogling her sexy body and thinking filthy thoughts makes me feel irrational at best, and murderous at worst. “Why do you require this second job of serving at a casino?”
“I don’t make that much working for the Crush and I have to support myself,” she says sharply. “Not everyone is rich enough to rent out a hotel for a week.”
It feels like a slap in the face, though I know she means the bride and groom. “If you need help with money, I could—”
“Stop.” She makes a face of disgust. “I’m not a charity case.”
“I just—”
“I know. You’re an earnest, direct guy. You make loads of money. And I realize you’re trying to help, but I don’t need it. So just stop.”
“All right. Okay. I’ll stop.” One battle at a time.
We talk with others at the table through our meal. She barely speaks to me unless I address her directly. She never mentions the flowers I sent. Could they have offended her? Perhaps they were too much? Tyler thought they were too much, and perhaps he was right. It’s possible she simply did not like them. Don’t all women enjoy receiving flowers though?
Her posture is relaxed, and she doesn’t seem angry. I can’t read her and would really like to ask her directly what she’s thinking. I know she wouldn’t like it though, with so many people here to listen in to our conversation.
A pianist starts to play as we finish dessert. A few couples get up to dance, so I ask Scarlett if she’d like to dance, as well.
“No, thank you.”
“Ahh.” I toy with my napkin.
“I would be willing to take a quick walk, though,” she says.
I look up and she gives a strange, short smile. I don’t miss opportunities though, so I stand and hold out my hand. She doesn’t take it. Instead, she stands on her own and leads the way out of the private dining room, through the restaurant, and into the hallways beyond.
We don’t go far, as we’ve been instructed to stay close for “rehearsal” of a dance number that we will do at the wedding. I don’t know what this entails, but it sounds terrible.
The hallway is much quieter than the restaurant. I wait for Scarlett to speak.
“I need to know about those guys from last night. The ones with the briefcases,” she finally says. “And why are you betting on sports?”
Why does she sound suspicious? It’s not unusual for Russian sportsmen to have their own testers. Why do these things bother her so much?
“Those men are to do with hockey,” I explain. “They have business with me, but it’s nothing. No big deal.”
“And the betting?”
“It is no big deal,” I say again. I don’t know what she wants to know about it.
“Stop saying it’s no big deal,” she explodes. “I know what a big deal gambling can be, and how dangerous these types of guys can be. Don’t dismiss my questions. Don’t hide things from me!”
Her face is flushed red, and tears start streaming down her cheeks. I reach out but she slaps my hand away. I step forward and take her face in my hands. I try to kiss her. At first, she lets me, but a moment later, she pushes her mouth away.
“Stop,” she cries. “Just stop, Viktor. Did you throw the championship game on purpose? Was it part of the betting? Was there money in those briefcases?”
I cannot help but laugh, as this is so ridiculous. “Why would I throw the championship away? I have played hockey for my entire life. I am an Olympic champion. Winning the championship cup or medal is always the goal.”
“Well, you still haven’t given me an explanation.” She angrily wipes her tears away with the back of her hand.
“I do not owe an explanation, Scarlett. My life is my life.”
“And I’m just some…what do you call me? Red Rocket? I’m just some rocket you screwed. I don’t mean a thing. I don’t need to know anything about you other than the size of your cock!”
“You are being crazy.”
This is obviously the wrong thing to say, because Scarlett’s face goes as red as her hair. She opens her mouth, but before she can respond, there is an announcement for the Kolochev/Jenson wedding party to return to the ballroom for dance training. Scarlett’s mouth snaps shut as she rushes past me, retreating.
Chto za khren’.
What the fuck just happened?
Fifteen
Gloriously Bad Dancing
Scarlett
I just won’t look at him. I’ll get through this ridiculous dance practice and I won’t look at him and then I’ll just go back to my borrowed suite and watch a rom-com and eat pizza and feel sorry for myself. I guess I let myself think maybe Viktor and I had made a connection. In my head, I kept thinking he wouldn’t want anything more than sex, but I think my heart said otherwise. And now I just feel really stupid.
The choreography is pretty fun though. Rhythm is a Dancer by Snap! is our song. I like dancing. I was actually on my high school dance team. For a little while, I suffered under the delusion that I could be anything or do anything—you know, that thing parents tell their kids while they’re still innocent and not jaded by how awful life can be—and assumed I’d be like a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader or something when I got out of high school.
Trying to shake myself out of the funk I feel after my interaction with Viktor, I throw myself into learning the moves. It works, and before long I’m cracking up and having a blast.
“You’re missing the show.” Pam giggles next to me. “Viktor is a gloriously bad dancer. It’s amazing.”
I think of him holding me, slow dancing when he came to the suite in his tux, and have to shut off the image by closing my eyes. He was a beautiful dancer that time. I take a deep breath and turn to look, trying to act like I’m not all that interested.
“Oh.” I cover my mouth to prevent the laugh that wants to escape. “Oh, God, yes.”
Viktor is trying. He really is, but his moves to the fast beat of this song are so robotic and stiff. It’s almost painful watching him struggle with the dance. If this goes out on a Snapchat, he’ll never live it down.
“How could a guy you described as the ‘best ever, bar none’ be so bad at dancing?” Pam asks quietly, giggling. “I mean, he knows how to use his hips, right?”
I shove my friend playfully. “I can attest to that yes, he definitely knows how to use his hips.” I track his awkward movements across the dance floor. “But yeah, that’s uh…really…bad.”
Just then, Devon walks over to him and says what we’re all thinking. “You’re so stiff. Jesus, Viktor, would you just relax?”
The guys all laugh and rib him, and a few jokes float around about stiff body parts. Viktor is his usual stoic self, his lips turned slightly down as he shrugs off their joking. He truly seems unaffected by all the teasing. Gotta give him props for not caring what others think of him. I wish I could be more like that.
Music still plays, and everyone watches as Devon starts giving Viktor “lessons” on how to loosen up. She dances right up on him, her pelvis grinding against his before she turns and lowers herself, twerking, her ass right up against his crotch. Everyone laughs, hoots, and whistles, especially when Devon moves behind Viktor, her hands on his hips guiding him, trying to get him to loosen up.
Several times during this exchange, I notice his eyes flit to me. I bite my lip and look away, feeling sick to my stomach. I shouldn’t care about this. There’s no reason for me to care. We only slept together. There is nothing between us.
Pam puts her pinkies in her mouth and whistles, turning to me with a wide grin on her face. “Seriously, you’
ve got to see this.” But the words, and her grin, die out slowly when she sees me. “You okay?” she asks.
“Something must not have agreed with my stomach at dinner. I’m not feeling well. I’m going to head up to my room and get some rest.”
“Oh,” Pam says, frowning in a way that seems less angry and more concerned. “Well, that sucks.”
“It’s not a big deal. I’ll catch up with you later.”
I leave without another word to anyone, feeling Viktor’s eyes on my back as I walk out of there as quickly as possible without actually running. Which is what I would like to do.
Inside the suite, I put on my pajamas, brush my teeth and hair, and take off my makeup. I’m tired, but as I sink into the bed, I’m reminded that this is where I spent hours learning the chiseled planes of Viktor’s well-trained body. His body is a machine, and I learned a lot of it during our time together, my curves melting into his hard muscles.
Vivid images assault me, my body heating, desire pooling between my legs, my nipples hardening into tight peaks. It makes me mad, that the sex was so freaking good. I mean, the way he used his body on me…ugh…so good. And he knew what he was doing too. Why does someone so sexy and so good in bed have to be so utterly wrong for me?
I turn on the television, hoping for a reprieve from these thoughts, but as I stare at the screen, all I really see is him. All I really feel is him. My fingers snake down into the waistband of my sleep shorts, under the thin material of my panties, to find the wetness there. I rub at my sensitive clit, my hips arching instantly. I let my fingers explore slowly, but it’s not enough and I’m frustrated. So I get up and head for the shower, turning it on high heat, switching the spray so that it comes out in one, hard stream. I stand in the hot water for a long time, touching my nipples, enjoying the view as they peak into hard nubs under my fingertips, under the spray. I move my attention to my clit, so swollen, as I spread my lips apart and jut my hips forward to meet the spray. It hits my extra-sensitive parts just right and I push into it, the harsh stream of water stinging against my skin as the tingle of climax rushes through my body, down to my toes, up to my breasts.
I find myself pumping against the water, pushing myself to climax as thoughts of Viktor swirl in my head, memories of our night together pushing me closer and closer to the edge. When I come, I see bursts of light, the sensation so strong that I cry out his name, “Vik-tor,” on a harsh breath, having to sag against the marble wall of the shower to keep from falling on my ass. That orgasm was just what the doctor ordered. And I will not feel guilty for something I needed so badly.
After drying off, I pull my pajamas back on, put my wet hair into a messy bun, and crawl back into bed only to find a text from Pam, letting me know the girls are all having mani-pedis and watching movies in her suite. I have to admit that sounds really nice, so I make my way back up to the top floor.
“Heyyyy!” Pam yells from her seat. She has her toes in a portable pedicure bath, a young woman working on her feet. “Glad you came up, girlie. Feeling better?”
I nod. I’m too blissed out by my awesome orgasm to care about what was bothering me before. Viktor is a sensual man who can dance with and fuck any woman he wants. And clearly, I don’t need him. That last orgasm proved that. There. I am back to normal ready to move forward.
“Good,” she says. “There’re snacks on the table. Holly’s picking out a rom-com to watch. We’re going to have a nice, relaxing night while those boys are out being idiots.”
Devon and Daisy are sitting on the couch, another hotel staff member giving Devon a manicure while she reads a magazine, commenting on some celebrity gossip to Daisy, who looks like she would rather be anywhere else but in this room.
“Oh,” Pam says, “I forgot. Go look at those roses over there.”
“Why?”
“Just do it,” she orders.
I shrug and wander over to the kitchen counter, where there’s a humongous spray of red flowers. A card on the table beside it catches my eye. I see my name first, in a messy, masculine scrawl.
Scarlett,
I hope to get to know you better. These are just to show that I am thinking of you, and of our night spent together.
Viktor
I stifle a giggle. I can hear this in his voice, his heavy Russian accent making the words sound stiff and formal. I feel like such a jerk—these were delivered before dinner. No one even looked at them. I sat next to him, argued with him…and he probably expected me to tell him how beautiful they were.
I turn and find Pam staring at me, a knowing look on her face.
“Stop,” I say, wandering over to the couch.
“What?” she asks innocently.
“Who are those from?” Holly asks, finally satisfied with her movie choice.
“Viktor,” Pam says, a note of scandal in her voice. “Our Scarlett had a hot night with him instead of partying with all of us last night.”
“What?” Holly turns to scrutinize me. “You slept with Viktor?”
“Ugh,” I groan, flopping back and covering my head with a pillow.
“Was he good?” Devon asks. “I’ll bet he was good.”
“She said he was the best ever, bar none,” Pam announces for all to hear.
“Damn,” Devon curses. “I’m kinda jealous.”
Daisy looks patently uncomfortable. “We’re making Daisy blush,” I say. “I don’t want to talk about Viktor.”
“Wouldn’t it be funny if all the Crush guys married someone on staff?” Holly muses. “Fiona would have a heart attack. She’d be like, “Oh, but the fraternization policy…”
“Screw the fraternization policy!” Pam yells.
“Or screw the players,” Devon amends with a giggle.
“Well, three of us have,” Holly says. “Who’s next?”
“Find me a good one,” Devon answers.
Daisy just shakes her head.
I decide I should probably send a text to Viktor. I owe him an apology.
Scarlett: I just saw the beautiful flowers you sent.
Scarlett: Feel like an idiot.
Scarlett: So sorry for yelling at you earlier.
Scarlett: We can talk later. But thank you for the lovely flowers.
I try not to be offended when he doesn’t respond.
Sixteen
What is this Snap Chat?
Viktor
There is a private room in this club that has been rented out for Georg’s bachelor party. It is very dark with red lighting. There is a card table in the middle, and many kinds of chairs and lounges along the walls. Some are hidden in dark spots of the room, unlit, offering privacy.
I am nursing a triple vodka on the rocks. Georg is no longer drinking, so he is not his wild self of the past. He seems happy, though, enjoying the dance of a pretty and petite young woman with short, dark hair.
Tyler is on one of the couches, sprawled out like he is in his own living room, several beer bottles on the floor, two women dancing for him. He puts cash in the thong of one, pulling her closer so that she straddles him where he lies. She giggles at something he says, unhooking her bra, her breasts exposed but for glittery stars pasted over her nipples. She arches her back and wiggles, making her breasts bounce. Tyler runs a finger over her bare skin, and I wonder just how much money he gave her, to allow him to be so close, to touch her like that.
My interaction with Scarlett earlier has soured my mood. I don’t understand why she is so intent on knowing my business. I liked fucking her—very much—and I would like to get to know her better, but it seems as if she is trying to know too much about me too quickly. What I do to ensure my place on this team is none of her business. Bets I make in the off-season are none of her business.
I suck down the rest of my drink, trying to blur the strange array of feelings that are connected to this Red Rocket. I order another, as well as a beer. Tyler hoots happily to see me picking up the pace.
“There we go, big guy,” he calls from the
couch. “This is a party and you all are acting like a bunch of old fucking ladies. Get drunk with me. Put your face in a pair of titties!”
“Shut up, Tyler,” I say, but there is no conviction to it. “It is Georg’s party. He should have his face in titties.”
“Agreed!” Evan hoots.
Our team captain is slightly drunk, more drunk than I have seen him since he has been married. He seems to be drinking for a cause. Perhaps trouble in paradise? It just reminds me of the reasons I do not need or want a relationship. I have not sought out the company of women very often and not for a while. It is enough to manage the expectations of my agent and my team. I am not here to settle down and find a wife. It is obvious that this is not right for me, as the first woman I have shown an interest in has not even acknowledged the flowers I sent. She has tried to control me already. This is not good.
Tyler is suddenly at my side, holding the hand of a thin woman with long, red hair. She is nothing like Scarlett, her hair obviously dyed its fiery color.
“You like redheads,” Tyler says before letting out a long belch. “This is Trixie. She has red hair and wants to dance for you. My treat.”
“I do not need you to pay for her to dance for me,” I grumble, pulling out my wallet.
“No, no,” Tyler says quickly, holding out a hand to stop me. “You need to lighten the fuck up tonight. This first one is on me.”
I sigh and shrug. Trixie begins her dance and Tyler wanders off to make sure that Georg is being taken care of. It is his party, after all. He and Evan are playing cards at the card table, each of them with a showgirl on their laps.
“Pay attention to me, big boy,” Trixie says in a little-girl’s voice. “I’ll be so sad if you ignore me.”
I force my gaze to the young woman. She is petite and rail thin. Not curvy like Scarlett. Her hair is not even real hair. I think it is a wig. She is pretty, I suppose, but I find myself only comparing her to Scarlett.
