Up until now, I knew how to identify all the males I’d encountered in my life. Male Types #1 through #5 could be spotted from a striking distance of several yards and, thus, avoided. My system was developed — and numbers assigned — based upon my personal relationship chronology. To elaborate:
Type #1 = Absolute bastards like Sam Blaine, however good-looking they may be. Arrogant, heartless pricks with too much intelligence and too little sensitivity.
Type #2 = The Jason Bertignolis of the world. Nice, overall. Fairly cute. Not as bright or as mean-spirited as Type #1 but, for a number of reasons, not as alluring either.
Type #3 = Fun-loving, sappily romantic, not-quite-one-hundred-percent-all-American males, namely, guys like my college boyfriend Mark Williams and his Gay Band of Brothers (who finally decide to embrace their true sexual orientation after stringing along naïve girls like me). Nothing wrong with their lifestyle, but it puts a serious crimp in a woman’s fantasies of hot, kinky sex.
Type #4 = Attractive, masculine and definitely in favor of hot, kinky sex. Very verbal guys who possess an artistic flair but have some unfortunate authority issues, an inclination toward procrastination and a decided lack of a work ethic. In a nutshell, Dominic Reyes-Jones and user guys like him.
Type #5 = The macho bad boys, the cheaters-cheaters-pumpkin-eaters of the dating universe whose only regrets come when they get caught, i.e., Brent “Strip Go Fish” Sullivan.
But Andrei presented something altogether different. He formed a new category all by himself, and I was, I confess, smitten with what I designated on the spot to be the rare Type #6: A man who was talented, straightforward, virile and utterly unique.
Di and I sat awkwardly in our new seats as the men readied themselves. Mikhail flipped a chair around and began drumming a rhythmic riff on the back of it. One guy tuned the mandolin thing and strummed a couple of practice chords, and all of the men hummed a few notes in some kind of vocal warm-up.
Then everything stopped abruptly.
A few seconds later, a haunting accordion melody rose above The Dragon’s Lair dance mix. The mandolin and the other instruments joined in.
And Andrei began to sing.
Chapter 6
A lady’s imagination is very rapid;
it jumps from admiration to love,
from love to matrimony, in a moment.
— Pride and Prejudice
Andrei’s voice pierced my soul with its lyricism and bathed me in an experience not unlike spirituality.
Yes, without a doubt, there was something otherworldly about Slavic Man when he sang, but the celestial cadences struck me as more phantasmal than angelic. I felt myself slip inside an aural dream sequence and wouldn’t have been surprised if little bits of my being were spirited away on the wings of each musical note.
The men’s voices merged for the first chorus. Although this was a song I didn’t know, the words were familiar, English. They’d been grafted, however, with husky Russian pronunciation and elongated by the silken melody. So much so that the tune might well have been a completely foreign one.
Then, Andrei sang alone once more.
He sang of freedom and passion. He sang of discovery and a call to one’s personal journey. He sang to me, directly, and the rest of the world faded into the void.
Amazing.
Some guys really understood foreplay.
When they were finished, Di and I clapped, as did a few other people who’d been listening in on the Russians’ second-floor performance.
“Dudes! Awesome song,” one drunk guy exclaimed.
“You were great, man,” said the drunk guy’s friend, who was also wasted.
They were, however, completely in earnest and, in my opinion, right on target. Andrei and his buddies appeared pleased with the positive reception.
The drunk guy’s Southern-belle girlfriend, who was, by contrast, as sober as a Sunday-school teacher, turned to me and whispered, “That looker of a lead singer must think you’re hotter than a porch swing in August. He didn’t take his eyes off you the whole time he sang, so, either you’re sleeping together already or he’s got plans for you.”
I felt my face flush. “We just met an hour ago,” I told her.
She raised both eyebrows and tossed me a saucy grin. “You better watch out, girl.”
Di cast me an odd look the moment the woman walked away. “She’s right, you know.” Then Mikhail appeared at her side, presumably to claim a kiss for his part in the concert, and her attention was diverted.
“Did you like it?” Andrei asked me tenderly, as if he hadn’t already guessed.
“Yeah.” I took a step closer to him. “You have a remarkable voice.”
“But it is not ‘pretty.’ Say no.” He gave me a forbidding headshake.
I laughed. “No, it’s not pretty. But it is a gift. People must be in awe every time they hear you.”
He shrugged. “It is not always possible to sing from my soul, Ellie. I am saving such moments up for special people. For people like you.”
He seared me with one of his intense gazes, and I could feel the sexual heat between us nudging me closer to him while, at the same time, nipping me with its tiny burns.
I took a step back and tried to deflect the flames.
I did a quick check on Di’s location, only to see her in full lip-lock with Mikhail. Drummer Boy had both his hands covering her butt and had pulled her against his chest. Didn’t look like water could separate them.
I squinted at the new couple until I felt a calloused finger touch my chin.
“Look at me, lovely lady.” Andrei stared into my eyes with another of his commanding gazes, his light gray irises compelling me to gawk at him. “We see each other again, yes? We go out together sometime, you and me?”
He drew his arm around my waist and tugged me near. When my body brushed against his, it ignited.
I considered it an achievement that I managed a nod in response.
“Good,” he said, smiling down at me from a very intimate distance. Then he brought his lips slowly and deliberately to mine.
This was no typical first kiss.
This was no sweet union of mouths.
This was a consuming, mystifying, intoxicating combustion of beings.
This was what people meant when they referred to “physical chemistry.” Two different elements that, when combined, were transformed into an entirely unique entity. So unique, in fact, that I no longer recognized myself.
Andrei snatched a few gulps of air. “Maybe we go out now?” he suggested.
I didn’t answer, but I leaned into him and again pulled his mouth down to mine.
Everything about this should’ve been wrong.
He had smoker’s breath and still tasted of beer, neither of which I liked.
He was built large and imposing, both of which made me feel insecure.
He could’ve had reprehensible motives, the possibility of which had me worried because, for all I knew, he could be merely trolling for an American wife to make green-card acquisition easier.
But, somehow, when our lips met, every reasonable fear washed away. I floated on the waves of a passion I didn’t have much experience with, my body being spoken to in a language it didn’t understand. All of this rightness despite all odds could not, I figured, be without purpose. This could only be part of some Divine Grand Plan.
Do not be so certain, Ellie, though he IS so very handsome and accomplished, Jane said dryly. Then again, she’d witnessed me falling in love before to disastrous results. I could hardly blame her skepticism.
But, this time, it really was different.
“You will come to my place tonight?” Andrei smacked his pelvis into mine in such a scandalously sensual way that my legs weakened under me to the point of near collapse.
I held him tight for balance and said a very eloquent, “Mmmm.”
He took this to mean yes.
A few vague thoughts skittered through my lust-fogged b
rain, the predominant one being: Where was Di?
As Andrei dug into his coat pocket for car keys, I spotted my sister standing apart from us, her face pale, Mikhail by her side whispering something in her ear.
My mind cleared long enough to catch her eye, and that was when I saw it. Tears. Di’s tears, streaming down her face in silent grief. God. What did that Mikhail idiot say to her? I was going to kill him.
“What happened?” I demanded, striding over to them, glaring at Drummer Boy and putting a protective arm around my sister’s shoulders. “What’d he do?”
Di looked at me with a grateful glance I’d never seen her direct my way before, but then she shook her head. “Nothing, El. It’s me, not him.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah,” Di said as Mikhail edged away from us. “I’m sure. I just want to get outta here. But — ” She paused and gave me a sad half smile.
“But what?”
“I know you probably want to stay or…or go somewhere else with him.” She pointed at Andrei, and I marveled at my new man. Then I marveled even more at how quickly I’d begun thinking of him as My New Man.
“Well — ” I skimmed my gaze over the Slavic hunk again, who had a pretty decent mastery of smoldering from a distance. But this was one case where sisterly bonding had to take precedence over sex hormones, despite my body’s rebellion. “Nah. We can leave. Let me just say goodbye, okay?”
“Okay,” Di said. “Thanks.”
I returned to Andrei, every blood cell threatening mutiny if I actually left him for the night, but I made myself explain aloud that my sister and I had to go.
He said he understood, and he scribbled his phone number down. I took it. I then gave him mine, and he put the slip of paper carefully into his shirt pocket, the one above his heart. He reached for my hand and pressed both of our palms against that pocket.
“I will call you,” he said. “I mean this. Please do not forget me.”
I assured him that would be impossible and, after one parting kiss, Di and I were out the door.
“I’ve never seen you like that,” she admitted on the drive back to Glen Forest.
“Like what?”
“Like, you know, in the throes of passion.” She gave me a look that was part grin, part grimace. “Something other than your geeky side.”
“Gee, that’s heartening.”
I thought she was laughing, but then I caught a few tears clinging to the corners of her eyes.
“What happened back there, Di?” I asked her as gently as I could. I wanted to know but, truth be told, it was also freaking me out. My hard-ass sister never cried.
She swallowed. “I thought I was ready to move on.” She paused. “I’m not ready.”
“Well, no. Of course not. You need to give yourself more than forty-eight hours to recover from a nearly five-year marriage. Most people would take at least a week.”
She snickered and looked at me strangely.
“What?” I said.
“When did you grow a sense of humor? You were never funny when we were kids.”
“You never talked to me when we were kids, except for the occasional threat.”
“That’s not tru — ” She stopped. Thought. “Well, okay. Maybe it is.”
Vindicated, I looked at her askance. She was again crying a stream of silent tears. “Di, c’mon. Talk to me now. What’s going on? What happened with Alex?”
“It’s the whole musician thing. That really got to me tonight, you know?”
I totally didn’t know, but I said, “Yeah.”
“I miss that side of Alex. I’ve missed it for a long time. He got all respectable and everything, and that’s fine, but instead of just polishing up the rougher edges, he got rid of his whole wild side. He doesn’t play his Fender much anymore, and when he does, he doesn’t do it with the drive he used to have. He’s all into working at the bank now and being responsible, and those are good things, but — ” She grabbed a tissue, blew her nose and shrugged.
“But you miss the guy you married?”
“Yeah. A fucking lot. He had dreams once. Things he wanted to do. I wish he’d have held on to a few of them. They kept him fun and young, and I felt that way, too, back then. Now,” her voice turned hard, “he tries to say that I’m, like, reckless or immature for wanting to have a little fun sometimes. For wanting us to go out with friends. Such a total load of crap. So I told him, fine! He doesn’t have to come along. I work hard all week, too. I look managerial enough at the store every day. I handle all kinds of goddamn crises. It’s not like it’s a crime to want to blow off some steam on Friday or Saturday night. Is it?” She turned to me with a demanding glare.
“Um, no — ” I began.
“See! But does that bastard listen to reason? No. He goes off and calls me irresponsible. Says I should be home at a reasonable hour, like fucking ten o’clock on a weekend! And the sad thing is, I didn’t even care much about going out. I just wanted us to laugh again and have fun and talk about something other than work and retirement funds and old-people crap like that. I thought when you got married to someone they’d sort of stay recognizable.”
“But they don’t, huh?”
“Hell, no. At least Alex didn’t,” she murmured. “You think you know someone, but a few years go by and nothing’s predictable anymore.”
I tried to wrap my mind around this and apply it to my life. What would happen if Andrei and I got serious? We probably wouldn’t, but what if? Would that phenomenal chemistry between us fizzle out within a couple of years? Would we eventually tire of talking about Russian writers? Would his singing someday cease to amaze me?
Di seemed to sense where my mind was headed. She sniffled a time or two and said, “Watch out for musicians, El. I mean, he might be your guy, The One for you, I don’t know. But most of the time you’re either second place to their rock’n’roll ambitions or they get realistic, give up their dreams and become soulless dweebs. Like Alex.”
“I’ll be careful,” I told her.
Di nodded at me in approval and, in my head, Jane applauded as well.
“Tell me every detail, Ellie,” my old college buddy/boyfriend Mark said over the phone a few weeks later, “starting with whether or not the man can dance.”
I smirked into the receiver. “Andrei’s a singer and a guitarist. He has a great sense of rhythm. He can dance.”
“But can he dance well?”
“I know what you want me to say, so, yeah. Okay. You win. He can dance, but not as well as you, Mark ‘Jitterbug King’ Williams.” Mark had a God-given talent for intricate footwork and shone like Fred Astaire on the dance floor. (And, boy, could he lead. He’d led me on for three months.)
I heard a heavy faux sigh on the line. “That’s a relief. I couldn’t stand to be outdone by a straight guy. And a foreigner to boot. He’s really Russian?”
“Yes.”
“Huh. Well, you’d better bring him in May. I want to check him out.”
“Bring him to Toronto? To a gay union?” I said, laughing. “That’s so not going to happen.”
“Why not? You ashamed of us?” Mark’s voice sounded light, as though he were still joking, but I heard the catch in it that signified hurt.
“Absolutely not,” I told him truthfully. “I just have no idea where he stands on stuff like gay marriage.”
“What, you two don’t talk when you’re together? You don’t discuss issues?”
I thought of the things Andrei and I had been doing together and, well, “discussing the issues” wasn’t the main one.
“It’s only been about a month,” I said to Mark, evading a bit. “There are lots of topics we haven’t covered yet.”
“Hmm, yeah. Like how freaky it was when you found out one of your ex-boyfriends was dating your old roommate’s husband’s old roommate?”
Admittedly, convoluted as it was trying to explain it to anyone else, yes, Mark and Seth together did blow my mind at first, but I got over it. So
did Kim and Tom.
Kim, my friend and favorite undergrad roommate, had eventually married Tom in a beautiful (and lengthy) Roman Catholic wedding the summer after my first year of grad school. Tom’s roomie for one of our undergrad years had been a football-playing, Army Reserve guy named Seth — who had, incidentally, gone to high school with my then-in-the-closet gay boyfriend Mark (whom I dated that year after we met in Ballroom Dancing 102, which, let me tell you, is the most fabulous way ever to satisfy the college PE requirement).
Kim, Tom, Mark and I went on a few double dates but, after Mark finally came out, he started hanging around Tom and Seth’s room…and, well…
“It wouldn’t have been such a shock to all of us if Seth hadn’t been Mr. ROTC Dude,” I said to Mark, thinking of Seth’s stocky build and buzz haircut, and how different he was in style and temperament from the lean, suave, near-preppy Mark. Kind of like Top Gun versus Top Hat.
“Just goes to show, people shouldn’t stereotype.”
“Very smug of you. I hope that means, if I do bring Andrei in May, you’re going to keep an open mind about him. No anti–Bolshoi Ballet slurs or criticisms of Moscow’s purportedly inferior wine. You’ll behave?”
“If I must.” Mark paused. “Hey, is this guy treating you well, Ellie?”
“Yeah,” I said, feeling the smile grow on my face. “He’s thoughtful and sweet. He gave me the most romantic Valentine’s Day I’ve had since the one with you.”
“Only, you two actually slept together at the end of the evening, right?”
“I don’t have to answer that,” I said, but I giggled, giving it away. It’d only been two days since the candy-heart-filled holiday, but the dreamy images from that night continued to make me euphoric.
“Oh, gawd,” Mark said, groaning. “You’re still in that stage.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Well, forget I asked about details, then. I don’t want to know.”
I grinned into the phone.
“Snap out of it, El, I’m serious! We’ve got my ceremony to discuss, and you need to help me decide which poems should be read.”
According to Jane Page 11
