by J. L. Drake
“You won.”
“Yep. We’re officially in first place. We need three points next week to clinch playoffs.”
“Congratulations.” The car sat idle. He glared at me but didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything either. How unnerving. The only sound was the tapping of his gold rings on the steering wheel. “Everything okay?” Veins were bulging out on the side of his head.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Who did that?” He motioned to my cheek. He put off such a badass vibe. I was sure he’d seen or inflicted worse.
I put my hands up and laughed at his overreaction. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
“Answer me.” He wrapped his big hand under my chin and turned my head to inspect the damage. I had iced it before and after the match, leaving my skin bright red from the cold pack.
I pushed his hand away. “I said I’m fine.”
“Name.”
What the hell was his problem? “Um, me. I did it. I hit myself with my racquet defending a shot to the face. I feel like an ass.”
“But you’re right handed. If you hit yourself, you strike left side of face.” He picked up my right hand and demonstrated the swinging motion.
What the hell? Was he former KGB back in Mother Russia? “Okay. Jeez. Calm down. I got nailed with a ball during warm-ups. Can we go now?”
“A man did it.” He rubbed his beard. “Women always lie when men hurt them.”
I pulled a can of almonds out of my bag, noshed, and ignored his spot-on observation. Yes, a man did it, but he didn’t mean to hurt me—he was just trying to scare me. As the saying goes in tennis, “High you die.” My opponents would’ve never shown me mercy. “It was my fault. I should’ve backed up.”
“Better get your story straight when boss asks.”
Chapter 8
Sucka
A hefty Russian guy wearing a permanent frown on his face was carrying groceries into the house as we pulled up the driveway. He was the butler guy who had greeted us at the door on the night of the party. Boris took the bag from him and handed over the keys to the Cadillac.
Before the dude got in the car, he admired my bare legs and studied the red mark on my face. He shifted his gaze over to Boris, as if questioning the source of the damage. I sucked in my bottom lip and turned away.
“Did you bring change of clothes?” Boris asked, admonishing my tennis skirt.
“I can pull on some sweats. I’ll bring something to change into from now on.”
Boris carried the groceries inside and then opened up a leather notebook, put on a pair of reading glasses, turned on a sports program on the radio, and pretended he wasn’t babysitting me. I kept a bag of ice next to me on the counter and pressed it against my face intermittently as I chopped up zucchini, onions, potatoes, beets, and carrots in the food processor for the stew.
While I worked, I Tweeted and returned a few texts. I tried to muffle my giggles, but my friends were cracking me up. Boris set out a plastic bucket on the kitchen floor and instructed me to toss the vegetable butts, skin, and extras in there for the birds. The peacock was out by the basketball court strutting around with his feathers fanned out to impress the peahen.
“What’s the peacock’s name?” I asked.
“Igor.”
“What’s his girlfriend’s name? Is she Russkiy, too?”
Boris glared at me over his glasses. “Natasha.”
“Mr. Ivanov loves animals, huh? That’s why he’s a vegetarian?”
Not a peep from the big guy. Jeez. If I had ignored his question he would have held me upside down by my ankles and shook me until I came up with an answer. Fine. I’ll entertain myself. From where I was chopping, the feed bucket was about six feet away. Instead of scooting it closer, I tossed the leftovers out free-throw style. Yeah, I knew my game was annoying him.
“That’s three in a row,” he said, not looking up from his book.
“I’m on a winning streak.”
He peeked over his reading glasses. “Care to make wager?”
“Seriously?” I would never back down from a challenge. “What’s the bet?”
He tapped his pencil on the counter. “If you miss your next shot, you show me your phone. The way you and your friends waste time fascinates me.”
“Fine. If I miss, which I won’t, I’ll let you see my phone for ten seconds.”
He scoffed.
I put down the knife. “Okay thirty seconds. What do I get if I make it?” I crossed my arms and leaned against the counter.
He scratched his bristly salt and pepper beard. “What do you want?”
Honestly, I didn’t want anything from him, but since I was confident I would make the shot, I came up with a brilliant idea. “Truth or Dare.” I put my hand on my hip and cocked my head, proud I’d outsmarted him.
He studied my pre-victory confidence. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“If I win you have to pick truth or dare. So, if you say ‘truth’ then I get to ask you a question, and you have to answer it truthfully. You can’t lie.” I pointed a stern finger at him. “If you choose ‘dare’ you have to do whatever I say.”
“What’re you going to make me do?”
“Well, I can’t tell you, but as an example, the last time one of my cocky friends chose dare, I made him chug an entire bottle of hot salsa. Once you’re in, there’s no backing out.”
He tapped his fingers on the bar.
“Take it or leave it, tough guy.” I held out my hand.
“I’ll take it, of course.” He shook—crushed—my hand and nodded for me to go for it.
I chunked off a piece of zucchini, lifted it over my head, and tossed it easily into the bucket. “Woo-hoo!” I did a victory dance. “Truth or dare, sucka?”
He removed his glasses and rubbed his temples. “Double or nothing?”
“No way, really?”
“What can I say? I don’t know when to quit.”
I felt kind of sorry for him. He was always listening to games on the radio and scribbling down notes or stats or something in a leather binder. Maybe he had a gambling problem. “Double or nothing it is.” I agreed before he had a chance to come to his senses.
As I chopped off another piece, Boris got up and stood by the bucket to get a better view. I held the chunk up like before, aimed, and tossed a perfect shot. Just as it was about to float in, he batted it down to the floor.
“Hey, no fair.”
Boris cocked his head. “Of course it’s fair. Fan interference. You didn’t make the shot. I win.” He held out his hand. “Double or nothing means I get your phone for one minute.”
“Whatever, cheater. If you want to snoop on my phone that bad I’ll give it to you, even though we both know you played dirty.” I turned my back, lifted my phone out of my sports bra, and slapped it in the palm of his hand. “Go.” I counted out loud as Boris scanned my texts, taking in as much data as he could in the allotted time.
I peeked down to see what my friends were saying that had him so enthralled in our conversation, but he turned to block my view. “Fifty-nine, sixty.” I snatched my phone back and scanned my texts in search of anything embarrassing. Nothing too bad, just some post-victory tennis texts, a few flirty texts from Ryan—he loved to tease me—and an urgent reminder from Kiki I needed to secure a date for the ballet the following Friday. I slipped my phone back in my pocket and finished chopping up dinner. My mouth needed an off switch.
“Your boyfriend calls you Cookie?”
I ignored him and sautéed the veggies in a skillet to soften them up before I added the broth. After an eternity of awkwardness he said, “Never make a bet you’re not willing to lose.”
Screw you, cheater. “I’ll remember that.” Preparing all the delicious food made my stomach growl. If I served dinner at eight, I wouldn’t get home until, like, nine. I rifled through my tennis bag to scrounge up some emergency food rations. I found a cup of peanut butter and a bounty of Almond Joys my little sister had rejected from he
r Halloween candy stash. I unwrapped one of the candy bars, dunked it in the cup, and scooped a heaping helping of peanut butter into my mouth. Kiki had advised me it was gross to tool around with a wad of peanut butter in my mouth, but so what? It wasn’t like I was going to make out with anyone.
I jogged downstairs to retrieve some vino from the wine cellar, which was the size of the entire second story of Dad’s house. I found a bottle that likely cost more than my tuition and trotted back upstairs. I rounded up the poodles and put them in their crates in case Vladimir wasn’t in a good mood.
I headed to the guest bedroom to shower. Once I was clean, I was about to help myself to the liquor cabinet to settle my nerves, when I heard the garage door open. I’d tried to conceal the red mark on my face with powder, but there was no way to cover it up. He would notice right away, and I didn’t want to see him angry again. Over what I wasn’t sure, but Boris had flipped out over it. Maybe Vladimir would react the same way.
Vladimir breezed through the door. “What’s that delicious smell, Carter? Don’t tell me you went to any trouble for me?” He hung up his coat, slipped on a pair of house shoes, and set down his briefcase in the mudroom next to the garage door.
“Oh, it’s just a lentil stew.”
He walked up to me, planted his hands on my shoulders, and kissed my cheeks. “I apologize for my late dinner time—demands of my job. You must be starved.”
I fluttered my eyes like a love-struck idiot; the kisses caught me off guard. Is that the usual greeting in Russia? Does everyone get the special treatment? “Oh, no. Don’t worry about me,” I stammered. “I’ll eat later.”
Vladimir lowered his hands and pushed open the swinging door to see the table set for one. His eyes sharpened. “You don’t expect me to eat alone, do you?” He held the door open and ushered me to the formal dining room.
Boris appeared by the table, set down another place setting, and pulled a chair out for me. Before I sat, I whispered to Boris. “I can’t stay too late. I have to be home by ten o’clock.”
“You are grown woman and have curfew?”
“It’s not a curfew, more like a respect thing. Dad worries about me.”
“You’ll be home by curfew.”
Vladimir joined me at the table and set down the bread and dipping oil between us. “You got in a fight with your boyfriend?”
Oh, shit. Apparently all Russian men think a bruise on a woman can only come from abuse. Suddenly, I worried this might twist back on Coach in some bad way. There were some serious cultural miscommunications going on. “No fight. No boyfriend, either, just a little competitive action on the court.” I dipped my bread in the olive oil, like, a hundred times.
He gave me all of his attention. “You won your match today?”
My belly quivered. “Mm-hm.”
He nodded his approval like my win was a positive reflection on him.
I bit my lip, unnerved he wouldn’t stop staring at me. “Oh, and thanks for the new tennis shoes. Pink is my favorite color.”
“My pleasure. Tell me about your game.”
“It was awesome. My partner and I took over the net and won the first set, but in the second set, our opponents killed us with lobs and dominated two to six.”
“How did you manage your comeback?”
“When you’re losing, you have to change your strategy. Rakhi and I never do this, but we switched sides for the super tiebreaker. I played the deuce side, and she moved to ad. It messed with their minds. We won ten to two. Want to know the best part?”
“Isn’t winning the best part?”
“No. The girls we played today creamed us in two straight sets earlier in the season.” I leaned forward like I was about to reveal the secrets of the universe. “The payback is the best part.” I slapped my hand on the table, which caused the wine to ripple in the decanter. “Sorry, I get carried away when it comes to competition.”
“Don’t apologize. I adore your passion.” He locked his gaze on mine. “At what point in the match did your opponent hit you?” He brushed his finger across his cheek.
Boris appeared from around the corner and riffled through the china cabinet.
“It happened during warm-ups.”
“Your teammate hit you then?”
Boris stalked behind Vladimir’s back like the Big Bad Wolf peeking around a tree.
“Ummm, we had to win this match today to keep our playoff hopes alive so Coach fed us some tough shots to keep us on our toes and I was out of position. I should have backed up so he treated it like a match situation and fired the ball at me—”
Vladimir inhaled sharply.
“Not to hurt me or anything. Just to teach me a lesson.”
He blinked his cool blue eyes and tapped his fingers. He looked angry enough to snap the table in half with his bare hands.
“No, no, bad choice of words. I’m sorry—”
Boris held up his hand to shut me up and spoke to the boss in Russian, presumably to calm him down. Whatever he said kicked his intensity level down a notch.
“Interesting technique Coach uses to train his girls.” He lifted his glass to initiate a toast.
“Oh, I can’t. I mean I don’t imbibe on school nights.”
“Just a drink to be social. Za tebya.” Vladimir’s glass hung in the air.
I didn’t want to insult him, plus I seriously needed to relax. I lifted my glass and clinked. “Za tebya.”
Chapter 9
Marble Slab
On Friday, I had officially survived my first week as Vladimir’s employee. My attempt to mimic the artistry of a chef was as laughable as me trying to return a serve from Serena Williams. After our first meal together, Vladimir told me to forget the recipe books and make what I liked to eat.
We had moved from eating botched fancy meals in the formal dining room to having a variety of appetizers and cocktails around the bar in the kitchen. With the new, less intimidating plan, I was busy with prep and assembly, and I could relax enough to hold a conversation without having an anxiety attack.
When Boris and I got back to the house after practice, I went to my room, the guest room, showered, and got ready Friday Night Style—jeans, bling, hair, and makeup. During the week I donned my sporty girl attire, but I made an effort to raise my stats at social events. I just had to get through dinner, a few cocktails, some chitchat, and in a few hours I would be free from the Russians for an entire glorious weekend.
Once I was ready, Boris kept me company at the bar while he listened to a radio commentator jawing about college bowl games. UC was out of contention and finished for the season. He had his reading glasses on, a stack of papers fanned out around him, and was jotting down notes in a little black book.
“What are you, a bookie?” I joked.
He didn’t respond.
Crap. Was he a bookie? I tied on an apron I’d found in a drawer and then opened a can of cannellini beans and dumped them into a glass bowl. I added salt, a dash of pepper, diced tomatoes, and a big bunch of finely chopped parsley. I folded the ingredients together, squeezed a lemon over top, and scooped spoonfuls of the mix onto bite-size tortilla chips.
“You know, I’m capable of doing more than making dinner. I can do business things.”
“You call that dinner?”
I placed a couple of them on an appetizer plate and set it next to Boris. “They’re delicious.” I stuffed one in my mouth.
He glared at me. “You’re in good mood.”
“It’s officially the weekend. T.G.I.F.F.F.”
His expression didn’t change. “Is code for?” He tipped his hand.
“Thank God It’s Finally Fucking Friday?” I grinned and popped another bean thing in my mouth.
“You have big plans tonight?”
I guess he’d observed the obvious up-tick in my weekend style. “Oh, the usual.”
“Which is?”
“Hanging out with my friends.”
“Where?”
“Hockey game.”
He stared at me.
“What?”
“I am waiting to hear the rest of your plans.” He leaned forward. “You and your college friends don’t go home to bed after the game, right?”
Yikes. I busied myself at the chopping block and diced an eggplant for a dip. “Um, we just hang out and, you know, talk. What are your plans? Married? Got a girlfriend?”
“Who is driving you home?” Both his hands lay flat, palms down on the bar like an overweight panther ready to pounce.
Using the knife, I slid the eggplant into a clear bowl and put it in the microwave to soften before I pureed it. “I don’t have to answer your questions, you know. I can do whatever I want in my free time.”
“The big boy or the basketball player?”
I snorted at his shallow depiction of my friends. “Um, it’s none of your business, but if it makes you feel better, a girl is driving me home.”
“You’re lying.”
I tossed him a mischievous grin. “Why do you say that?”
“You always say ‘um’ before you tell a lie.”
“Really? Thanks for the tip.”
“And you suck in your bottom lip when men stare at your body, cross your arms when you’re nervous, and pull your hair forward when you’re paid a compliment.”
“Jeez, stalker.”
He kept staring at me like he was mentally downloading my quirks for his F.U.C.F.—Fucked-Up Carter File. The garage door opened. I went to the bar to prepare the drinks and to escape Boris’s unnerving assessment. All I had to do was carry two small glasses and a bottle of vodka to the kitchen counter and set out some pickles, caviar, and black rye bread.
Instead of downing pure alcohol like a proper Russian, I paced myself and sipped on less potent mixed drinks throughout our evenings together. There was no way I could keep pace with these bad boys.
As I poured a shot of vodka into my glass, a knowing smile crept up on Boris’s face. “Are you sure you should drink before you go out to meet boys?”
I topped my vodka off with a long stream of soda water, a lemon, and a lime wedge. “One drink isn’t going to kill me. It helps me relax.” I slurped down half my drink.
