My Mobster

by J. L. Drake

  Out on the court, I set up the ball machine to fire shots at us—the boss and I had to be on the same team. I could never allow us to be across the net from one another. He wouldn’t take losing well, and I had no off switch when it came to competition. We had to stay united.

  We warmed up our arms, and then I let him ‘teach’ me how to nail a crosscourt slice. I flubbed it up a few times, which prompted him to wrap his arms around me and position my racquet to help me get a feel for the right touch. I peeked up at the patio and saw Karen sexy-dancing in her swimsuit with a drink in hand—mission accomplished. Dad was preoccupied.

  Vladimir loved to wrap me up in his strong arms and sneak kisses on my cheeks. It was a cultural thing. Still, Dad didn’t need to see it.

  The boss followed my gaze. “Your papa has a way with the ladies.”

  “He’s a total stud.” I laughed. “Thanks for making this happen today.” We switched to a doubles position and fired back shots at the orange markers I’d set up on the other side.

  “Anything for you, angel.”

  Once we worked up a sweat, we headed back up to the patio. Karen and Dad stepped out of the hot tub, and she was all over him. Boris brought out a platter of yummy Russian appetizers. He must have ordered a tray from the restaurant we dined at the other day.

  Dad loaded up a plate with buckwheat, marinated mushrooms, and a big dollop of sour cream. “Here, Carter, you need to eat something.”

  I was about to unleash on him for insinuating I needed to do anything, but the pakhan didn’t need another reason to be ticked-off at Dad.

  “You’ll love it. It’s from Vladimir’s restaurant.”

  I took the plate from Dad. “Your restaurant?”

  “I like to diversify my business interests.” He winked.

  I shook my head at the boss’s crazy and dug into my new favorite food. Vladimir mirrored every bite I took. He loved to see me smile. Boris prevailed at the art of distracting Dad and Karen, but it must have been exhausting since the boss didn’t quit.

  Dad looked antsy as the fourth quarter wound down. I wanted to stay. There was no way to pull that off, but I tried to prolong the visit. I went inside and changed into my pink polka dotted bikini. I had on a cover-up, but dad’s eyes widened as if I had strutted across the patio in a Playboy Bunny costume. I stepped out of my matching wrap and sank down in the steamy water.

  “Don’t get too comfortable, Carter. The game is almost over,” Dad said.

  Vladimir twisted his lips as he watched me relaxing in the tub. I could tell he was working out a scheme in his head. I decided to help him out. Why not? I had solitary confinement to look forward to back at the house.

  “Okay, Dad.” Then, I turned to Vladimir. “You’re not going to go back on our deal, are you, Mr. Ivanov?”

  Everyone turned to him.

  His eyes were positively glowing. “A Russian never goes back on a deal.”

  “What was the bet?” Dad’s gaze went back and forth between us like he was watching a tennis match.

  “I bet Mr. Ivanov I could get ten consecutive shots down the alley.”

  “And?” Dad asked.

  “And I did. Now he has to drive me home in the Ferrari.”

  Boris shook his head. I didn’t need him to reprimand me. I knew I was pushing it.

  Dad probably wanted to yank me out of the hot tub by my messy bun and drag me to the car. “Vladimir was teasing, sweetie. The game just ended. We need to pick up Megan.”

  I stood up in a cloud of steam.

  Water dripped down my body.

  Dad whizzed a towel at me.

  I stepped out of the hot tub, covered up, and waited for Vladimir’s reply.

  “I will take you home in the Ferrari, Miss Cook, but I have one condition.”

  I bit my lip, eager for his reply.

  “You must drive.”

  Chapter 21

  Berserk

  Once on the road, Vladimir cranked up some Russian jams and laughed when I made up my own lyrics in time to the music. Early on, I knew he was involved in illegal activity, but the man I had gotten to know was a caring, loving person, someone I enjoyed spending time with. My dad, however, wished I would evaporate.

  Vladimir and I had fun cooking and hanging out in the kitchen, dining out, and just being together. At home, we didn’t do family dinners—at least not ones that included me. Despite our problems, I loved my dad, but I couldn’t wait to get out from under his roof.

  Instead of following the Camry, I took the long way around. Since it would take time to pick up Megan, I decided to surprise the boss. For once, I had control over him. I felt so wild and free and bad.

  “Where are you taking me, angel?”

  I peeked over at him. “It’s a surprise.” I turned into an ice cream shop and parked the Ferrari sideways in the back of the lot. When we got out, a little boy with light-up racecar shoes and blue ice cream caked on his cheeks bounced over to us. “I wike your Fewawi.”

  “Thank you, cutie,” I said. “Actually, the car belongs to him.”

  “What’s mine is yours, Miss Cook.”

  The boy looked up to Vladimir with his mouth open like I had introduced him to Batman. The boss’s complexion glowed as he admired his star-struck admirer. “Cool shoes, young man.”

  The boy stomped back to his mom’s minivan. “The Fewawi guy wikes my shoes.”

  Vladimir put his arm around me, and we walked to the door. I led him to a table by the window and ordered a triple-scoop raspberry sorbet sundae topped with pineapple sauce, yogurt chips, and extra cherries. Two spoons. When the server brought it out, she set the huge bowl down between us. I clinked his spoon and toasted “to your health” in Russian.

  Vladimir fished out a cherry, held it up, and dangled it in front of my mouth. I followed his lead and picked one up for him. “At the same time,” I said.

  “To sweet surprises,” he said.

  “To sweet surprises.” We clinked our cherries and fed them to each other. Just as I wrapped my lips around it, and the tips of his elegant fingers pressed against my mouth, a voice boomed behind me.

  “Are you really going to eat that garbage before playoffs, Cook?”

  I almost choked. “Hey, Coach.” I spit the cherry out into my napkin. “Don’t worry, I’ll burn it off.” I sat up straight in my seat.

  He flashed me the look.

  “I’m sure Miss Cook knows what she’s doing, friend.” Vladimir leaned forward, tapped his fingers together, and stared down Coach.

  Coach put his hands on his hips. “I’m not sure she does, comrade.”

  Oh, shit. “Coach, it’s cool.” I stood up and backed him toward the freezer section. “Mr. Ivanov is my dad’s boss. Please, don’t embarrass me.”

  He glared over my shoulder. “I know who he is.” He turned his focus back to me. “And he paid off your debt at the club out of the goodness of his heart?”

  I studied Coach’s pursed lips and accusing eyes. What is he insinuating? “He’s the most generous person I’ve ever—”

  “You have a lovely family, Coach Williams. Jerome Williams,” the pakhan said.

  Coach’s wife waved. She and the kids were building their sundaes at the topping station.

  “Your family lives across the street on Deer Cross Lane, right?”

  How did he know that?

  Coach’s expression soured, then he softened his stance and walked back to his family. “See you at practice tomorrow, Cook.”

  ***

  When we got back to my house, Dad and Karen hadn’t arrived yet. Vladimir got out of the passenger side, walked around the car, and opened the door for me.

  “Thanks again for an awesome day.” I gave him a quick hug. “See you tomorrow.”

  I turned to go inside, but he pulled me back to him. “Take me to your bedroom.”

  “What?”

  “I want to see where you spend your time when you’re away from me.”

  “It’s no
thing. Dad will be here any second. What if he comes home and finds—” Before I could make my case, the boss headed up the sidewalk to the front porch. I hurried, got out my keys, and twisted the lock. Once inside, I bolted upstairs. He followed.

  When he entered my room, he marveled at my décor as if he wanted to remember every detail: My purple bedspread, a stack of fashion magazines, dusty stuffed animals, a Barbie Doll shrine, miniature boxes of cereal and packs of nuts I noshed on when I didn’t feel like going downstairs, a corkboard with pictures of my friends and me, a bookcase loaded with trophies, and a life-size poster of Rafael Nadal next to my bed.

  A picture of Sophia and me on my desk caught his eye. I was five, sitting on my thirteen-year-old sister’s lap. Sophia was smiling with her arms around me, and I was snuggling my poodle twins in my arms. The picture had belonged to Sophia. When she died, I took it from her room, hid it in my bed, and slept with it under my pillow for months.

  “That was Sophia’s favorite picture.”

  “Mine, too.”

  Vladimir’s gaze moved to a collage of my life growing up with Kiki. The big picture in the center of the frame was of us at a hibachi table holding up crossed chopsticks.

  “Look at you, Carter. Such a tiny angel.” He ran his fingers over the glass.

  “That was my twelfth birthday party. Dad traveled a lot, so Kiki’s mom and dad, Doc and Mary, took us out. They practically raised me after Sophia died. They call me their ‘other’ adopted daughter.”

  He read the caption under our photo.

  Chopstick Twins.

  “It was our nickname back in grade school.” I held up two fingers. “Stick thin and always together.”

  “So cruel.”

  “Now you understand why I’ve never had a boyfriend? I looked like a stick-side-down mop until I started working with a trainer.”

  “Is that why you look so sad?”

  “Is this the face of an unhappy girl?” I pointed to some of the other pictures. “Kiki and I did gymnastics, soccer, ballet, and vacationed together. We’re like family.”

  “Why do you fight with your papa?”

  I felt like I was at Confession. A fresh round of tears welled up in my eyes. Vladimir put his arm around me, led me to the edge of my bed, and sat us down. “Tell me.”

  “Kiki and I have been best friends since we moved here. Up until the accident, Sophia had taken care of me while Dad worked long hours. Since we didn’t have family close by, Mary offered to help out. During the week I lived with Kiki’s family—where I was happy—then Dad dragged me back here on the weekends. I hated him for it.”

  “He’s your papa.”

  “It got worse when he married Karen. He made me stay here with her full-time instead of going back with Kiki’s family. I felt like I didn’t belong in my family anymore, so I hid up here. That’s when I withdrew emotionally.”

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

  “It was a long time ago. I’m totally over it. Dad, however, is not. He drives me nuts. I can’t wait until—” I stopped midsentence when Vladimir’s breathing had gotten heavier.

  “I can’t stand the thought of you being mistreated.”

  “Whoa, whoa, mistreated? I’m not mistreated. All kids fight with their parents. It’s our job to make their lives suck so they won’t miss us when we move out.” I joked to lighten the tension.

  “You’re different. A fragile angel like you—”

  “I’m not fragile, and don’t you think he’s right to be hard on me sometimes? Let’s be real. Dad thinks I’m at the tennis club whipping up smoothies so I can buy a car. If he knew about our arrangement and how I’ve been lying to him, he’d go berserk.” Worried I had insulted him, I shut my mouth and waited for him to respond.

  “I will tell him when he comes home. I won’t let you face his wrath because of me.” Vladimir headed for the door.

  “No way. Promise you won’t say anything.” I jumped in front of him and blocked my bedroom door, as if I could stop him. “He’ll be so ticked. Probably madder at you than me, and trust me, you don’t want to see him angry.”

  Vladimir crossed his arms and studied my freaked out, arms stretched across the doorframe stance. “You think I am afraid of your papa?”

  “Of course not, but why do you want to provoke him? Everything’s fine. If he finds out, he’ll never let me see you again. Please, I need you.”

  Vladimir peeled my fingers off the doorframe, held my wrists, and brought my arms down. He kissed my cheeks, but not in the usual way. His warm lips lingered on my skin while he massaged the nape of my neck. The closeness of our bodies and the heat emanating from his skin caused a groan to escape from my lips. Vladimir rubbed warm circles on my back and whispered Russian words in my ear to soothe me.

  “What does it mean?” I whispered.

  “Something good.”

  Blood rushed down there. I wanted to tackle him on my bed and run my fingers through his sexy hair and touch his chest and feel the warmth of his lean, muscular body. Lately, I’d felt The Urge. Right or wrong, Vladimir lit my sexual fire. It wasn’t his body or his incredible blue eyes, it was how he made me feel—like the important person in his universe.

  “What kind of good?” I laid my hand on his chest and snuck my finger inside his shirt to touch his skin. I traced the outline of the devil with my fingernail. Vladimir inhaled sharply, excited by my touch. I unbuttoned the top button of his shirt—

  He lowered my hand. “Your papa will be home soon.” He left the house a minute before Dad turned into the driveway. I replayed the day’s events from his smoldering eyes, to his strong embrace, to the taunting words, “Oh, Carter is that what I am, your boss?”

  What did he want to be? My friend? Boyfriend? Lover?

  I spent the rest of the evening melting under the covers, dreaming about how awesome it would feel to have Vladimir there with me. He was guarded on my turf, but if we’d been at his place there would have been nothing to hold us back. I was dying to feel the weight of his body on top of me and the warmth of his skin and his hands rubbing me all over…

  I tucked my special phone under my pillow in case he called to say goodnight.

  He didn’t.

  Chapter 22

  Wedged

  On Monday morning, Kiki and I went to breakfast and vented about all the bullshit that’d gone down on Saturday night. She’d been lectured by her parents about the lake thing, too, even though she didn’t even drink.

  “Here’s the deal, Carter.” Kiki dumped a heaping spoonful of sugar into her coffee. “We need to fast-forward our apartment situation. The food on campus is heinous, my closet is the size of a rat hole, and my roommate and her boyfriend think our dorm is a porno studio that’s open 24/7.”

  “Sounds like you’re jealous,” I laughed and scooped a bite of oatmeal and bananas into my mouth.

  “Absolutely. I need a boyfriend—or a fuck buddy.”

  I cracked up. “What’s happening with Toby?”

  “God, he’s big and beautiful. I want to strip down, curl up on his chest, and settle in for a catnap right there in chem lab.”

  I laughed so hard I snorted.

  “For real, his belly sticks out perfectly like a warm lump of bread dough rising in a bowl, waiting for me to knead it and pound it into shape.” Kiki wiped imaginary drool from her chin.

  “He’s obviously intimidated by your hotness. Help a brother out and casually mention you’re craving Thai food and lure him to that cozy place across the street.”

  “Oh, that’s good. I will, but let’s get back on track. I made an appointment for us to take a tour of an apartment complex off Calhoun Street. They have a unit coming available mid-January. That gives us about a month to get ready. We need to put down a deposit and first month’s rent today to hold it. You in?”

  Mentally, I tallied my financial situation. I had enough in my savings, thanks to my generous boss and from all the money I’d saved working at the
club. “In.”

  “Really?” Kiki asked.

  “Way in.”

  We squealed. Finally, I had secured my ticket to freedom. I could do whatever I wanted, come home when I felt like it, and start living my real adult life.

  We signed the rental agreement, put down our deposit, and stopped at Homegoods to get some decorating ideas. Then we went to lunch at Panera and made a list of all the stuff we needed to get started. I hated to end our strategic planning session, but I had to go to tennis. I went through the motions at practice, but I was so nervous—the excited kind of nervous—I couldn’t think about anything except Vladimir and my newfound freedom.

  When I slid into the Caddy, I avoided Boris’s omniscient eyes and rambled on about our tennis tournament, which was taking place on Thursday. His advice: Teach your opponents a lesson early in the match. He brushed the side of his cheek where Coach had whacked me.

  I was hoping Vladimir would be home waiting to greet me, so I could share my news—which I hoped would turn into a romantic, celebratory dinner somewhere fabulous. Instead, I found a blooming bouquet of red and pink two-tone roses along with a card on the bar. I tore open the envelope and pulled out an elegantly scrolled note:

  My dearest Carter,

  In preparation for your match, Boris will go over your game stats so you may understand your high and low percentage shots. Listen to him. He is a good coach.

  Regards, Vladimir

  That night, Vladimir worked late. Boris sent out for pizza from my favorite restaurant and together we came up with a game plan for my match. I’d kept a couple slices warm for Vladimir in the toaster oven, but he never came home, never called, never texted. Not exactly the romantic evening I’d hoped for.

  On Tuesday, another bouquet of roses and another note.

  My dearest Carter,

  Find your way to the bedroom. I have arranged for a masseuse to help relax your muscles. I regret I will be working late again this evening.