Russian Tattoos Obsession (5 page)

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 and a can of cannelloni 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.

“One glass of
wine
helps you relax. One mixed drink makes you talkative, two drinks make you flirty, three drinks touchy-feely. I haven’t studied your behavior after three, but I have a good idea what kind of mood you’ll be in.” He arched an eyebrow. “Watch yourself around the boys.”

“You’re an ass.” I pushed past him and met the boss at the door. “Happy Friday, Mr. Ivanov.”

“
Privet
.” He kissed my cheeks and checked out my upgraded style.

“How was work?” I placed my hand on my stomach to settle the butterflies that did a flyby every time he came home and greeted me
that way
. I finished my first drink while the boss hung up his coat and changed into house shoes.

After he turned around, he looked at me, then to Boris. “Is he bothering you, angel?”

I caught a glimpse of my evil-eyed babysitter and shook my head. “No problems here.”

Boris spoke in Russian. Vladimir laughed at whatever he said.
Do they know how rude that is?
Boris poured a couple generous shots and said a toast. They clinked and downed.

The boss set his glass down and turned to me. “You have a date tonight?”

I must have seriously looked like a slacker during the week. “Just hanging out with friends.” I popped some pita bread in the oven and set the appetizer tray in front of him. “Try these.”

Playboy breezed into the kitchen from the back door unannounced. He had a heavy gym bag slung over his shoulder, a gash across his cheek, and a fresh ruddy abrasion that looked like someone had clocked him. I subconsciously touched my own cheek, where the red mark had settled into a vague bruise that I covered up with foundation.

He held his hands up to the boss as if apologizing for the interruption. Vladimir waved him in. As Playboy seemed to be explaining what had happened to his face, he plopped the bag on the counter, unzipped it, and revealed the contents: stacks and stacks of fat cash.

Look away, look away, look away,
Sophia said.

I wasn’t supposed to see that. I turned a blind eye and busied myself in the kitchen. Vladimir patted him on the back and lifted his chin to get a look at his wound. My stomach turned. Playboy argued and raised his hands as if to say it was all good. The boss gestured for him to sit. Boris got some first aid supplies out of a drawer and set it out on the counter.

The boss saturated a kitchen towel with vodka, pressed it against Playboy’s cheek to sterilize the wound, and stitched it up right next to the food I had prepared. Acid built up in my throat. After the boss applied a bandage, Boris patted Playboy on the shoulder and poured three rounds of vodka. Vladimir made the toast that time. They clinked glasses, threw back their shots. Playboy wiped his mouth, snatched a piece of bread off the counter like a ballsy seagull, and strutted back outside. I dropped my gaze to the floor and pretended I wasn’t fazed, but my shaky hands ratted me out.

Vladimir stepped in to smooth it over. “As you can see, I run several different businesses. This one,” he tipped his head toward the gym bag, “is a small cash-only side business.”

I nodded and sipped my drink. Every single day that week, Playboy had delivered a stuffed gym bag to Boris. I’d seen plenty of gangster movies, and I knew whatever they had going on was no small side business; it was organized crime. It had to be. I mean, they didn’t even want to take the guy to the hospital to get sewn up. What else could it be? I reminded myself to breathe, pulled the bread out of the oven, and set it on a marble slab to cool.

Boris rested his big hand on my shoulder. “Need some spending money for the weekend?” He offered up a bankroll of hundred dollar bills, ready to shave off a few Benjamins.

“No thanks. I have some.”

He slapped a stack of bills in my hand. “It’s payday. I insist.”

I tried to give it back to him, but he wouldn’t let me. “It’s too much,” I said. “I hardly did anything. Besides if I show up to the game with a hundred dollar bill, my friends will think I’m a stripper or something.” I laughed at my stupid, alcohol-induced sense of humor.

“Actually, dear, with a hundred dollar bill your friends will think you are
hooker
. Strippers carry twenties.”

Keep your mouth shut, keep your mouth shut, keep your mouth shut…

Boris turned to Vladimir. “I have some business to attend to, boss.”

“Go. I will take care of Carter tonight.
Do svidaniya
.”

They threw back another round and ate some bread, then Boris put on his hat and coat, snagged the gym bag, and left the house. The boss and I were alone—
together.

Chapter 10

Dumped

Vladimir loosened his tie and slid off his suit jacket. I jumped when I spotted a gun tucked into the left side of his pants.
Totally organized crime. Totally.

With thumb and finger, he took it out slowly. “For protection.” He placed it in the drawer where they kept the car keys. “Better?”

I nodded, trying my best not to look freaked out. Maybe I’d watched
too
many movies.

He unbuttoned the top button on his shirt, lazed against the counter, and studied the appetizers: beans from a can and store-bought tortilla chips. He was tolerant of my lackluster domestic skills. He picked one up, examined it, and then lifted it to
my
mouth. “Ladies first.” His voice was soft, eyes playful.

I giggled. “Sorry, you surprised me. No one has ever—” I sucked down the rest of my drink. God, my new boss was bad—
and hot
.

He lifted the tortilla chip again. “Good. I’m first.” He winked.

My heart fluttered. “Wait.” I picked one up, too. “At the same time.”

“
Odin, dva, tri
.”

I opened my mouth, stepped out of bounds from my comfort zone, and let him feed me. I chewed and chewed and chewed and then popped a chip into his mouth. His lips closed around my fingers, and he nibbled on my thumb. “You’re delicious, Carter.”

The fluttering in my heart moved lower.
Much
lower
.

He picked up my hand and admired my blue fingernails, each adorned with a tiny kitten motif. “How cute.”

“Oh, you know, my little sister has a thing for cats. We match.” I wiggled my fingernails and tried to blink away my embarrassment.

“She’s lucky to have such a sweet sister.” He patted my hand and then went to the bar.

I inhaled the scent of cologne left in his wake.
Heavenly.

He poured himself a long straight shot of vodka. “Another drink, Carter?”

I loved the way my name sounded when each
R
rolled off his tongue. I already had two drinks, and according to Boris, three made me touchy-feely. Whatever. As long as I didn’t get to four I was fine. “Hmm. One more, but cut me off after that.”

“Because you don’t want to be tipsy for your date? Boris said you go out with a football player.”

I pulled my hair forward and fingered-combed my waves. “Boris thinks he knows everything. I told you, no date.”
I wonder how tall Vladimir is, six-foot-two or six-three?

He poured what amounted to a double shot of Russian Standard into my glass. “Then why cut you off? It’s the weekend.” He topped off my drink with a splash of soda water, swirled the straw toward my mouth, and lifted it to my lips.

I sipped the fruity drink and stared into his sexy blue eyes. Dad would fall into a tailspin if he found out his boss was serving me alcohol and treating me like a
woman
.

Holding on to the straw, he lowered the glass, rested his chin on his fist, and waited for me to answer.

“I’m trying to stay out of trouble.”

“What did you do that you must
stay
out of trouble?”

Underage drinking, getting escorted home in a police cruiser, sneaking out of my bedroom window at night to meet my friends…
“Um,” I laughed.

He lifted his shoulders and waited for me to answer.

I exhaled. “Nothing. No big deal.” I waved my hand.

He lifted the drink back up to my mouth.

I sipped. “Mm.” It was strong, but refreshing.

“Finish it and I will make you something special—only for princesses.”

I giggled. How could I resist? After I slurped it down, I followed him, propped my elbows on the bar, and watched him work. He unfastened his cuff links, rolled back his sleeves, and took off his Rolex. He had an ink watch under his real one and tattoos of Russian words and weird images all up and down his forearms.

I kicked off my furry house slippers, climbed onto a barstool, and sat on my knees to get a better view of what he was doing. His gaze moved from the cocktail shaker to my chest. By how far I leaned over, he had a perfect view down my shirt. I placed my hand over my heart, giggled, and buttoned my shirt up to my collarbone. “How tall are you?”

“One hundred and ninety centimeters.”

My brain was temporarily out of order. “How tall is that in English?”

He poured several different kinds of liquor into a shaker. “Six feet and three inches. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering.”

Note to wasted self: never hand the keys to your sobriety over to a foxy Russian gangster.

“How tall are you, angel?” He poured my special drink into a tall hurricane glass and garnished it with an orange slice, a pineapple wedge, and lots of cherries.

Angel?
“Five-seven.”
Is that my pet name?
“When do you work out?”

He sat the glass in front of me, but didn’t answer. I slouched over and traced his ring tattoos with my finger. I peeked up at him. “Do you have tattoos all over?”

He tapped his fingers on the bar, then dumped my special princess drink down the drain. “Boris was right. You can’t handle your liquor.” He sneered, repulsed by my skanky behavior.

Lightning come…strike me down.

Vladimir scooped a big mound of white rice out of the cooker, dropped it into a bowl, and set it down in front of me. He shook his head in disgust like I was a pile of recycled garbage writhing with maggots on his spotless kitchen floor.

I curled my legs up and shielded my eyes with my hands. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You know Boris is my
sovietnik
—my trusted advisor. He was concerned for your safety around boys. I had to see with my own eyes, understand?”

Kill me.

“Do you have many partners?”

I choked. “Oh no, Mr. Ivanov. I’m not usually like this. No, no, no. I don’t even have a boyfriend. I’ve
never
had a boyfriend. Seriously, let’s forget this ever happened.”

“You’re a good girl?”

“Of course, I’m a good girl. Boris was right. I don’t handle my liquor well. That’s why I, um, never drink in public. If my dad found out I partied around guys he’d lock me in my bedroom, dig a moat around the house, and stock it with meathead-eating crocodiles.”

“Your papa is a good man. Maybe he should lock you away.
Yesh.
” He motioned to my plate.

I tossed the rice around with my fork. “I spend the night on campus with my best friend Kiki every Friday. Her dorm is girls only. We drink, but it’s just us—no boys allowed. Are you still going to take me to the game? I promise I will not have one drop of liquor around the guys. I can see the error of my ways.”

He dragged his fingers through his hair and contemplated his answer.

Boris had bullshit detectors built into his corneas. If I had tried that “error of my ways” crap on him, I would have been on lockdown until the day Russia outlawed the consumption of vodka. The boss, on the other hand, had a soft spot for me. I could wear him down.

“All my friends are going.” I blinked innocently.

“Oh, Carter. How you bend my good judgment. Finish your rice and brush your teeth. I’ll take you to your hockey game.”

Victory!