by Misha Bell
Wait, that sounded more like she said Grace.
“I’ll drink to that,” Boris slurs and swallows another vase worth of vodka.
Ignoring the Devil’s disapproving stare, I finish my fifth shot.
Ah, smooth. Prime vodka is the best.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” says the pudgy singer from the stage. “It’s showtime.”
Right. There was mention of a show.
The lights dim, and semi-naked burlesque dancers take the stage.
What happens next reminds me of Cirque du Soleil, only rated R. The dancers perform impressive acrobatics, but the miracle is that their tiny outfits stay on. No doubt glue is involved.
To his credit, the Devil looks completely uninterested in all the flesh on display. Same is true of Dragomir and Vlad.
Boris, on the other hand, is drooling, while his drinking buddy/nemesis Tigger is clapping with equal enthusiasm.
When the show is over, the singer returns to the stage.
“We start our dancing program with a White Dance,” he announces.
Bella winks at me. “That means the ladies invite the gentlemen.”
A vaguely familiar melody blasts out of the speakers.
Bella executes a dramatic bow before Dragomir, and Fanny shyly asks Vlad if she could have this dance.
The men accept, and the two couples head to the dance floor.
Do I want to dance? I’ve been known to say that dancing is an excuse for public cuddling and dry humping, but it looks really appealing right now.
Natasha is inviting Boris. Some random girl from another table is inviting Tigger. Snezhana’s eyes are like the laser sights of the Terminator’s gun as they zero in on my fake date.
Yeah, no. That’s not happening.
I leap to my feet.
Wow. Is the room a little wobbly?
No matter. Curtsying in front of the Devil, I shout, “Wanna dance?”
“It would be an honor.” The Ruler of Darkness rises gracefully to his feet.
Snezhana halts in her tracks.
Yeah, she better.
On the stage, the pudgy singer belts out in broken English, Holy water cannot help you now.
It probably can’t. After all, isn’t what I’m about to do a colloquialism for ill-advised behavior?
I’m going to dance with the Devil.
Chapter Twenty
The Evil One takes my hand.
Golly.
The heat of vodka has nothing on this. My palm feels like it’s been branded.
He leads me to the middle of the dance floor and assumes a ballroom stance.
I join him.
He pulls me against his powerful body.
Until now, I hadn’t realized just how tall and broad-shouldered he is.
It’s intoxicating.
We start to sway to the music.
The aroma of tea mixed with something deliciously masculine makes my head spin as cerulean eyes pin me like a butterfly. And speaking of those little flying bastards, they’re having an orgy in my stomach and need to stop it.
To break the hypnotic pull of his gaze, I burrow closer and hide my head in the crook of his neck.
Oh my.
There’s a hardness in his pants, and it’s the size of the proverbial flashlight.
A massive flashlight.
The Devil is happy to see me, that’s for damn sure.
Did I underestimate his manhood in VR?
Maybe. What’s worse is my lady boner is just as ready.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I lick his neck.
Lick. His. Neck.
Not good.
Not proper.
I totally should’ve masturbated before coming here. The urge to lick him again—or worse—is strong.
His entire body stiffens, and the skin on his neck breaks out in goosepimples.
I pull away, only to get caught in his gaze again, the blue depths now dark and heated.
I no longer have any doubt what the Devil’s favorite sin is.
I audibly gulp.
The heat flaring between us is as scorching as the fires of hell.
On the stage, the pudgy singer belts out, “Seven devils all around me…”
Seriously, universe? I recognize these lyrics. It’s from my playlist of songs that have prime numbers in their titles—“Seven Devils” by Florence + the Machine. Sure enough, if I count Bella’s and Vlad’s significant others as part of the Chortsky clan, there are indeed seven of them. All around me.
I meet my devil’s eyes again.
If the Tempter means to seduce me, consider me succumbed to his charms.
I dampen my lips.
Pupils dilating, he bends his head.
I rise on tiptoes.
Our lips are a millimeter apart.
“Borichka!” Natasha screams in panic.
What the bloody—
Boris crashes between us.
The Devil and I spring apart, and Boris grabs onto me as he falls to his knees, his face burrowing into my crotch.
“Dad, what the hell?” my maybe-not-so-fake date exclaims, grabbing for his father.
Boris doesn’t respond. He’s channeling Winnie, the bear dog—the smell of my crotch must’ve driven him into a stupor.
“Does this mean I win?” Tigger asks, his speech slightly slurred.
His brother gives him the stink eye before helping the Devil drag Boris off me.
“Why don’t we girls go powder our noses?” Natasha says, her voice overly bright. “Let the men help the birthday boy to the table.”
Yeah. Great idea. I have a feeling Boris might put on a show any second—maybe even a recreation of that scene from The Exorcist. And if that happens, there might be a chain reaction across the restaurant—a horrid visual.
Fanny and Bella must be on the same wavelength because they join us in the stampede for the loo.
The place turns out to be fancy, with a bathroom attendant and everything. She’s broad-shouldered and vaguely reminds me of the mistress from the salon, but I don’t fret because I have no pubes left.
Getting into the stall to drain my lady lizard, I’m shocked by how pleasant the endeavor turns out to be.
I must’ve needed to go badly. That, or this is an effect of vodka no one ever talks about.
Exiting the stall, I wash my hands and accept a towel from the mistress clone.
Okay. Time to face the Devil again.
I turn toward the door and find Snezhana blocking my way.
Damn. She’s a blond ninja, this one.
“You and Alex will never work.” Every word coming out of her mouth is slurred. “He needs to be with someone of his own kind. Like me.”
I scoff. “I didn’t realize Alex was a bitch.”
Where did that come from? I’d expect it from Gia or my other sisters, but not me. Alcohol clearly agrees with me.
Slight problem: Snezhana doesn’t like my retort.
Nostrils flaring to the point where her nose hairs show, she takes a step toward me.
“I think it would be best if you left,” Bella says coldly from my right.
“Yeah,” Fanny says in a softer tone from my left. “And just so you know, Holly and Alex make the cutest couple.”
Snezhana doesn’t seem to care about their words, or the fact that she’s outnumbered.
She takes another menacing step my way.
Oh, well.
I’ve never been in a fight in my life, abhorring violence as I do, but I guess today is the day for a lot of firsts.
Balling my hands into fists, I jut out my chin. “Bring it on.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The buff bathroom mistress steps in Snezhana’s path. “No one is bringing on anything in my bathroom.”
“Stay out of this,” Snezhana growls.
“Bella already told you to leave,” the toilet mistress booms. “Scram.”
Snezhana lunges at her. Before I can blink, the mistress has her upside
down in a wrestling grip.
Snezhana is literally kicking and screaming as the bigger woman carries her out.
“Wow,” Fanny says, her blue eyes huge. “That got intense.”
“Some people are bad drunks,” Bella says philosophically. “I’m sure she’ll be petrified at her behavior once she sleeps it off.”
I grin at them both. “Thanks for having my back.”
“Of course,” Bella says. “What are friends for?”
She called me a friend. Bugger. I’m not too drunk to forget about my transgressions against Bella’s dream. Once she learns about them, she won’t think of me as a friend. In fact, she’ll ask the toilet mistress to toss me out as well.
There’s a sound of a flush. The farthest bathroom stall opens and Natasha steps out, frowning. “I heard a commotion.”
Bella talks to her in rapid-fire Russian, and as she goes on, Natasha’s frown deepens.
“I’ll have words with Snezhana’s mother,” Natasha says decisively when Bella is finished.
“You do that,” Bella says. “Better yet, you shouldn’t have invited her in the first place.”
Natasha starts washing her hands, her movements jerky and clearly impaired. “I can’t believe the girl had a chance to be with Tigger and blew it so badly. I love my son to death, don’t get me wrong, but that boy—”
“Mother, I think you might’ve had enough to drink,” Bella says. “You’re married, remember?”
Natasha sniffs. “Married doesn’t mean dead.”
“I disagree,” I find myself saying. “Not with the married means dead part, but the other thing. Your son is superior to Tigger in every way.”
Why did I just say that?
Bella grins at me. “I’d say you may have also had enough vodka for today.”
I bob my head. “Probably. I don’t think I can handle two more shots in any case, and six would surely kill me.”
“Six?” Fanny asks, looking confused.
“If I had one more, that would be six,” I say. “Needs to be seven. Or eleven.”
“Right, the 7-Eleven.” Fanny nods solemnly, but there’s a hint of a smile dancing in her eyes. “In solidarity, I’ll stop drinking too.”
“Same here,” Bella says.
“No more vodka for me either,” Natasha declares. “I’m going to be too busy dancing with Tigger now that his date is gone.”
With that pact in place, we return to the table, where we find Boris with his head next to his plate, loudly snoring. Tigger—who clearly won the drinking contest—is surrounded by two women from another table. The trio of the Devil, Vlad, and Dragomir are speaking animatedly in Russian.
Blimey.
If a plain chap looks good with vodka goggles on, the Devil is downright beautiful, as befits the brightest and most powerful of all the angels.
Would he mind if I sat on his lap instead of my chair?
“Back to your husbands,” Natasha barks at Tigger’s entourage, and they scram. Natasha then bats her eyelashes at the younger man and says huskily, “How about a dance?”
Tigger rises, albeit a bit unsteadily, and leads her to the dance floor.
“How about we go keep an eye on them?” Bella asks Dragomir. “I don’t want your brother as my stepfather.”
Dragomir grins, and they head over to the dance floor, with Fanny and Vlad on their tails.
Should I dance with the Devil again?
“Here,” he says, pulling out a chair for me again.
Spoilsport. No dancing and now I have to sit on my own bloody chair? Next thing I know, he’ll ask me to join a nunnery.
Sighing, I plop into the chair a little too quickly, and the restaurant spins around me.
“I got you more pelmeni,” he says. “Eat. Food slows down alcohol absorption.”
“That takes the cake.” I grab a fork—the thing is heavy for some reason. “The Devil is worried I might be sloshed.”
Wait, did I say that out loud?
Yep.
He quirks an eyebrow. “The Devil?”
I hiccup. “That’s what I call you. Well, also Crusty—but that one’s so recent I haven’t used it yet.”
He shakes his head. “As much as I don’t like the sound of ‘Crusty,’ I just might prefer it to ‘the Devil.’”
“Seriously?” I attempt to spear a dumpling, but the bugger slithers away—must be all that butter and sour cream.
He grabs my fork, expertly nails the morsel for me, and hands the utensil back, our fingers brushing orgasmically in the process. “Back in Russia, kids would tease us with variations on that theme because of our last name,” he says. “So it’s something of a sore spot. At least ‘Crusty’ is original.”
I blink at him owlishly. “But you named your dog Beelzebub.”
He shrugs. “That name isn’t known in Russia, and it’s okay to call your dog something you wouldn’t want to be called yourself. Besides, I don’t want the assholes from my past to have any power over me—that’s why I named my company 1000 Devils.”
“Ah. The Devil is your Holy Hymen.” I bring the fork to my mouth and close my eyes, enjoying the flavor explosion that is the pelmeni.
When I open my eyes, he’s eyeing me with confusion. “Holy hymen? Didn’t you say you’ve had ‘coitus’?”
Flushing, I swallow the pelmeni. Why did I open my big mouth?
“Not that it’s any of your business, but no, I’m not a virgin,” I say in a low voice. “Holy Hymen is what the kids called me back in the day. On account of me being Holly and having the last name of Hyman.”
“Ah. So you do understand.” His face hardens, his cerulean eyes tightening dangerously. “Give me the names of the assholes who insulted you.”
I have to blink at him again. Is he serious? “Um, I don’t remember them now. In any case, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to press on your sore spot. You’re Crusty going forward. Or however you say ‘crusty’ in Russian.”
The dangerous look in his eyes fades, replaced by a bemused expression. “How did you arrive at ‘crusty?’”
“You called me breadcrumb, so I decided you should be breadcrust—or Crusty.”
A wicked grin curves his lips. “You know, in Russian, crusty is synonymous with hard.”
Hard? My breath hitches as heat streaks down my spine. “Why did you call me breadcrumb?”
“Kroshka also means little one,” he says. “I’m sorry if it sounds like I was infantilizing you. That wasn’t the idea.”
“I… see.” I look him up and down. “How do you say ‘huge one’ in Russian?”
His grin widens. “How about you just call me Alex?”
“Alex.” I taste the word.
“Or Sasha. That’s another diminutive of Alexander, which is my full name.”
“No.” I trace a finger along his strong chin. It’s a little scruffy already. “I like Alex.”
His gaze darkens as he catches my hand in his strong grip. “Is that so?”
I dampen my lips. “I like Alex a lot.”
He looks hungry—and not for the pelmeni.
Before I can think better of it, I wrap my other hand around the back of his head and pull it toward me.
His whole body stiffens, and his head doesn’t budge.
Insulted, I release him and draw back—and then I see why he’s so still.
Dragomir and Bella are coming back from the dance floor, along with Tigger, Natasha, Vlad, and Fanny.
I guess the Devil—I mean, Alex—isn’t into PDA.
“No dessert?” Natasha asks no one in particular as she sinks into her chair.
Alex’s cerulean eyes are trained on my face, the expression in them hotly intent. “Not yet.”
Natasha waves over a waiter and gives an order.
A cornucopia of desserts is soon brought out, along with tea—the same wonderful kind I tried in the limo.
As I put the last lump of sugar in my cup, they bring a plate of pelmeni and set it between all the cake
s, candy, and fruit.
“Is that for me?” I ask Natasha.
She nods. “I had the chef make it. This type is called vareniki. Try it.”
I get one and taste it.
Yum. It’s not filled with meat, like regular pelmeni. Instead, the stuffing is sweet cherry, and I can totally see it as dessert.
“Does anyone know any new Vovochka jokes?” Fanny asks shyly.
“That’s a boy who’s the butt of many Russian jokes,” Alex whispers in my ear, making my neck tingle. “As a bonus, it also happens to be the diminutive form of my brother’s name.”
“I know one,” Natasha says. “Vovochka comes home with an F in math. ‘Why?’ his father demands. ‘She asked me what’s 2 times 3, so I said 6.’ ‘That’s right,’ the father says. ‘Then she asked me what’s 3 times 2?’ ‘What the fuck is the difference?’ the father asks. Vovochka sighs. ‘That’s exactly what I said.’”
Chuckles all around.
“I have one too,” Bella says and darts a glance at her sleeping father. “The mother is trying on a fur coat. Vovochka says, ‘Mom, don’t you understand, that coat is the result of the suffering of a poor, unfortunate animal.’ She looks at her son sternly. ‘How dare you speak of your father like that?’”
More chuckles.
Vlad goes next. “‘Why is the flounder flat?’ the zoology teacher asks. ‘She had relations with the whale,’ Vovochka says. ‘Out,’ the teacher says. ‘Now let’s continue. Who knows why the crawfish has such big eyes?’ From the door, Vovochka says, ‘Because he saw the whole thing.’”
When the jokes run out, everyone enjoys dessert for a while. I wonder if alcohol gives you munchies, the way cannabis does. I’m enjoying my vareniki a little too much. Like 137 sit-ups too much.
As I reach for more tea, I feel someone loom over me and look up.
It’s Tigger.
With a courtly bow, he hiccups and says, “May I have this dance, milady?”
Alex’s teacup smashes into the table with a bang. “No, you can’t.” The words come out in a growl.
“Hey,” I say indignantly. “Why are you speaking for me? What if I want to dance with him?”
I don’t, but still. Who does he think he is?
“Dude, relax,” Tigger says to Alex. “It’s just a dance.”