by Misha Bell
“And today’s problem was almost the same,” Vlad says with a grin. “Our HR spam filters were blocking resumes of magna cum laude graduates.”
As I laugh at this, his phone beeps.
“Sorry,” he says after checking on it. “I have to get back to the office.”
“Of course,” I say.
He throws wads of cash on the table, and we hurry out of the restaurant.
“I’m going to run,” he says. “See you tonight.”
Before I can clarify that he might see me tonight, he’s already crossing the street.
Crap. The clothes he gets me would have to be truly hideous for me to be able to flake without looking like an asshole. And if I do, I’ll genuinely feel bad if he ditches his family as a result, even if I rationally know it would be on him, not me.
He is evil. But that’s not news.
As I trek home, I ponder an important question: Did he invite me on a date?
We have been spending a lot of time together, and the testing has been hot and heavy, so I could see why he might.
But is it something I want?
Obviously, yes, at least I would if he weren’t my boss squared. As is, I can’t help but worry how this would look to the rest of Binary Birch. Not to mention, if we dated and broke up, would I lose my job?
Also a factor is the perfumed mystery woman. He saw her as recently as this morning—which doesn’t mesh well with my fantasy of this invite being a date.
These thoughts loop in my head throughout the entire commute and when I get home. Then I start wondering when the dress is supposed to arrive and what time the party actually is.
He really didn’t tell me anything.
At four p.m., my doorbell rings.
“Who’s there?” I ask.
“Delivery,” a distant voice says.
I open the door and see two boxes sitting on the welcome mat.
I guess that answers one of my questions.
Bringing it all inside, I open the bigger box.
There’s a folded dress with a note inside:
I will pick you up at seven.
Okay, another question answered.
I unroll the dress.
It’s a gorgeous little black number that might’ve been inspired by Audrey Hepburn’s iconic look in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
It looks suspiciously close to my size.
I put it on.
The thing fits me down to a millimeter. Almost as if someone took a cast of my body and designed the dress around it.
Did Vlad hack some online purchase I made? Or did he look at me so closely that he could guess my measurements this precisely?
Befuddled, I open the second box.
A pair of shoegasmic Christian Louboutin pumps is inside—and they fit me as perfectly as the dress.
What is happening?
I check myself out in the mirror and can’t help but wolf-whistle.
It’s official. There’s no way I could say this isn’t a great outfit without sounding like a dirty liar.
Taking a selfie, I text it to Ava.
The reply is instant:
Hot! What’s the occasion?
When I tell her it’s to go to a Russian restaurant with Vlad, Precious rings right away.
“Tell me everything,” Ava demands as soon as I pick up.
I bring her up to speed, concluding with my doubts about this being a date.
“Oh, it’s a date. The guy is majorly into you. He used the squirrel toy, for fuck’s sake.”
I squeeze the phone harder. “What about the other woman?”
“Ask him about her,” she says. “Maybe ply him with a few drinks first.”
“I guess…”
“No guessing needed. Do it. Also, have you done your makeup and hair yet?”
“No.” I look at myself in the mirror. “My makeup isn’t bad. I just got back from work.”
“I’m hanging up, and you’re dolling yourself up. Do you want me to send you some useful YouTube videos?”
I roll my eyes, though she can’t see it. “I can use the internet all on my own. Bye.”
I dive into my makeover and end up with an updo and enough makeup to make a naked mole rat look presentable. I even trim the eyebrow wigs a little and gel them up to keep the bushiness under control.
Just as I’m finishing up, the doorbell rings.
Crap. He’s here.
Diving into the shoes, I click-clack over to the door.
“Who’s there?” I say pointedly, so I don’t get chastised for opening the door for criminals with impeccable timing.
“Vlad,” he says.
I open the door.
Oh my.
Dressed in a bespoke black suit that hugs his every muscle, a crisply starched white shirt, and a black tie, he’s a sight to behold.
“You look amazing,” he murmurs, his eyes greedily scanning me from head to toe.
Ignoring the heat in my cheeks and other regions, I twirl coquettishly. “It’s the dress you got me.”
His voice roughens. “No. It’s you.” Before I can respond, he gestures at the limo. “Come, we’re already late.”
Drunk on his words, I get to the limo on autopilot.
He holds the door open for me.
With a goofy grin, I slide inside and sit by his trusty laptop—the last time, this had made it so he’d sit next to me.
Yep. He slides over, his presence making me tingly and giddy.
“Is it hot in here?” He plays with the air conditioning controls.
So hot. So take off all your clothes… “I’m okay,” I lie, the words of the song playing through my head.
He gives me a warm smile and tells Ivan, “Poyehali.” He then raises the partition.
The car torpedoes forward, and we sit there, staring into each other eyes like a couple of staring-contest champions.
“What’s the name of the restaurant?” I force myself to ask.
His lips twitch. “On Yelp, it’s listed as the New Hut.”
“Any relation to Pizza Hut or Jabba the Hut?”
“The latter has two Ts in his name,” he says with a smile.
I fight the urge to grab him by the tie and lick that smile. “Well, the word ‘hut’ doesn’t make it sound as fancy as I imagined.”
He adjusts his glasses. “It’s fancy. The hut bit is a leftover from its longer name—The Hut on Hen’s Legs.”
I blink, taken aback. “That’s a horrible name—no offense.”
“I don’t disagree. It’s a reference to Russian fairy tales. A hut like that was the home of the infamous Baba Yaga. If you’ve seen the John Wick movies, he was for some reason compared to her constantly.”
I lift a well-groomed eyebrow wig. “I’ve heard of her. She’s a cannibalistic witch, right? Ate little children. Great association for a restaurant.”
He grins. “That’s what I told my parents too. They kept the name anyway. At least everyone’s switched to calling it the New Hut, so less cannibalism associations.”
“But why is it new?”
“Because the old one burned down, and my parents got the empty space on the cheap. They kept the name because it already had some recognition among the Brighton Beach community.”
The limo comes to a full stop, and I spot a green street sign that informs me we’re already on the famed Brighton Beach Avenue—or Little Odessa, as it’s sometimes called.
Just to confirm this, a train makes thunderous noises on the aboveground subway tracks nearby.
Getting out, I smile at the storefronts with names written in Cyrillic and at people who look like extras in a movie about Soviet Russia.
Vlad leads me to what must be the restaurant—a giant, multi-story wooden hut with, not surprisingly, chicken legs where most other buildings would have columns.
As we walk up the creaky wooden stairs, I brush my fingers along one of the “legs.”
It feels as though it’s made from real chicken skin.
A nice touch. Always have people think salmonella before a dining experience.
Inside, the place couldn’t look more different from its rustic external vibe if it tried. Marble and crystal are everywhere, evoking Grand Central station and the Metropolitan Opera at the same time.
The party is in full swing, with people shaking booties on a huge dance floor.
There’s also a full-on stage here, with a pudgy bearded dude wearing an outfit that shines brighter than a disco ball. In his hairy sausage-like fingers, he’s holding a microphone and singing his lungs out.
So, this place isn’t just a restaurant. It’s also a club and a theater, it seems.
The music is played on a keyboard and sounds vaguely familiar, but it takes me a moment to parse what the bearded guy is actually singing; his thick Russian accent and this context throws me off.
The song is Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It).
Seriously? Beyoncé would die laughing if she heard this butchery of an interpretation.
Vlad leans in, his breath warm on my ear. “They do a lot of covers at this place. With the American audience, expect a lot of this.”
I try to ignore the pleasurable goosebumps spreading down my arm. “Can’t wait.”
As we proceed further, I notice that most of the patrons are software engineer types—clearly 1000 Devils’ staff.
“There.” Vlad touches my shoulder and points at a table to the side of the dance floor. “Come meet my family.”
Chapter Twenty-One
I recognize Alex right away and guess that the older couple sitting at the table must be the parents.
The mother’s makeup makes me think of burlesque dancers and drag queens, and her exposed cleavage is so big it probably has a name. Helga, maybe? She’s wearing a skintight purple cocktail dress with a confidence I hope to emulate when I’m her age.
The father sports a heavy mustache and in general resembles the singer on stage—hairy and pudgy but with a unibrow that the singer must’ve plucked.
I again feel a slight stab of eyebrow envy. I’ll never take forehead facial hair for granted again.
Neither of the parents have many features in common with the two brothers, but they both remind me of someone. I just can’t say who.
“Mom, Dad, this is the woman I was telling you about,” Alex says as we approach. “She saved my company the other day, and, as I hoped, has dragged Vlad over here today.”
Each of the parents gives me a grateful nod.
“Oh, I can’t take the credit.” I smile nervously. “Vlad had to convince me, not the other way around, trust me. Nice to meet you both.”
Another set of approving nods. If my goal is to get these people to like me, Alex has clearly given me a head start.
“Mother, Father, this is Fanny,” Vlad says, his expression surprisingly cool.
They both get up. She’s ridiculously tall—a good head taller than her husband. Must be where the brothers got their height from.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Chortsky,” I say, extending my hand.
The father ignores my hand in favor of giving me a scratchy kiss on the cheek.
The wife smacks him on the back. “She’s an American. They don’t kiss strangers, you old pervert.”
“Call me Boris.” The father grins so widely the edges of his mustache touch his temples.
The mother smacks his back again, then shakes my hand with a genuine smile and drags me closer. Thankfully, her kiss is of the air variety. “Forgive my bear husband, dear,” she whispers conspiratorially. “Call me Natasha.”
As I pull back, I do my best to keep a poker face.
Boris and Natasha? That’s exactly who they remind me of—the two villains from that old cartoon show with the moose and the squirrel. They even share their names.
I bet if I used my app on them, it would confirm this too. Even their heavy Russian accents are nearly identical.
“Please, sit.” Boris pulls out a chair for me—and gets another smack from his wife for his troubles.
“Thanks.” I sit down, and Vlad sits next to me.
The table is teeming with plates covered by cloth napkins. No one has begun eating yet, it seems.
“Service the lady,” Natasha says to Vlad sternly, gesturing at the covered food.
Service me? Maybe if he got under the table or something, but even then, it would be hella awkward.
Vlad’s face is stormy as he gazes at his mother. “Shouldn’t we wait for everyone to gather first?”
This isn’t everyone?
Natasha scoffs. “Latecomers do not get to eat.”
“Or drink.” Boris grabs a giant bottle of Stoli and pours me a shot without asking if I want one.
He then does the same for Vlad, Alex, and his wife. For himself, he pours the vodka into a wine glass.
Natasha stares daggers at Boris. “You will have shots, like a normal person.”
Boris waves for a waiter to come over and says something to him in Russian.
The waiter sprints away and returns with a handful of shot glasses that he pours Boris’s vodka into.
“How about a compromise?” Boris says to Vlad and uncovers one plate. “We’ll have some pickles and a drink for now, as an appetizer.”
“Whatever,” Vlad mutters, then spears a pickle and deposits it on my plate.
Boris puts a pickle on his wife’s plate, then his own, and Alex “services” himself.
“I claim the first toast.” Natasha raises her shot glass and looks around as if daring anyone to contradict her.
Did Vlad just roll his eyes?
Natasha doesn’t seem to notice. Looking at me, she says, “Only alcoholics drink by themselves, without a cause, and without a toast.”
Wise. I’m not sure any of that is part of the twelve-step program, but I keep my mouth shut, opting to drink some water instead.
“As a woman in her middle years, I can be forgiven if I think about my family legacy,” Natasha continues, for some reason narrowing her eyes at Alex before looking approvingly at Vlad.
Looking directly at me, Natasha raises her glass even higher. “To the health of my unborn grandchildren.”
I choke on my water and begin coughing.
Boris leaps out of his chair and smacks me five times on the back.
The water comes out of my nose, and eventually, I resume breathing.
“Sorry about that,” I say when I can speak. “Didn’t mean to mess up your toast.”
“It’s fine, dear.” Natasha sounds comically magnanimous. “I wasn’t finished anyway.”
“Go on, pookie,” Boris says, greedily eyeing his shot glasses.
She nods solemnly. “May my unborn grandchildren be wealthy and joyous. May their mother stay the color of spring and roses. A source of sweet dreams to the man in her life. His attraction and inspiration. May she stay simple yet regal. A princess. The muse to an opera of love. May her days last forever and beyond. To this, we shall drink until we see the bottom of our glasses.”
Amen? I feel like someone should give me an Oscar for keeping a straight face.
With a theatrical gesture, Natasha downs her shot in one gulp, then sniffs her pickle before violently biting into it.
Vlad and Alex follow their mother’s example, while Boris downs one shot, then another, then a third, then a fourth, and so on until they’re all empty.
Not being suicidal, I take the smallest sip from mine that I can.
Fire explodes in my mouth, then spreads through my chest and into my stomach.
Gasping, I try sniffing the pickle like everyone else did.
Nope. That makes it worse.
I bite into it.
Okay, so now I have a salty taste in my mouth on top of the burn.
“So, Fannychka, do you have any Russian in you?” Natasha asks.
If I say no, will she say “do you want some?” and point at Vlad?
After that toast, it
wouldn’t surprise me.
“I have no clue.” I cautiously put down the pickle I was still clutching. “My parents call themselves pure-bred American mutts. I’ve been planning to take a DNA ancestry test, but haven’t yet. But you never know.”
My answer seems to please her. At least she looks approvingly at me, then at Vlad.
Boris refills everyone’s shot glasses, including the half dozen of his. When he sees that mine is almost full, he frowns but doesn’t say anything.
Instead, he dramatically rises to his feet and raises a glass. “The time between the first drink and the second ought to be short.”
“Shouldn’t we eat something more substantial than a pickle first?” Natasha hisses.
Before her husband can answer, a familiar scent reaches my nostrils.
Perfume.
The perfume.
I glance behind me.
Yep.
The modelesque woman I saw by our work building is striding toward our table on five-inch heels. Her makeup looks like war paint—perhaps due to the furious expression on her face.
What the fuck?
Did Vlad invite his side piece to a family event?
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Ah, if it isn’t the fashionably late,” Natasha says snidely to the woman.
She was also expecting her?
“Parents.” The newcomer’s voice is icy. “Bros.” The voice is a tiny bit warmer now. “Couldn’t wait even a minute, huh?”
Bros?
Whew.
She’s Vlad’s sister, not his lover.
Unless there’s some Game of Thrones crap going on, which I doubt.
Vlad stands up and pulls out a chair for her. “I tried to make them wait.”
As she sits, I sneak a glance. Now that I know she’s Vlad’s sibling, I can see the resemblance: the jet-black hair, the blue eyes, and even the ability to put on that chilly expression.
“Bella, meet Fanny.” Alex sounds placating. “Vlad’s friend.”
The ice queen expression melts as the heavily mascaraed blue eyes swing toward me. “Oh, you’re Fanny? Nice to put a face to a name.”
Face to a name? She’s heard about me?