by Ally Adams
“Brooker, looking good,” he said, with the hint of a smile.
“Russian, looking pretty good yourself,” I said, and swept my eyes over him.
“I saw that,” he teased.
“Feel cheap?” I ribbed him.
“I would prefer you liked me for my mind,” he teased, and then we got down to business, because I knew somewhere in my psyche that The Russian didn’t need another pretty girl who looked and talked the part. The Russian—if he liked me at all—might have been liking me because I was real, I was an athlete, I was a driven person. Well, that was what I was counting on and if I was wrong, then so be it. I did a work out with intensity; I didn’t care if I sweated or groaned or didn’t look pretty – okay, I did care a little that I might not have looked pretty, but I was turned on by The Russian straining, not posing, so I gave him the same ... and I wanted to beat him, not that I did, not once ... I came close with the number of sit-ups, I did. I think it paid off because at the end of the workout when we both stopped and breathed in, he looked at me with what I think was respect.
“Well done, Brooker, you’re not a pussy,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?” I said, shocked.
I think my reaction unnerved him.
“Sorry, I meant, you worked hard, poor choice of words,” he stumbled. It was good to unhinge The Russian every now and then, he was so confident.
I grinned at him and gave him a wink and he shook his head at me. He grabbed a plastic cup of water from the dispenser and gave it to me while he poured his own.
“Thanks,” I said, drinking it like a woman who had been working out for an hour with a super fit, gorgeous Saint.
He swallowed his cupful and refilled us both. “Got time to grab a coffee?”
“I’d love one. Can you give me the number?”
He looked confused.
“For the coffee lady? I need her number,” I said, trying to sound casual.
“Brooker, Brooker, Brooker, that the best you got?” he asked, and then he laughed. “Keep trying.”
I sighed. “Fine then.”
“So, coffee now?” he asked again. “Ten minutes enough to shower and change?”
“Sure, I’m a natural beauty,” I said.
“Five minutes then?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not that natural, see you in ten.”
I heard him chuckle as I headed off before he could renegotiate. This was going so well; I think The Russian liked me. God knows I tried to show him the few good angles I had that day while working out. A girl’s got to use what she’s got, when she can, and I don’t have long blonde wavy hair, I’m not Boho and my daddy is rich in faith only.
*****
He was waiting for me when I returned, but I hadn’t taken much longer than ten minutes. We headed to the cafe that we had frequented last time.
The Russian went to order and when he came back and slid into the booth opposite, I forgot for a moment to raise my eyes from his torso and he caught me checking him out.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Just checking that gym session is working for you,” I said, sheepishly.
“Good of you,” he said, with the hint of a smile. The Russian sat back in our booth and looked around. There were a few other people from the gym and some guy trying to take a subtle photo of us on his phone.
“Should we just smile and wave?” The Russian asked.
“We could, or we could put glasses on and hats and try and look more cloak and dagger. He might make money from that shot,” I suggested. Then my friendly stalker, Ken, went past the window and waved to me and I waved back.
“Who was that?” The Russian asked, checking him out.
“Just one of my friendly stalkers,” I said. I swear The Russian grew a foot taller if it was at all possible.
“What do you mean?” he said.
I told him I had a few regulars—Ken, Alby and Ron, and a female called Liz—and I assured him they had never caused me any trouble.
“What’s he doing here then?” he asked, still tense and watching Ken walk through the parking lot.
I shrugged. “I don’t know, he often comes here. I’ve seen him before and after some of my workouts.”
“I don’t like it, Brooker,” The Russian growled. “Next time you see him or any of the others, including the female, you’re going to introduce me as your boyfriend and I’ll be moving them on. Okay?”
I frowned at him. “I appreciate ...”
“Not up for discussion,” he said, closing it down.
I swallowed and stayed patient. While I appreciated his concern for me, was even pretty turned on by it—sadly—I had been pretty good at looking after myself up to that point.
“Russian, I appreciate it but ...”
“No, Brooker. I protect my own ...”
“And I’m your own?” I asked, with raised eyebrows.
He placed his hands palm down on the table and took a deep breath. “You keep forgetting I’m in security. These people seem harmless until they’re not ... how many times have you seen news reports where the neighbors say ‘he was such a nice man, quiet and wouldn’t hurt a fly’. We’re shutting this down.”
I stared at him and he stared at me and then he reached for my hand.
“Let me at least do what I can, while I can, to protect you. You’d do the same for me if the situation was reversed and it was your area of expertise, wouldn’t you?” he asked. God he was good. I took a deep breath and smiled.
“Thank you, but you can’t hurt them,” I said.
He scoffed. “Wow, you don’t think much of me, do you?”
I looked at the disappointment in his face.
“I don’t really know you, Russian,” I said, truthfully.
He nodded. “Fair enough. I’m not going to hurt them. I’m just going to make it clear that I’m with you now, and I’ll be the one looking out for you, so their work is done here. Okay? Put this number in your phone.”
“What number?” I asked.
“The number I’m about to give you,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“Oh that number,” I said, with a smile and picked up my phone ready to key in. He dictated a number and I entered it.
“That’s Saints’ security,” The Russian said. “If you can’t reach me, call that number, it’s 24-7 and someone will always answer and respond to you. I’ll put you on the list of our clients.”
“Thank you Russian, that’s very kind and weirdly reassuring ... like having a bodyguard on call.”
“You mean ‘thanks Russian, you’re my hero?’” he said, and smiled.
“Don’t push your luck,” I said.
“Speaking of pushing my luck, I’ve got a bit of a problem,” he said, and sat back as our coffees and two muffins were delivered.
I think I stopped breathing; I just stared at him. A problem ... is his ex-girlfriend back? Does he not want a relationship right now? Does he want to focus on his sport? Crap, I hate men.
“What?” he asked. “Don’t look so freaked out.” He broke his muffin in half and began to eat it.
I breathed again. “You know, saying ‘I’ve got a problem’ for a guy is akin to a woman saying ‘we need to talk’” I said, and he grinned at me.
“Brooker, you think too much. My problem is that my delightful sisters—namely Ana and Nikki— showed my mother all the social media photos of our night at your Ball. Now Mom is insisting you come to dinner.”
“Really?” I brightened. I took a bite of my muffin now that the problem was actually a good thing and I could formulate saliva and swallow again.
“So, will you?” he asked, looking down on me with his big chocolate eyes.
Hell, try and keep me away.
“I’d be delighted,” I said, “thank you. Who would miss the chance to see where you sprung from?” I laughed at the thought.
“Hmm,” he sort of snorted. “Tomorrow night, Wednesday?”
“Tomorrow?” I gulpe
d.
“Too soon?” he frowned. “I can tell Mom that another date might be better.”
“No, I’m free, tomorrow night is good. Thank you.” Make my day, make my month, make my ... you get the idea.
“I can pick you up after training, around seven?” he said.
“Where do you live?” I asked and he told me.
“I have a better idea,” I said. “I’m working at The Sports Daily tomorrow which is closer to your place than mine and I don’t finish until 6.30pm. Why don’t I come to your place straight after work and you drive from then?”
“So you’re not going to go home and spend two hours beautifying yourself for me?” he said, surprised. I narrowed my eyes at him, lucky I knew him well enough to know he was joking.
“I’ll powder my nose,” I assured him. “Might even spray a bit of perfume around.”
“Yep, you’re completely taken with me,” he said. “Give me your phone and I’ll put my address in.”
I think I had an orgasm as I handed over my phone and watched that beautiful man enter his address. Is that possible without being touched? I had now seen him Sunday night, spoken Monday, worked out together Tuesday and we were having dinner with his family Wednesday night.
I think maybe, just maybe, The Russian might like me too.
Chapter 12
About midday the following day, Sasha gave me a call. I stepped away from my desk, and headed to The Sports Daily kitchen to chat.
“Hey you,” I said, “how're things?”
“Good,” she said, “very good in fact. Just checking you’re coming to the media box for the next game?”
“I haven’t got my weekly roster from The Sports Daily yet, but assume yes and I’ll confirm ASAP,” I said. “They’ve sent me to everyone this season, so the odds are good. Why, short on space?”
She sighed. “The national league magazine is going to be in town and wants four places ... it shouldn’t be a problem, but I just want to look after our regulars first.”
“Thanks, appreciate it.”
“So, what have you done to The Russian?” she asked.
Last time I had heard he was okay. My breath hitched.
“Nothing, why?”
“Because when I dropped in on him before, he was watching one of your old games on his computer ... hmm ...” she said, “sounds like someone’s a bit keen.”
“Really?” I asked, with a bit of a squeal, unfortunately.
“From what I could see before he paused it and glared at me, it was the finals against the New York Sparks,” she said. Sasha knew her sport.
“Good, I won best on the court for that game,” I said, a big smile on my face, which fortunately she couldn’t see.
“Did you do a gym wear photo shoot too?” she asked.
“Yes! A couple of years ago for Planet Fit Sportswear, paid off half my car. Don’t tell me ...”
“Yep, your lover was checking that out too, I saw the tab open. Don’t tell him I told you, just thought you’d like to know he was perving on you,” Sasha said.
“You’re right, very happy about that. Thanks for calling, you wonderful source of good news.”
Sasha laughed. “See you at the game unless I hear otherwise,” she said.
So The Russian was watching me play and checking out my modeling work ... The Russian liked me enough to go on YouTube and find my last finals game and watch me play. Yes! I wondered if he’d bring it up.
*****
That evening, just after seven p.m., The Russian parked kerbside outside his parents’ house. Their house was big, but not obnoxious ... it was stately but didn’t stand out. I suspect regardless of the money The Russian made and could have—and most likely would have offered them—they liked to keep their feet firmly planted on the ground. The house was in a new estate with wide streets and other similar sized big homes, that all shared a communal park; it had a nice vibe about it. I relaxed a bit on seeing it – I don’t know what I had been expecting, a mansion maybe. My family home was attached to the church ... a reverend usually got it as part of his package so I’d lived in churchyards all my life. Sometimes with cemeteries out the front too, which other kids thought was weird, but when you didn’t know any different ...
I felt The Russian’s hand cover mine for just a moment before he turned off the ignition.
“You’re not nervous, are you?” he asked with the hint of a grin.
“No, more curious to find out what sort of superior beings created this perfect specimen,” I said, playing into his hand. “I’ll be okay, I’ve met a few parents in my time.”
“Have you now,” he said, undoing his seatbelt. He made a sort of unimpressed sound as if I should have been a virgin, at home waiting for him.
I unbuckled and opened the door; The Russian was on my side before I finished stepping out; he closed the door for me. As we made our way up the driveway, the door opened and a young girl and a beautiful cream Labrador came bounding towards us.
“Alex,” she screamed with delight, her braids dancing as she looked from me to Alex and back. So did the dog. Not sure where to go first, she ran headlong into Alex, wrapping herself around him, and the dog jumped on me with his tongue at the ready for an affectionate lick. Good thing I loved dogs.
“Brodie, down,” Alex ordered the dog, “Tia, Tia, Tia,” he spun her around as she squealed in delight. He put her down and she raced up to me and wrapped her arms around my waist.
I laughed with surprise.
“Carla, I would like you to meet my sister Natalia, she’s the one attached to you,” The Russian said, and bent down to give Brodie some rough-and-tumble.
“Tia,” she corrected him and then looked back at me. She was a cutie – the opposite to The Russian in coloring; as dark as The Russian was, she was as fair as snow with blonde hair in braids, blue eyes and pale skin.
“Hello Tia and ...”
“Brodie,” she said, introducing me to the family Labrador.
“Ah Brodie, of course,” I said.
She released me from the hug and took my hand. “Mom’s been cooking and cleaning all day, but you can’t tell her I told you that because she said we had to make you feel welcome and we weren’t allowed to ask you any nosy questions.”
I laughed again and The Russian just shook his head as we started up the path, Brodie racing in front and Tia taking both of our hands like our love child ... I wish.
“Do you like my brother?” she asked.
“I do, most of the time,” I said.
“Me too, except when he tickles me,” she said.
“I thought you loved that,” The Russian said, and grabbed her and began tickling. She squealed with delight and he lowered her to the ground as his mother and father appeared in the doorway. I could see traces of The Russian in both of them – his mother was tall, thin and fair; his father was tall, of solid build and dark.
He embraced them both and then introduced me.
“Good to meet you Mr and Mrs Renwick,” I said.
“James, please,” his father said, shaking my hand.
“And you must call me Lana,” his mother said. “Come in, please Carla, you are most welcome.”
His father sounded very much American and with a surname like Renwick, I suspected he was. His mother’s accent was still very noticeable in her clipped words and I guessed from The Russian’s nickname where she came from.
We stumbled in with Tia and Brodie trying to push through the door at the same time. Inside, the house was spacious but full of family clutter ... photos, trophies, drawings, games – a large unfinished jigsaw puzzle sat on the snooker table and the game Twister was spread out on the floor; I swear I hadn’t played Twister since primary school.
I would have liked to play nude Twister with The Russian ... really, where had that thought come from in this wholesome family moment?
Framed photos of the family at many different walks of life adorned the walls and I intended to spend some time lookin
g at the young Alex on Santa’s knee and in other poses as soon as I could get to them. Yep, that would be stored away for later teasing.
“Don’t even think about it,” he whispered in my ear, following my gaze.
“What?” I asked innocently and he narrowed his eyes at me.
The Russian’s dad, James, busied himself getting us both a drink and within a minute two more girls—both in their teens—came down the stairs. The family was split ... Tia and one of the other girls looked like their mother, Lana; The Russian and the eldest girl looked like their father, James.
“Alex has a girlfriend,” Tia teased. “Carla these are my sisters ...”
Lana re-entered the room after checking on dinner, which was filling the house with a mouth-watering scent. “Tia, I’m sure your brother can do the introductions ... Carla is his guest.”
Young Tia sighed as if her skills were not appreciated.
The eldest of the two girls stepped forward and offered me her hand. She was a very attractive female version of The Russian, only shorter, shorter than me too, with long dark hair and large dark eyes.
“Hello Carla, I’m Ana,” she said.
“Anastasia,” Tia piped up.
“Quiet please, Natalia,” she said, putting Tia back in her place. We shook hands.
“Good to meet you,” I said.
“You too. I’m always surprised when someone likes my brother,” she said, giving him a smirk. He grabbed her in a hug and kissed her roughly on the cheek. She pulled away and made a show of wiping her face, but I could tell she loved it, she was grinning from ear-to-ear.
“And I’m Nikita, but everyone calls me Nikki,” a teenager who liked like an older carbon copy of young Tia, with the blonde hair and blue eyes, said.
“Nikita,” I repeated her name. “Such beautiful names – Anastasia, Nikita and Natalia.”
“Beautiful Russian names,” The Russian’s mother agreed. “Since we moved to America before the girls were born, we compromised by giving them Russian names to keep a little of my history alive. They were names of women in my family.” She gave her husband an affectionate look.