My Mobster

by J. L. Drake

  “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 m
ake 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!

  Chapter 11

  Lies And Disobedience

  On the way to the stadium, I played with the fringe on my tall brown boots.

  Vladimir stole glances at me. “You’re staying with Kiki in the dormitory after the game? Not going anywhere else?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  The truth: Kiki and I were going to a house party to celebrate the end of football season with Ryan and his friends. If I’d told Vladimir the real plan, he would’ve never taken me to the game. It wasn’t like I was lying, more like protecting him from worrying about me. He was better off not knowing about my wild side.

  ***

  After the hockey game, Ryan drove Kiki and me to Clifton. I had control of the tunes and played a country music playlist I put together for Ryan. He patted my leg and told me he liked my boots. I played air drums and sang the lyrics to his favorite song. From the backseat, Kiki reached up and pinched my arm to acknowledge the vibes reverberating between Ryan and me.

  By the time we got to the house, the party was rocking. In a matter of seconds, Kiki and I had beers in hand and Ryan sipped on a Coke. We headed out to the patio and danced with our friends. I was a sweaty mess in no time. Ryan christened me with his Bearcat jersey—my “punishment” for losing our bet—and shadowed me all night.

  I had the sense he wanted to be more than just good buddies. It felt awkward making the transition, but the alcohol helped loosen me up. Kiki spied me plopped on his lap on a dilapidated couch, snapped a pic, and gave me a thumbs up. I could get accustomed to having his big strong arms wrapped around me like that.

  When the party started getting crowded and beer bottles were breaking, Ryan rounded up Kiki and loaded us into the truck just after one o’clock. He drove us back to Kiki’s dorm and walked us to the door. He gave me a hug goodbye and told me to call him when I woke up so he could take us to breakfast. He was so nice. I felt comfortable around him. And damn, his body rocked. Still in his arms, I stood on my toes and planted a smooch on his lips.

  Gently, he cupped my chin and backed away. “Not tonight, Cookie.”

  Ouch.

  Once inside, Kiki set out her alcohol stash and helped me drown my sorrows with gin and juice. Her roommate stayed with her boyfriend on Friday nights, so I was free to crash. “Ryan is such an asshole,” Kiki said, flipping her long black hair over her shoulder. “I mean, why was he all over you at the party and then why did he, like, body slam you WWE style when you kissed him goodnight?”

  “I know, right? What the hell is this?” I tugged on Ryan’s jersey.

  “Bastard. You’re ten times hotter than that fucking Jessica whore he was with last month. She probably ruined him with her skank.”

  I laughed so hard I snorted. We cranked up the jams and danced until Kiki’s RA shut down our party around four-ish. We turned off the lights and got into bed. Kiki had told me how her roommate and her boyfriend shamelessly “fucked like rabbits” in that bed—while Kiki was in the room. I kept all my clothes on and lay down on top of the covers. I closed my eyes but couldn’t fall asleep.

  What was wrong with me? First I threw myself at Vladimir, and then I struck out with Ryan. Was I seriously that repulsive, not to mention desperate? At five-thirty, I gave up on sleep. Without waking Kiki, I headed out to get some coffee from the twenty-four hour place on Calhoun.

  Just as I began my journey down the sidewalk, a car rolled up next to me. Instinctively, I fumbled with the wad o’ crap around my neck to locate my rape whistle.

  The car window hummed down. “Get in,” Boris ordered.

  I jumped at the sound of his voice and put my hand over my heart. “What the hell, man?”

  He glared at me. “Get in.” His tone was louder and more threatening the second time.

  I held my hands up in surrender, opened the door, and slid into the car.

  “This is what you do on your free time, sneaky little weasel? Party with boys, drink yourself stupid, and hang around on dangerous street corners waiting to be attacked?”

  “Easy, kick it down a notch.” I winced. “You followed me all night?”

  Boris took a deep breath, probably to stop himself from slamming my face into the glove box. “You lied to boss. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  How insulting. “I
don’t have to answer to you. You can’t tell me what to do on my free time.” I put my hand on the door handle—

  Boris grabbed my arm and glared at me like he wanted to chomp me in half. “Lies and disobedience will not be tolerated. On the clock or off. Now you must answer to the pakhan.”

  I suspected the word pakhan translated to ‘pissed off boss’ in English.

  This was not going to end well.

  Chapter 12

  Filthy

  Back at the lair, Vladimir was not in the kitchen waiting for me as I’d anticipated. I seriously needed some caffeine before I faced the boss. “Want some tea?” I asked Boris. “You must be exhausted from prowling around all night.”

  “Is it possible for you to speak without slurring your speech?”

  I cracked up—it wasn’t funny. Ugh. I drank too much. “Tea? Da? Nyet?”

  No response.

  “Is Mr. Ivanov still asleep? I need a shower.” I sniffed Ryan’s jersey. “Gag. I reek.”

  “Da. I followed your scent. That’s how I found you.”

  “Let’s see, what scent attracts a man to follow around college girls?” I sniffed Ryan’s party-seasoned jersey. “Mm. Cigarette smoke, stale beer, Calvin Klein.” I inhaled again. “Tanqueray, wet dog—no wait.” I sniffed again. “That’s Ryan’s sweat.” I caught a glimpse of Boris’s face and snorted.

  “The boss is waiting in the study, party girl.” He held the swinging door open and scooted me out of the kitchen.

  Shit. “Just wondering, on a scale of one to ten, how much trouble am I in?” Gustav and Anastasia danced at my feet, and I marched the walk of shame to the boss’s office, escorted by a big bad dude three times my size.

  Boris glared at me before he answered. “Depends on how well you handle yourself. Could be two, could be ten.”

  “Great. No pressure then.” Facing a tenth-degree-ticked-off Vladimir would be about as survivable as skipping up to a ravenous polar bear with an armload of barking seal pups. But, what I did on my free time was none of his business, and I was going to tell him so.