Dynasty

by Jen Davis et al.

  “Your family lives across the street on Deer Cross Lane, right?”

  How did he know that?

  Coach’s expression soured, then he softened his stance and walked back to his family. “See you at practice tomorrow, Cook.”

  ***

  When we got back to my house, Dad and Karen hadn’t arrived yet. Vladimir got out of the passenger side, walked around the car, and opened the door for me.

  “Thanks again for an awesome day.” I gave him a quick hug. “See you tomorrow.”

  I turned to go inside, but he pulled me back to him. “Take me to your bedroom.”

  “What?”

  “I want to see where you spend your time when you’re away from me.”

  “It’s nothing. Dad will be here any second. What if he comes home and finds—” Before I could make my case, the boss headed up the sidewalk to the front porch. I hurried, got out my keys, and twisted the lock. Once inside, I bolted upstairs. He followed.

  When he entered my room, he marveled at my décor as if he wanted to remember every detail: My purple bedspread, a stack of fashion magazines, dusty stuffed animals, a Barbie Doll shrine, miniature boxes of cereal and packs of nuts I noshed on when I didn’t feel like going downstairs, a corkboard with pictures of my friends and me, a bookcase loaded with trophies, and a life-size poster of Rafael Nadal next to my bed.

  A picture of Sophia and me on my desk caught his eye. I was five, sitting on my thirteen-year-old sister’s lap. Sophia was smiling with her arms around me, and I was snuggling my poodle twins in my arms. The picture had belonged to Sophia. When she died, I took it from her room, hid it in my bed, and slept with it under my pillow for months.

  “That was Sophia’s favorite picture.”

  “Mine, too.”

  Vladimir’s gaze moved to a collage of my life growing up with Kiki. The big picture in the center of the frame was of us at a hibachi table holding up crossed chopsticks.

  “Look at you, Carter. Such a tiny angel.” He ran his fingers over the glass.

  “That was my twelfth birthday party. Dad traveled a lot, so Kiki’s mom and dad, Doc and Mary, took us out. They practically raised me after Sophia died. They call me their ‘other’ adopted daughter.”

  He read the caption under our photo.

  Chopstick Twins.

  “It was our nickname back in grade school.” I held up two fingers. “Stick thin and always together.”

  “So cruel.”

  “Now you understand why I’ve never had a boyfriend? I looked like a stick-side-down mop until I started working with a trainer.”

  “Is that why you look so sad?”

  “Is this the face of an unhappy girl?” I pointed to some of the other pictures. “Kiki and I did gymnastics, soccer, ballet, and vacationed together. We’re like family.”

  “Why do you fight with your papa?”

  I felt like I was at Confession. A fresh round of tears welled up in my eyes. Vladimir put his arm around me, led me to the edge of my bed, and sat us down. “Tell me.”

  “Kiki and I have been best friends since we moved here. Up until the accident, Sophia had taken care of me while Dad worked long hours. Since we didn’t have family close by, Mary offered to help out. During the week I lived with Kiki’s family—where I was happy—then Dad dragged me back here on the weekends. I hated him for it.”

  “He’s your papa.”

  “It got worse when he married Karen. He made me stay here with her full-time instead of going back with Kiki’s family. I felt like I didn’t belong in my family anymore, so I hid up here. That’s when I withdrew emotionally.”

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

  “It was a long time ago. I’m totally over it. Dad, however, is not. He drives me nuts. I can’t wait until—” I stopped midsentence when Vladimir’s breathing had gotten heavier.

  “I can’t stand the thought of you being mistreated.”

  “Whoa, whoa, mistreated? I’m not mistreated. All kids fight with their parents. It’s our job to make their lives suck so they won’t miss us when we move out.” I joked to lighten the tension.

  “You’re different. A fragile angel like you—”

  “I’m not fragile, and don’t you think he’s right to be hard on me sometimes? Let’s be real. Dad thinks I’m at the tennis club whipping up smoothies so I can buy a car. If he knew about our arrangement and how I’ve been lying to him, he’d go berserk.” Worried I had insulted him, I shut my mouth and waited for him to respond.

  “I will tell him when he comes home. I won’t let you face his wrath because of me.” Vladimir headed for the door.

  “No way. Promise you won’t say anything.” I jumped in front of him and blocked my bedroom door, as if I could stop him. “He’ll be so ticked. Probably madder at you than me, and trust me, you don’t want to see him angry.”

  Vladimir crossed his arms and studied my freaked out, arms stretched across the doorframe stance. “You think I am afraid of your papa?”

  “Of course not, but why do you want to provoke him? Everything’s fine. If he finds out, he’ll never let me see you again. Please, I need you.”

  Vladimir peeled my fingers off the doorframe, held my wrists, and brought my arms down. He kissed my cheeks, but not in the usual way. His warm lips lingered on my skin while he massaged the nape of my neck. The closeness of our bodies and the heat emanating from his skin caused a groan to escape from my lips. Vladimir rubbed warm circles on my back and whispered Russian words in my ear to soothe me.

  “What does it mean?” I whispered.

  “Something good.”

  Blood rushed down there. I wanted to tackle him on my bed and run my fingers through his sexy hair and touch his chest and feel the warmth of his lean, muscular body. Lately, I’d felt The Urge. Right or wrong, Vladimir lit my sexual fire. It wasn’t his body or his incredible blue eyes, it was how he made me feel—like the important person in his universe.

  “What kind of good?” I laid my hand on his chest and snuck my finger inside his shirt to touch his skin. I traced the outline of the devil with my fingernail. Vladimir inhaled sharply, excited by my touch. I unbuttoned the top button of his shirt—

  He lowered my hand. “Your papa will be home soon.” He left the house a minute before Dad turned into the driveway. I replayed the day’s events from his smoldering eyes, to his strong embrace, to the taunting words, “Oh, Carter is that what I am, your boss?”

  What did he want to be? My friend? Boyfriend? Lover?

  I spent the rest of the evening melting under the covers, dreaming about how awesome it would feel to have Vladimir there with me. He was guarded on my turf, but if we’d been at his place there would have been nothing to hold us back. I was dying to feel the weight of his body on top of me and the warmth of his skin and his hands rubbing me all over…

  I tucked my special phone under my pillow in case he called to say goodnight.

  He didn’t.

  Chapter 22

  Wedged

  On Monday morning, Kiki and I went to breakfast and vented about all the bullshit that’d gone down on Saturday night. She’d been lectured by her parents about the lake thing, too, even though she didn’t even drink.

  “Here’s the deal, Carter.” Kiki dumped a heaping spoonful of sugar into her coffee. “We need to fast-forward our apartment situation. The food on campus is heinous, my closet is the size of a rat hole, and my roommate and her boyfriend think our dorm is a porno studio that’s open 24/7.”

  “Sounds like you’re jealous,” I laughed and scooped a bite of oatmeal and bananas into my mouth.

  “Absolutely. I need a boyfriend—or a fuck buddy.”

  I cracked up. “What’s happening with Toby?”

  “God, he’s big and beautiful. I want to strip down, curl up on his chest, and settle in for a catnap right there in chem lab.”

  I laughed so hard I snorted.

  “For real, his belly sticks out perfectly lik
e a warm lump of bread dough rising in a bowl, waiting for me to knead it and pound it into shape.” Kiki wiped imaginary drool from her chin.

  “He’s obviously intimidated by your hotness. Help a brother out and casually mention you’re craving Thai food and lure him to that cozy place across the street.”

  “Oh, that’s good. I will, but let’s get back on track. I made an appointment for us to take a tour of an apartment complex off Calhoun Street. They have a unit coming available mid-January. That gives us about a month to get ready. We need to put down a deposit and first month’s rent today to hold it. You in?”

  Mentally, I tallied my financial situation. I had enough in my savings, thanks to my generous boss and from all the money I’d saved working at the club. “In.”

  “Really?” Kiki asked.

  “Way in.”

  We squealed. Finally, I had secured my ticket to freedom. I could do whatever I wanted, come home when I felt like it, and start living my real adult life.

  We signed the rental agreement, put down our deposit, and stopped at Homegoods to get some decorating ideas. Then we went to lunch at Panera and made a list of all the stuff we needed to get started. I hated to end our strategic planning session, but I had to go to tennis. I went through the motions at practice, but I was so nervous—the excited kind of nervous—I couldn’t think about anything except Vladimir and my newfound freedom.

  When I slid into the Caddy, I avoided Boris’s omniscient eyes and rambled on about our tennis tournament, which was taking place on Thursday. His advice: Teach your opponents a lesson early in the match. He brushed the side of his cheek where Coach had whacked me.

  I was hoping Vladimir would be home waiting to greet me, so I could share my news—which I hoped would turn into a romantic, celebratory dinner somewhere fabulous. Instead, I found a blooming bouquet of red and pink two-tone roses along with a card on the bar. I tore open the envelope and pulled out an elegantly scrolled note:

  My dearest Carter,

  In preparation for your match, Boris will go over your game stats so you may understand your high and low percentage shots. Listen to him. He is a good coach.

  Regards, Vladimir

  That night, Vladimir worked late. Boris sent out for pizza from my favorite restaurant and together we came up with a game plan for my match. I’d kept a couple slices warm for Vladimir in the toaster oven, but he never came home, never called, never texted. Not exactly the romantic evening I’d hoped for.

  On Tuesday, another bouquet of roses and another note.

  My dearest Carter,

  Find your way to the bedroom. I have arranged for a masseuse to help relax your muscles. I regret I will be working late again this evening.

  Regards, Vladimir

  On Wednesday, the eve of the tournament:

  My dearest Carter,

  Overthinking your game is the kiss of death. Get ready for a relaxing evening at home. Meet me in the living room. I am waiting for you.

  Regards, Vladimir

  I tossed the note in the trash. Since our moment on Sunday, the boss had strategically kept his distance and set up diversions so he didn’t have to face me.

  Hint: my passion was unrequited.

  “Can you please take me home?” I asked Boris.

  “Nyet.” He flung open the swinging door and nudged me out of the kitchen. Vladimir was seated on the sofa, sipping a golden drink on the rocks.

  “Join me, Carter.”

  I plopped down on the couch, keeping a cushion of distance between us.

  “Feeling shy?” He swirled his drink. Ice cubes clinked against the glass.

  I averted my gaze to a trio of candles glowing on the coffee table.

  “About the other day—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” I ripped a page out of his playbook and kept my emotional distance, too.

  “Carter, if things were different—”

  “Please stop. You don’t have to explain. I don’t need this right now—the tournament.” I picked up the remote. “Let’s watch a movie.” As I browsed the comedy list, I wrapped up in a throw blanket and wedged a pillow in the open spot between us.

  I am such an idiot. Why didn’t I take the hint the first time he rejected me? How fucking humiliating…

  He touched my shoulder and whispered my name. I pretended not to notice.

  Chapter 23

  Game Over

  The next day, my teammates and I huddled around Coach for our pre-game pep talk. “Come out strong. Make them play your game. Be aggressive. Even if you make a mistake, they’ll be afraid of what you’ll do next. Go for high percentage shots, and keep the ball in play until you can put away a clean winner. And most important of all: Don’t back off if you’re losing. Make your opponent beat you. If you’re going down, go down swinging.”

  Coach held out his hand in the center of the huddle.

  We piled our hands on top of his.

  “Bring it on three. One, two, three—”

  “Bring it!”

  We brought that energy onto the court. Our team finished strong in the first round and moved on to the finals. It boiled down to this: Court three won, and court two lost. On court one, Rakhi and I had won the first set and lost the second. The Super Tiebreaker—first to ten, win by two—would determine the winner.

  We dominated and got the score to nine to six. If we won the next point, we would win not only the match, but also the trophy. It was our opponent’s serve. We came out strong and rallied cross-court, but I blew it when I dove for a poach and tipped the ball out, nine to seven. Then on their next serve, Rakhi blasted an easy put-away out, nine to eight. Our turn. We would win if Rakhi held serve on the next point.

  I took a deep cleansing breath and looked up to the viewing gallery. Vladimir was standing next to Mr. Cusimano. He flashed me an open hand, which meant one of two things: One, he was waving hello. Or two, he was signaling for me to poach.

  It didn’t matter. This was my game, not his. As Rakhi bounced the ball on the baseline preparing to serve, Boris’s stats revealed that when we played Australian—when I lined up in the service box on the same side as Rakhi—we had won the majority of points when she served from the deuce side. I jogged to the baseline. “Let’s do Australian.”

  She continued to bounce the ball and nodded. When we lined up, I flashed her an open hand behind my back signaling I was going to poach. When she served, and the ball slammed down on the line, I shuffled left to field the return. When the ball came through the middle, I pounded back a punishing volley and nailed the net player in the gut.

  Winners.

  I knew we would take the trophy and, since it was a special occasion, I came prepared with a bottle of French champagne I’d taken from Vladimir’s wine cellar: What’s mine is yours. After our handshakes and post-victory pow-wow with Coach, I rounded up the team and led them out back to Rakhi’s minivan.

  Once everyone piled in, I popped the bubbly. I poured the champagne into the mouth of our trophy cup, and the girls squealed. We laughed and passed the chalice, reveling in our triumph. The cup made it all the way around back to me. As I sipped, I saw Rakhi’s caramel skin blanch. Somebody banged on the car window behind me. Coach opened the door. Every single one of us was underage. We were stone-cold busted.

  Oh, shit. I dumped it out and said I was the only one who had a sip. I didn’t want anyone else to get in trouble for my stupid idea. He dismissed my teammates with the threat they were not absolved of guilt yet.

  “Give me the bottle.” Coach’s face burned with condemnation. “Looks expensive. Where’d you get it?”

  I was sure he already had a pretty good idea of where I got it. “I take full responsibility. The girls didn’t know I brought it until we got out to the car.”

  “I’m giving you a chance to come clean. Name your source or you’re off the team.”

  I crossed my arms and stared at him with pursed lips. I was no squealer.

  Coach waited
a moment and gave me a chance to change my mind. When I didn’t waver, he pulled the trigger. “Turn in your uniform tomorrow.”

  “What? Coach, please—”

  “End of discussion. Is your father here or at work?”

  My father? Another man treating me like a kid. Ridiculous. When I didn’t answer, Coach scanned his phone. I reached out and tried to lower his hand. “No.”

  He held it out of my reach. “Underage drinking is a crime. I have to report this. Would you rather I call your father or the police?”

  Hold your tongue, Carter, Sophia said. There’s still a way out of this. “Dad—but don’t tell him at work. Can you call him later tonight at home?”

  After a searing stare down, he agreed to call him later. At least that would give me time to figure things out. “Thanks, Coach. I’m so sorry about this.”

  “I’m not done with you, Carter. I’m not stupid, and I’m not blind. One way or another, you’re giving up your source. All I can do is kick you off the team. The police, however, can press charges.” He shook his head. “What you—what he is doing is not right.”

  My loyalty took over. Vladimir had given me a job. He’d let me drive his Ferrari—his Ferrari. He even invited me to live in his mansion. Vladimir was the most right thing in my life. “I’ll never tell.”

  “I’m sure your father will convince you otherwise.”

  I pushed past him and ran off toward the park. There was no way I could face Vladimir after I took his alcohol without permission. He’ll be crazy mad the police could be involved. I wanted to evaporate.

  When I reached the park, I heard a vehicle pull up behind me. Vladimir honked and rolled down the window. “Well done, angel.” When he caught a glimpse of my tortured face, he parked, jumped out of the Rover, and rushed over to me. “What’s wrong?” He squeezed my shoulders.

  I looked down, ashamed to utter the words. Tears dripped on my uniform. He led me toward a park bench, wrapped his coat around my shoulders, and sat me down. By the way I was acting, he must have thought someone had died. “You won.”