My keeper was ready to blow. “You’re a lucky girl, Carter. If you pulled that bullshit on me I would’ve—”
“It’s not bullshit. Vladimir knows my heart.”
His knuckles were white. He didn’t speak to me the rest of the way home. When we got to the house, I jumped out of the Cadillac like it had a bomb strapped underneath it. I ran inside and crashed into my sexy boyfriend’s waiting arms.
He lifted me up.
I wrapped my legs around his body.
He sat me down on the kitchen counter.
We made out like we had guns to our heads.
Boris walked in the door, grumbling in Russian.
“Did you miss me, Vladimir?” I asked.
“No.” He flashed his crooked smile.
I shoved him in the chest.
“I couldn’t breathe the whole time we were apart,” he recanted. “Isn’t that right, Boris?”
“Da. His lips were blue.” Boris shook his head, wanting nothing to do with our gooey love fest. “Thank heavens you came back to resuscitate him, Carter.”
“Let me make sure he’s okay.” I ran my fingers through his wavy hair and kissed him again, louder and sloppier that time. Vladimir liked it. He flung off my hat and scarf, unzipped my coat, and tossed it on the floor. “I think he’s okay now, Boris. I saved him.”
We laughed.
Boris mumbled in Russian and left the house.
Vladimir noticed what I was wearing and grinned. I had on a red, Christmas-themed t-shirt that I borrowed from Kiki with ‘naughty’ scrolled across the front in sparkle letters. It was too short, too tight, and I hadn’t bothered to wear a bra.
He licked his lips and lifted my shirt, but I stopped him from taking it off. From my perch on the counter, I had a perfect view of the white murderer van parked by the basketball court. “Not here.” I closed my hands around his. “Show me your bedroom.”
He scooped me up and swept me away. I had never been in there before—never even snuck a peek inside. I thought it would look like the rest of the house, decorated with a designer’s touch but not too personal. I was wrong. I spied a soccer ball on the floor, a collection of egg-shaped music boxes on the dresser, and photos of his family lined the walls.
Vladimir enjoyed seeing my reaction to the side of him I’d yet to know. A vintage photo of a handsome young man caught my eye. “That’s your papa? What’s his name?”
“Victor.”
“I see where you get your blue eyes. Do you have a picture of your mama?”
He carried me to the other side of the wall and stopped in front of a photo of a beautiful young woman holding an infant in her arms, and two little boys sat next to her on the front stoop of an apartment building.
“You’re the baby? And they’re your big brothers?” I slid my legs down and stood next to him. “It seems like you would be the oldest, you know, personality-wise.”
“Interesting observation. The oldest was Mischa and the middle boy was Alexei.”
I curled my finger around his belt loop. “Your mama was lovely. What’s her name?”
“Irina. According to my papa, she was the most beautiful woman in all of Ekaterinburg.” He smiled with a glint of sadness in his eyes.
“I’m sorry you lost them.” I wanted to ask how they all died, but I didn’t want to upset him.
He squeezed my hand and pointed to a picture of him, around age twelve, next to a robust dark-haired boy and a younger boy with a round belly. The youngest one had a stick in his hand, and the older boy held a cap gun aimed at a shirtless Vladimir who was flinging a rope at him like a lion tamer. At first I couldn’t figure out who they were. Then I spotted a much younger Boris in the background, looking pissed off at the antics of three young boys.
I covered my mouth to stifle my laughter as the scene of growing up Russian gangster-style played out in pictures. “No wonder Boris has zero patience. You guys destroyed him.” I pointed at Vladimir’s picture. “Hey, you were skinny, too.” I tickled his ribs.
“Of course, I was skin and bones. Look at my brothers. I had to fight for every scrap of food I got.”
“Ah, what about the little guy? You didn’t fight with him, did you?”
Vladimir touched his brother’s image through the glass. “Never. Pasha has the heart of a saint. Anybody who said a cross word or laid a hand on him had to deal with me.” His finger slid across the picture, and tapped the big boy’s image. “This one, on the other hand,” he shook his head, “Yuri and I would go to war over a stick of bubble gum.”
As I examined the picture more closely, I noticed the youngest boy had tears in his bugged-out eyes, the oldest of Boris’s brood had a ripped shirt, and Vladimir had a welt across his side like he’d been whipped with a belt. I wrapped my arms across my body. “Boris took care of you after you lost your parents?”
“In his own way he looked after me.” He kissed me on top of the head. “Everything we experience happens for a reason, like us. I traveled halfway around the world to help a young woman. And she is the one who saved me.” He kissed my lips. “I thank God every day for bringing us together. You are my world.”
If I had to describe to my shrink how our relationship evolved, dysfunctional would be the politest possible description of our love affair. But despite the messed-up stuff, where we were at that moment was a magical place. He loved me, and I loved him. What did it matter how black and blue, broken, and busted-up the road was that brought us together?
“We have all day and night. How do you want to pass the time, angel?”
“I have a present for you,” I said. “I was going to give it to you tonight, in the Russian tradition, but it can’t wait. I’ll be right back.”
I retrieved his gift from my purse and hurried back to the bedroom. I placed it in his hands, and he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled me down on his lap. Then he untied the bow and ripped off the paper.
“Oh, Carter.”
It was a two-sided frame hinged down the middle. On the left half was a picture of me cuddling my toy poodle twins in my arms. On the right half, I placed a selfie of the real poodles and me. I printed a caption under the photos that read:
My dreams came true when I met you.
Love, Carter.
Vladimir’s eyes were bright and wet. “This is the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given me.” He kissed me and then set the picture on his nightstand. The reality was, in order to leave the house we would have to unwind ourselves from each other’s arms—and that wasn’t going to happen.
“I have a gift for you, too, but you must wait,” he teased. He leaned me back on the bed and slid off my ‘naughty’ shirt.
I unbuttoned his shirt and tried to take it off, but he kept his arms stiff. I had only seen the front of his body, never his back. He was self-conscious about something. Maybe he had a stab wound or a gruesome scar or something unsettling like a tattoo of Stalin he didn’t want me to see. I slid off his pants and finally saw his bare legs in the light of day. He had star tats on his knees.
The meaning: I bow down to no one.
He laid on top of me and kissed my breasts, slid off my jeans, and rubbed me between my legs. I’d pledged not to lose my virginity until my wedding night, but my will power was dissolving. Sticking to my virtues when I was single was easy, but thwarting the advances of my incredibly sexy Russian would require a completely different game plan.
To hell with virtue! The devil chided.
I couldn’t agree more. I rolled over and straddled my man—underwear still on—and rubbed against his erection while my blonde locks rained over his face. It was a powerful feeling knowing Vladimir could have any woman he wanted—and he chose me. I ran my fingers along the muscles of his abdomen and admired the results of his early morning workouts. “What does this say?” I drew an imaginary line with my finger around a Russian phrase inked on his side.
He spoke in Russian, but didn’t translate.
I shoved him in t
he chest. “What does it say in English?”
“It says, ‘My girlfriend asks too many questions.’ ”
I kissed the devil on his chest. “Why did you get this ugly guy?”
He exaggerated a long drawn out groan. “When will this interrogation end?”
I pinned his wrists and held him down. “It will end when I say it ends.”
“Is that so?” He smiled seductively, turned on by my inner dominatrix.
I squeezed his wrists. “Mm-hm. You’re my prisoner now.”
“Well then, I’ll have to escape.” He sat up, flipped me on my back, and had me pinned underneath him before I even knew what happened. I yelped, and we were both laughing so hard we could barely catch our breath. The weight of his strong body was a total turn on. “Now you’re my prisoner.” Vladimir kissed my cheeks, my neck, my breasts…
He cruised down my body and teased me in Russian. He slid off my panties, spread my legs, slipped his tongue inside me, and swirled and sucked my sweet spot. My arousal was coming on fast and I swiveled my hips, syncing up with his rhythm. The intensity grew, and I panted and groaned my satisfaction as he nuzzled my sex and savored my release.
He inhaled my scent and rubbed his cheeks against my delicate skin, then cuddled up next to me. “You are more important to me than anything else in the world.”
I curled beside him and nestled my face in the crook of his neck. “When are you going back to Russia?”
His body tensed. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”
“When?”
“In a few days.”
Days? I rolled off him and dug my thumbnails into the tops of my fingers to calm myself down, but the tears were coming despite my effort to stop the drama. “So, what was the plan? You were going to send me a postcard?”
“No, angel. Let’s not ruin our perfect day. We’ll talk about it later.” He cupped my chin in his hands and kissed me on the lips. I wanted to shove him off the bed, but instead, I gave in and kissed him back. I was in shock, and at the same time humiliated about how much he meant to me, and how insignificant I was to him.
Boris was right. I am Stupid Girl.
Chapter 49
Mother Russia
Vladimir drew a bath in the whirlpool in his bathroom, filled the tub with bubbles, and added a few drops of lavender essential oil to the warm sensual water. I was shell-shocked, but I tried to live in the moment and not be a killjoy over the fact he was leaving—forever—but I couldn’t help question why he had tried so hard to win me over only to dump me as soon as he got a little piece of my puzzle.
“Relax, angel. I’ll wash you.” He turned me around so my back was to him, took off his shirt, and sank us in the tub. He wet my hair and massaged a big glob of shampoo through my waves. Once he worked up a lather, he rinsed it off, ran a silky seaweed-colored conditioner through my hair, and then stacked my locks on top of my head in a freestyle bun.
With my hair up, he had a perfect view of my Christmas Eve Bullshit Boris had imprinted on me after the football game. He drove a bar of soap back and forth over the foot-stomp impression still hanging on between my shoulder blades. It was as if he thought he could magically erase it—or maybe he was rubbing it in.
While the conditioner set in, he scooted my body back and rested my head on his chest. He lifted my left leg, lathered it with soap, and commenced shaving. After both my legs were smooth, he ran a washcloth down my body, starting at my neck and working his way down to my feet, stopping at all ports on the journey south.
After he polished my body, he rinsed my hair and washed my face. Neither one of us said a word. I understood: I was disgusting. In his mind, the game was over. He had won. What use was I to him anymore? Now that the skank was clean enough to sit in one of his fancy cars, he could send me back home to my papa dirtier than I was before I left the house.
Bravo. Well done, Vladimir. It must feel awesome to con a virgin into letting you work your magic down there. Is there a special tattoo for that achievement?
Sophia huffed.
The devil pumped his fist.
I stood up and got out of the tub. Dirty gray suds clung to my body. I covered myself with a towel, collected my rumpled clothes off the floor, and scurried back to my bedroom to shower off the grime. I sent Boris a text and asked him to take me home. He would be giddy knowing he was rid of me once and for all.
I put myself back together, slid on my coat, and braided my wet hair as I waited in the kitchen for my keeper to show up. When Vladimir found me, I wouldn’t look at him.
“What’s wrong?”
“Boris is coming to get me. I asked him to take me home.” I hid my hands in my pockets. They were shaking like rattlesnake tails.
“Why?”
I sucked in a deep breath. “Stop pretending. You got what you wanted. Leave me alone and go back to Russia.”
God, I hate myself. He tried to put his arms around me, but I shoved him off. “Just open the gate. I’ll walk home.” I ran to the kitchen door.
He bear-hugged me from behind, pinning my arms at my side. “I don’t understand. What did I do?” He dragged me away from the door.
“Cut the shit. Let me go.”
“Talk to me. I honestly have no idea why you’re so upset.”
I struggled to get free which only made him squeeze me tighter. “You won, okay? Let me go.” I rocked my body side to side and back and forth to throw him off balance—no luck.
“You think I’m leaving you?”
Resilient and still high on the idea I could out-muscle him, I tried to weasel my way out of his arms. “Duh, genius. You are leaving me.”
He exhaled, and his body lightened like all the air had been let out of his soul. “Moy slomonnyy angel.”
“Don’t call me that. I Googled it, you jerk. I’m not ‘broken,’ and I’m not your ‘angel.’ Get off me. Let me go!”
He loosened his grip, and at the same time, I lunged forward, lost my balance, and crash-landed on the kitchen floor. Vladimir knelt beside me, scooped up my deflated body, and cradled me in his arms. I buried my face in his chest, hating myself for craving the warmth and comfort I felt cocooned in his arms.
“You are my world, Carter.” Vladimir picked up my right hand and kissed my knuckle. “I planned to do this in a more romantic way this evening, but you leave me no choice.” He pulled a gold ring with a huge blue-green stone out of his pocket and slid it on my finger. “This belonged to my mama. She’d want you to have it.”
My face was wet with tears, snot, and sweat. “Why?”
He studied my bewildered expression. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Carter. Marry me.”
I blinked at the exquisite engagement ring on my finger. “You want me to go back to Russia with you?”
Vladimir blotted my face with the sleeve of his starched shirt. “We have fine colleges in Russia—tennis courts, too. I’ll hire the best coaches to train you.”
As I considered Vladimir’s proposal, still curled up on his lap on the floor, the kitchen door opened. Boris towered over us with his arms crossed, stance wide, eyes narrowed. Nothing fazed the big guy.
“What do you say, angel?”
I couldn’t imagine living my life without Vladimir by my side. I needed him. I loved him. “Da,” I answered.
“Da?”
“Da, I’ll marry you.”
Boris exhaled, mentally exhausted by our crazy. Apparently, the pakhan hadn’t consulted with his sovietnik about his marital plans or our future together back home in Mother Russia.
Vladimir and I stood up.
“Surprise.” I held out my hand to show Boris Irina’s ring.
Boris patted Vladimir on the back, clutched his shoulders, and said something encouraging in Russian that made Vladimir smile. It looked like an endearing father-son kind of moment. Boris even called him “Vova,” which must be an affectionate nickname.
Boris turned to me. “Welcome to the family, lapsha.�
�� My future papa-in-law of sorts pulled me in for a hug and kisses on my cheeks. He held out his fist for a celebratory bump. I lifted my hand, made a fist, and squinted in anticipation of the customary way-too-hard knuckle-knock. Boris lightly bumped my hand and gave me a tiny smile. “You’ll make a fine Russian.”
Chapter 50
Plan Of Attack
From that point on, our sovietnik insisted on being involved in all our endeavors. We huddled around the bar, an unopened bottle of vodka between us, and devised a plan that seemed as complicated as overthrowing the Kremlin. The demands of Vladimir’s position were heating up in Russia. He and Boris would leave the States in three days to settle some sort of rival conflict that had escalated back home.
Of course, Vladimir wanted me to drop everything, ditch life as I knew it, and board his private jet. That game plan had compounded problems. Small detail, but I didn’t have a passport. Vladimir scoffed at the idea and said he could get me one in five minutes, but Boris intervened on my behalf and denied him. I was an adult and there was no need to leave the country illegally—or against my papa’s wishes. Boris sealed the deal by adding it was best to handle the conflict before introducing me to the life.
Vladimir held out a moment more, until Boris flashed the For Her Own Safety card. I’d stay here, waiting.
Their world was fascinating, really. I wondered if rival conflict translated to mafia war, but I didn’t push for details. I got the sense this was the minor issue back home that had him all fired up on my first day of work.
The Official Game Plan:
Vladimir and Boris would go back to Russia in three days.
I would apply for a passport and have it in hand in time for spring break.
Vladimir would fly back from Russia, and together we would confess our love and marriage plans to Dad.
I would fly back to Russia with Vladimir, we would spend spring break at his dacha, summer home, and we would plan our June wedding.
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