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Lowering my head, I shut my eyes and listen to the air moving through my lungs. This is my third time doing this in the last ten minutes. It hasn’t worked to calm me down yet, but I don’t have any better ideas.
I could drive off instead of meeting Arsen face to face. That sounds nice, actually. Loosening my fingers from my steering wheel, I push my car door open. As nice as ghosting this guy would be, it’s wasting my only opportunity to keep my studio.
I have to be brave.
I can do that.
Adjusting my jean jacket over my knee-length, tan sweater dress, I tuck my phone with its attached wallet into my pocket. I’m not sure it will help, but I’ve made sure my emergency number is set to call Audrey and not my mom. God, no, she’d have a heart attack if I was in trouble and she found out. The police would also be a waste of time.
My best friend, though, would figure out something if I panic-called her. And then she’d make Josh move heaven and earth to help me out.
I hope it doesn’t have to come to that.
Locking up my car, I take long strides in my ankle-boots, moving in a straight line toward Tsar’s. Unlike last night, there’s no crowd of drunks loitering outside. That’s one less hurdle for me to deal with.
Shoving the heavy front door open, I sweep the lounge, looking for Arsen. I’m a few minutes late for our meeting. I wasn’t going to show up early; that would make me seem desperate and pathetic.
He should be here already. Why don’t I see him? It’s not like he doesn’t stick out. The man is a walking fridge, for crying out loud!
Tsar’s keeps the lights low, but it isn’t that dark. What corner could he be hiding in? Plus … it’s oddly quiet tonight. I clock maybe five patrons at the bar, another sitting alone in a booth.
“Excuse me?”
Turning, I see the waitress who served Audrey and me last night. She’s dressed exactly as she was the last time I saw her, but her hair is wound up in space buns tonight.
“Oh! Hey!” I reply.
Her smile twitches at the corner, like she’s on edge. “He’s waiting for you over there.”
I don’t have to ask who she means. I follow her gesture, spotting the VIP section. It’s tucked away nicely in a section of the lounge with its own two-step roped-off entry. I’ve never been there before. It’s reserved for people who like to show off by blowing their money.
Of course that’s where he is.
“Thanks,” I sigh. “How long has he—” I trail off, watching as she retreats away from me like I’m infected or something. It’s extra unsettling since she was so friendly to me last night.
What changed?
The nerves from earlier grip my heart again. Forcing my head high, I walk stiff-legged into the VIP area. There’s a thin curtain covering the door. Through the gap, I see a large, rounded, black leather couch. In the nexus of it is Arsen.
His legs are spread wide, muscular arms thrown over the back of the cushions. His pose screams royalty. This is a man comfortable in his control. He didn’t have to sit in his car, building himself up before coming inside, like I did. He’s dressed in a crisply ironed pair of ashen slacks with a matching suit jacket. His shirt, which pulls across his broad chest, is a rich sienna. If someone snapped his photo now, they could sell it to GQ magazine for a spread about cologne and make millions from the royalty rights.
He spies me peering through the curtain. “Hello, Galina.”
“Hi,” I say coldly. He just chuckles, like my distaste amuses him. Dropping the curtain, I move toward him cautiously. “You didn’t need to pay for the VIP. We’re just talking business.”
“Business requires the right setting.”
“Or you just want to show off how rich you are.”
Lifting a dark eyebrow, he sits forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Money is like the wind. You only feel it when it moves. Everything I do has a reason. You’d do well to learn that.” His posture shifts, the friction making the prayer beads on his wrist slide into view.
If everything he does has a reason, then why did he kill that man? Forcing myself to look at his eyes, not the beads, I sit on the couch across from him. “Let’s just get this started.”
“So eager.” He reaches toward the low table to his right. There’s a silver bucket on top. He throttles the neck of the champagne bottle inside, tipping it to pour the bubbling liquid into two glasses. “Why don’t we share a drink before we get to the grit?”
“If you’re trying to woo me with your generosity, there are better ways.”
Passing me the glass, he holds his near his lips. “Such as?”
