Page 30 of Vicious Betrayal

The idea of a long-term relationship is one I gave up on a few years ago. I've had women who stuck around for a few weeks or months at a time, but the idea of anything being permanent was, at one point, not suited to my life, and by the time it was, it felt like the possibility of it had passed me by. No woman wants to put down roots, let alone have children, with a man who comes with as much baggage as I do. Not unless a marriage was arranged with one of the daughters of someone in the organization, and although I have enough standing to ask for that, it's not what I want.

We go inside and sit down, and Deb comes by with two coffees before we've even opened the menu. She glances at Oksana with that assessing look older women get when a man walks in with someone half his age, and doesn't say a word about it. She just sets the mugs down, although I can only imagine what she's thinking, seeing Oksana in her dress that's actually my shirt, high heels suited to a nightclub, and her wind-and-sex-tousled hair. "Know what you want, or you need a minute?"

"I'm still deciding," Oksana says, pursing her lips.

Deb looks at me. I shrug. "Same as always."

"Number four, no onions, extra bacon," Deb says, already writing. "And you, hon?"

Oksana glances at the menu again. "Um… surprise me."

Deb raises an eyebrow, writes something down, and leaves us to it.

"You're going to let a stranger decide what you have for breakfast?" I ask, raising an eyebrow, and Oksana shrugs, reaching for her coffee and a couple of packets of sugar and cream.

"I bet she knows what the best thing for breakfast here is." Oksana doses her coffee until it's barely brown, and then takes a sip. "She likes you."

"She's known me for ten years. I think I've earned it."

"And she approves of me." Oksana grins. "I've seen enough disapproving looks from my dad to know when someone likes me."

I don't tell her that Deb's approval means less than she thinks. Deb's seen me come in here with plenty of women over the years and has never once passed judgment on any of them out loud. That's part of what makes her a good waitress in a place like this. She doesn't judge, and she doesn't remember things she shouldn't. But I don't tell Oksana that, because I don't want to wipe the pleased look off her face.

In fact, I'm starting to think there might be nothing I like better than pleasing this girl.

The coffee is good, and I focus on that instead. I watch Oksana take in her surroundings—the cracked red vinyl booths and checkered floor, the old jukebox, the U-shaped counter. It's pretty empty right now, except for a few regulars sitting at that counter.

"How long have you been coming here?" she asks.

"Pretty much since I came to Chicago. So eleven or so years. I haven't been counting exactly. Makes me feel old."

She clicks her tongue. "You're not old."

"That's not what people your age usually say."

"Well… I don't think you're old. You can keep up with me, so that's all that matters." She grins. "In fact, after last night, I'm starting to think I need to keep up with you."

"Don't get too excited. I can be a very boring man."

She laughs at that, loud enough that a guy two booths down glances over, and something in my chest goes tight and warm. I suddenly feel like I'm nineteen again, sitting in a booth across from a girl I want and not thinking about anything past the next hour.

And that's the reason, deep down, that I know I keep letting her in even though I should have called her another Uber last night and sent her home. I can't remember the last time I did something because I wanted to and for no other reason. Every decision I've made in the last twenty years has had a calculation behind it. But last night was wanting something and taking it, until nearly dawn, and then waking up a few hours later still wanting more of it. I wanted to fuck her again. I wanted to put her on the back of my motorcycle in my clothes and take her to breakfast. None of it had anything to do with what I could get out of it, or how much of it was good or bad for someone else. There were no calculations or figures or assessing what the risk to me or someone else or an organization was.

It was just desire. Just pleasure and joy. Just a sense of freedom—the reason I bought a a bike in the first place—that my job has slowly worn away from me over the years. Yeah, I'm free from a lot of things… a traditional job, a traditional paycheck, a lot of the constraints of polite society. I enjoy that, and I never forget it. But there are other constraints that come with this life. Other obligations. I haven't been truly free in a long time.

With her, I feel young and reckless and free to be stupid again. It's too easy to forget that I'm none of those things any longer. I know what something like this could cost me… and I keep doing it anyway.

Because God, it feels good to be with her.

The food comes, and I see that Deb picked the diner's famous strawberry waffles with a side of bacon for Oksana. She digs in happily without a hint of embarrassment or any noise about needing to watch her figure, and I like it. She's shameless about everything she enjoys.

There's a bit of whipped cream on her upper lip, and the sight of it after what she did to me last night on her knees makes my cock twitch. I ignore it, reaching out to wipe it off for her, and her eyes go soft.

"Thanks," she says, before shoveling down another bite of waffle. "This is the best breakfast I've ever had out."

"I doubt that. I'm sure you've been to some very fancy brunch places."

"This beats them all," she says firmly.