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"I don't know," I said, stalling for time. "Maybe the Administration's failure to act on climate change."
I heard him chuckle. "Sounds pretty boring in comparison to exploring why women are so excited by the prospect of submitting to a dominant man who knows how to release their inhibitions…"
Oh, crap. Why did that sound so – so erotic – when he said it? I couldn’t help but conjure images of him naked, controlling someone sexually…
Me, for example.
"I should never have even considered it."
"It's topical. It's controversial."
"My father would kill me. I don't know what I was thinking."
There was another pause and I heard him sigh heavily. "Listen," he said, his voice conspiratorial. "We could stand here all night and talk through the door but I'm getting really hot standing here in my coat. Besides, it would be far more private if you just invited me in. Then your neighbor across the hall wouldn't keep peeking through the crack in her door and try to find out what we're talking about."
"That's Mrs. Kropotkin. I think her son's with the Russian Mafia."
I watch through the peephole as he waved to Mrs. Kropotkin.
"Zdrastvooyte," he said in what sounded like perfect Russian.
Mrs. Kropotkin closed her door, but not completely.
He turned right and then left, scoping the hallway out, his hands on his hips, his coat and suit jacket open, tie loosened. Even through the fisheye, he looked handsome.
"Why do you live in a place like this?" he said. "You come from a wealthy family."
"I don't want my father's money."
"Oh, yes, that's right," Drake said, and I could see a grin on his face. "Your father said something about you being a socialist…"
"I'm not a socialist. I studied political theory. There is a difference. I'm a liberal."
"Of course."
I made a face at that. He didn't believe me.
"My father would totally disown me if I joined the Socialist Party. As it is, I'm already a thorn in his side for my political positions and the fact I vote Democrat."
"My father was a socialist," Drake said, rubbing his jaw, which was covered by thick stubble, making him look all the more attractive. "A Trotskyite. I vote Republican. My father loved the Anonymous Group. He ate up WikiLeaks stuff. Probably would have stayed in Tent City if he was alive."
"I thought he – that you – are really rich."
"I am. He was. His company made a lot of money, but he started it for purely scientific purposes. He was what he called 'an accidental capitalist'. He saw the future in robotic surgery and wanted to help develop it. He was never in it for money. He drove one of those old Soviet cars. A really crappy, shit-brown Lada, but he liked the thought it was made in the Soviet Union. One of my favorite memories is of him tinkering with the engine, which was always breaking down. He spent so much trying to keep that piece of crap running."
I laughed at that and watched him through the peephole.
He smiled. "He was a wild man, full of life. Really gregarious." Drake said nothing for a moment. "I miss him."
My throat constricted at the sound of his voice – soft, sad. I missed my mother. I leaned my back against the door.
"What about your mother?" I said, wanting to keep him talking for some reason, remembering what he'd said abo
ut his mother leaving.
"She left us when I was ten."
"I'm sorry…"
