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“I promise I haven’t heard more than a few words here or there,” she assures me, meeting my eyes more intentionally this time.
“Alright,” I concede, though my suspicion is still high. “You better keep it that way.”
“Of course,” she agrees. “So, what will you be doing tonight? More meetings?” It’s clearly a tactic to change the subject, but I let her get away with it.
“Actually, if you must know, I’m going on a date.”
“Oooh, is it with the dancer from my high school that we ran into at Rosehill the other day?” she asks in a singsong voice.
I scowl, frustrated by my little sister’s powers of observation. She’s too smart for her own good, not an advantage for someone in a position like hers, where naivete is far safer.
“Oh my gosh, it is, isn’t it?” she gushes, clapping her hands with excitement.
“So what if it is?” I demand, growing inexplicably defensive. I don’t usually care about my sister’s opinion concerning the women in my life, but for some reason, it matters to me what she thinks about Whitney.
Her expression softens as her smile turns understanding. “You seem more interested in her than most of the girls I’ve watched you date.”
I open my mouth to object, but Bianka continues before I can.
“That’s a good thing. I like Whitney. I’ve always thought she had great spirit–though I don’t know her personally. I think she might be good for you.” Bianka flashes me a sly grin before turning to scoop up her new wardrobe. “Well, have fun on your date,” she singsongs once again as she departs swiftly, avoiding the anger she’s clearly trying to draw from me.
I release a growl of frustration as the door clicks shut behind her. I need to get ready if I’m going to pick Whitney up on time, but my sister’s taunts have gotten under my skin. Maybe I am more interested in Whitney than usual. But she’s an intriguing girl. I must admit I’ve never offered one of my girls a trial run before making our agreement formal before. I’ve never gone back to pursue someone over a year after I met them either. But this is a special circumstance. The first time I met Whitney, she’d not only been underage but we’d also been interrupted by the phone call telling me my father had been shot.
Since then, I haven’t had time to look back and think about the girl who stopped me short on the street. And running into her at Rosehill had been nothing short of fate bringing her back to mind once more. I’m sure that in time, I will be ready to move on from her just like all the rest.
5
WHITNEY
I’m unusually nervous as I clean up from work and get dressed for my date with Ilya. I don’t usually spend this much time reapplying my makeup or change my mind time and again about my wardrobe before finally landing on an outfit. Seeing as the majority of my clothes are some shade of black depending on their age and how often I wear them, it shouldn’t be a hard decision, but I continually rule out one item of clothing because it might be too provocative, then the next one because I don’t want to come across as entirely uninterested. After all, if I show up looking like I’m dressed in last night’s pajamas, odds are Ilya will consider it an indication that I’m about to turn him down. Which I might be, or I might not. I still don’t know. I’m not even sure I can go through with this whole one-time trial deal.
Growling in exasperation, I glare into the mirror at my current choice of outfit. It’s a form-fitting short-sleeved dress, thigh high with a slit up one leg that’s been laced back together so it’s somewhat suggestive but still subtle enough that I won’t look like I’m begging to be taken. Yanking on a pair of black tights to give the outfit a bit more modesty and finishing it off with my combat boots to lend it my signature edge, I stamp my choice with the good-enough seal of approval.
“You look nice. Where are you off to tonight?” my mom asks from her place on the couch. Considering it’s her one day off now that she’s covering extra hours at the diner, she’s spent the majority of the day relaxing in her pj’s, curled up on the couch watching TV. A rerun ofFriendsblares from the screen, the laugh track following her observation as if timed for comedic effect.
“Oh, thanks.” Suddenly, I’m doubting my wardrobe choice once again as I glance down. “Just meeting up with a friend,” I say lightly.
“Well, have fun. I’ll miss you tonight.”
Leaning over the couch, I plant a kiss on the top of my mom’s head. “I’ll miss you too! Don’t wait up. I’ll probably be home late. Love you!” I call as I stride across the room and pull the apartment door closed behind me.
I don’t think I can play a round of twenty questions with my mom and not break under the pressure of lying to her. I’ve never been good at it, preferring blunt honesty and suffering the consequences to sugarcoating things. But in this regard, the less my mom knows, the better.
Outside, I pace nervously as I wait for five o’clock to roll around. I’m still perplexed by the knowledge that Ilya would know where I live and mildly skeptical that he’ll actually show, but before the hour arrives, I spot the sleek blue sports car round the corner a few blocks away. The silent purr of the familiar car’s motor greets me just moments before my date pulls up to the curb, and I swallow hard as I realize this is really happening.
The driver’s-side door opens a moment later, “You didn’t have to wait outside for me,” Ilya says smoothly as he steps from the vehicle and approaches me from around the back of the car. “I would have come up to get you.”
“I, uh… my mom’s home, and I didn’t really want to have to explain why an older Russian gentleman would be showing up at our door,” I confess after a moment’s hesitation.
A deep rumbling laugh escapes Ilya’s chest as he reaches me, the masculine scent of pine and sandalwood reaching me just moments before he does. “I suppose that’s reasonable.”
He places a warm hand on the small of my back as he guides me toward the car, and butterflies erupt in my belly, making my breaths come in short gasps as I try to regain control of my body. I don’t know what it is about this man, but I can’t seem to maintain my composure when he’s around. I hate it for making me feel weak, vulnerable, and at the same time, when his hand leaves me to open the car door, I immediately miss its warmth.
Sliding onto the soft black leather seat adorned with bright-blue cabling, I keep my gaze lowered, afraid I might lose my nerve if I look into Ilya’s eyes and see the promise of what’s to come in their dark depths.
The door lowers automatically, closing with a gentle click that reminds me of a shuttle door from some futuristic spaceship. A moment later, my Russian escort is sliding into his seat beside me, closing the door behind him and confining us inside the luxury vehicle together, alone for the first time.
The scent of him surrounds me, quickening my pulse as I momentarily feel overwhelmed by my choice. I wonder if I might come to regret this decision by the end of the night, but it’s too late to back out now as Ilya puts the car in gear and glides away from the curb as if floating on water.
