“Nevermind, we don’t need to go there,” Dima says. “So, you want the full dossier on Chelle?”
“I want everything.”
“Give me a couple days.”
“I need it tomorrow.” I end the call as Dima’s telling me he’ll see what he can do.
I know the guy can do pretty much anything, and I can’t wait to get my hands on it.
I may have let Chelle go, but that doesn’t mean I’m finished with her. In fact, I’m just getting started.
5
Chelle
“So? How was the kiss?” Shanna demands from across the bar.
I’m at the Red Room for happy hour, telling Shanna about my visit to the Kremlin. I look forward to my Wednesdays here because it’s not too crowded during happy hour, and Shanna has time to lean her elbows on the bar and chat.
Derek, her sexy oblivious boss, doesn’t come in until later.
“Hot. Super hot. It was more than a kiss.”
“Wait… you screwed him?” Shanna lowers her voice even though we probably can’t be heard by anyone over the sound of the music.
“No!” I protest way too loudly. “I just mean, it was a full-on kiss with all body parts involved.”
Shanna’s eyes narrow skeptically. “So sex.”
“No!” I laugh, getting exasperated. Seriously, she’s so into gratuitous sex that she can’t comprehend why I don’t do that. “Like his hands were everywhere, and it went on forever.”
“And then what?”
I shrug. “Then he gave me the ring back, and I left.” Well, technically he threw me out, but I prefer to rewrite the narrative a bit.
A guy comes to sit down beside me, which is annoying because there are a slew of empty barstools all up and down the bar, and I’m having a private convo with my bestie.
“I think you need to get laid.”
Oh for fuck’s sake. Did Shanna have to say that so loudly? The guy next to me grins and tries to catch my eye.
“I think you need to shut up.” Not my best come-back. I’m flustered by our audience.
Shanna turns and makes eye contact with him. “What can I get you?”
“Grey Goose, neat.”
I steal a glance. He’s good-looking. About my age. Nice leather jacket, smells like expensive cologne. Obviously looking for a hook-up.
“And whatever she’s having.” He jerks his thumb my way.
“Oh, that’s okay,” I say quickly. I’ve almost finished my first and more than one drink puts me under the table.
“She’s drinking a dirty martini because she’s a dirty girl,” Shanna says, and I seriously want to kill her.
“I’m good,” I say, but Shanna makes me one, anyway.
Maybe she just wants to run up his bill. Or else she’s trying to help me out in the getting laid department. I steal another glance. This guy is cute, for sure.
But I don’t do rando guys, and I especially don’t do players. I learned my lesson on that one, don’t need to do it again. I’m just not a hook-up sex kind of person.
Oh well. I guess I can tell him that after I enjoy the drink he bought me.
I sip on the martini and dare a glance at him.
He scoots his bar stool closer to me.
Gah. He is good-looking. Yet he does absolutely nothing for me. I take another sip of my martini.
“So you and the bartender are friends?”
I shouldn’t fault him for a lame opener. What else could he go with? So you need to get laid? Or Come here often?
“Yes. We were college roommates. She was the one having noisy sex in the bunk above mine, if you hadn’t guessed.” I roll my eyes.
There. Show him a bit of my prudish outlook. Maybe that will scare him away.
It doesn’t seem to. I drink some more of my cocktail and hope Shanna will return from the other end of the bar soon.
Maybe I should just head home?
Except now I’m a little too tipsy to be out taking public transportation alone. I should sit and let some of the alcohol wear off.
Or eat some food. Too bad they don’t have any here.
I pull the toothpick loaded with olives out of my drink and put all three of them in my mouth. The guy watches my lips like it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.
Hope I don’t squirt olive juice on him.
“More olives,” I call out to Shanna, who is serving someone else.
“I’m Derek.” The guy holds his hand out to me.
“Chelle.” I shake his hand briefly, but turn my shoulders back to face the bar, inviting Shanna to return.
“Shell as in Shelly? Or short for Michelle?”
“Just Chelle.”
“Well, just Chelle, what do you do for a living?”
I want to think of something really creative, just to fuck with him, but my brain processing has slowed too much. “I am a publicist,” I say. “Well, publicist’s assistant, really. But I hope to be a full-fledged publicist soon.”
The guy scoots his barstool closer.
Dammit. I shouldn’t have answered!
“So what does a publicist do?”
“We strategize with clients on their brand, manage social media platforms, that kind of thing.” I stay facing the bar, which unfortunately means I’m facing my drink which unfortunately means I drink it all.
Oops.
The room spins. I pull off my work jacket and hang it on the back of my chair.
I’m sure I should ask what he does for a living, but I’m really not interested in carrying this further. I know how it’s supposed to end, and since I’m not looking for that end, it’s a waste of both our time. I came to hang out with Shanna not get laid.
Where in the hell is Shanna?
Oh good, here she comes. Wait, why is she bringing another round?
“Oh, no, no, no.” I push the martini to the far side of the bar. “I’ve had enough. I should probably get home.”
My wanna-be hookup hops off his barstool. “I can get you home safely.”
I shake my head and hold up my hand. “No, no, no, no. I’m going to sit a while and then go home.” I’m slurring now.
“Well, if you’re going to stay, at least have a few sips of the drink I bought you.” Wanna-be slides the drink back in front of me.
Someone appears on my other side and a hand slides the drink away again. The fingers are tattooed, like—
“Hey!” I’m irrationally excited. “I know someone with tattoos like—” I look up at the man beside me and the words die in my mouth. “Oh, it’s you.”
Nikolai smiles down at me with amusement, like my drunk self isn’t completely obnoxious. “It’s me. I’m going to take you home now.”
I turn to look at Wanna-be, slapping the back of my hand against Nikolai’s chest. “He’s going to take me home.”
Wanna-be is pissed. “Who’s he?”
“He’s my brother’s—” my brain catches up and I amend, “he’s my boyfriend. He came to pick me up because I had too much to drink.”
Even in my drunken state, zings of excitement run through me knowing what I’ve just invited. Pretending to be the girlfriend of a guy in the Russian mafiya probably opens a door I should’ve left shut. Am I really going to let Nikolai take me home?