“I see.” Angelika gives her a small smile. “Okay, I’ll be there.”
“Excellent.” Lizochka checks her phone. “It’s Dominic. Gotta go. Thomas misses his mommy.”
“He always misses his mother,” I say fondly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Chapter Seventeen
Angelika
After Elizabeth leaves, Tolyan and I get into his car and head back to his place.
“Thank you,” I say.
His eyes stay on the road. “For what?”
For taking me shopping. For introducing me to Elizabeth—who I really like and who made me feel like her friend, even though we just met. For giving me a day when I can act like a person who isn’t worried about a deranged stepbrother.
Most importantly, for making me feel safe.
But somehow all those things get caught in my throat. I don’t want to gush like I’m crushing on him, even though that’s exactly what’s happening.
As attracted as I am, I’m painfully aware he’s out of my league. Way, way out. He’s smart, powerful, capable, financially secure…probably well educated and cultured, too. I’m just a twenty-something who’s put her life on hold for the last eight years. Compared to him, I haven’t accomplished anything, and despite fairytales like Cinderella and Beauty and the Beast, people tend to hang out with people who are like them in terms of education, wealth and value. We really can’t be together.
So I just say, “For the internship. It means a lot.” All that you’ve done for me means a lot.
“It’s nothing,” Tolyan says placidly. “Just a few clicks to send a résumé to Lizochka.”
But would she have agreed to interview me without him sending it? I know my background is pretty pathetic, especially compared to others who probably have a lot of job experience and great college degrees and so on. It doesn’t take a genius to understand that Elizabeth is doing it as a favor to Tolyan.
“Still. It means a lot,” I say, grateful and wondering when and how I’m ever going to be able to pay him back for everything.
When we arrive at the penthouse, the dogs rush to meet us. Stravinsky in particular sniffs and licks my fingertips, then lets out a whine.
I scratch behind his ears. “What’s wrong, boy?” I ask him.
“He can smell the food you ate.”
“Really? Still?”
“He’s a dog. They can smell everything. This particular one thinks he can whine himself to a treat.”
“Can he?”
“No.” He gently taps the tip of Stravinsky’s nose. “No treat until it’s time.”
Stravinsky gives him a baleful look.
Tolyan narrows his eyes. “Stop complaining or you aren’t getting any.” He gestures at the kitchen counter. “Your phone,” he says. “I plugged it into the charger last night.” He scrutinizes me. “I don’t know how you can survive without a phone for so long.”
I shrug. “I almost never check it.” Not with the way things are.
I didn’t ask him for it this morning because it just never occurred to me. To be honest, there’s nothing exciting happening with my phone. The only thing I generally do with it is check the news, and I was distracted today. Ninety-nine percent of my inbox email is spam. I don’t do social media because there’s no point in having accounts when I can’t post anything. The risk of giving away where I am and who I might be close to is just too high. Even when I restrict my posts so that only friends can view them, I can never be sure Roy won’t find a way.
Tolyan pours himself a drink, then gestures at me. “Let me show you the place, so you know where things are.”
Without waiting for a response, he leads me off. Guess this means he’s going to treat me like a temporary housemate rather than a hostage or something. It soothes the remnants of lingering reluctance I have over the fact that I’ve been forced to move in with him.
The master bedroom is on the opposite end from my room, which turns out to be one of two guest rooms. Then comes his office, which is inaccessible except with a passcode. Guess that means to stay out. I make a note of it so I don’t inadvertently trigger a secret alarm and get myself killed by some booby trap. I haven’t forgotten what he said in the morning.
He lets me in the office, though. Lots of computers, servers and other stuff I don’t recognize. A huge desk with three monitors. There is another door inside.
“Where does this go?” I ask.
“To my armory.”
“Your…armory?”
He nods. “In case of invasion.”
Invasion…?
He gives me a look. “It’s important to be prepared. Would you like to see it?”
“Uh…” I clear my throat. Am I supposed to say yes? The idea of being near guns dampens my palms with cold sweat.
“Never mind,” he says, like he can read the conflict on my mind. “You don’t seem that interested.” He leads me out, shutting the door. “That’s the pantry,” he says, gesturing at a space bigger than my entire garage apartment.
I look at the towering shelves stuffed with cereal, dog food, dried goods and canned food.
“Oh my God. That’s a lot of cream of corn.” More than half the shelves are stocked with it.
A faint smile crosses his face. It softens him, but only a little. Still, it makes him a thousand times more approachable. “Take whatever else you like, but don’t touch any of that.”
“Okay. But why?”
“You know how to handle C-4?”
My mouth dries as I try to process what he just said. “Isn’t C-4 like…a bomb or something?” I ask, my stomach suddenly jittery.
“Metastable plastique-style malleable explo…” He sighs. “Yes.”
“But this is a pantry,” I say. “Not an armory.”
“In an emergency, I might not be able to reach the armory. This is a backup.”
“Backup. Right…” I look at the cream of corn. It’s basically an entire wall of explosives. “What if something sets them off?”
“That won’t happen. C-4 isn’t nitroglycerine. Very safe so long as you know what you’re doing.”
Right, except I have no clue what I’m doing around explosives of any kind. Everything I know about them, I learned from Hollywood. I study the huge reef of “cream of corn.” Holy shit.
I wipe clammy palms on my pants. I don’t think I can ever get used to the sight of it. Or learn what to do with it, not when just the thought makes my hands slick with sweat.
“Do you have backup…stuff…in the fridge?”
“Yes.”
Good thing I asked. “Anything I shouldn’t touch? I don’t want to eat a C-4 pork chop and blow myself up.”
He lets out a short laugh. “There’s only a gun in there.”
Still. I make a mental note never to grab anything to eat or drink myself. He might’ve forgotten some camouflaged dynamite masquerading as a hot dog or something.
We stop right at the huge glass door to the balcony. He points at a black box on a shelf to my right at my eye level. “The parachute. Make sure to grab it before jumping. There’s also a hatchet next to it for extra self-defense if you want.”