Lyosha’s tall and wide-framed. His facial features take after his father’s, although the lines are a little softer. He has Tolyan’s coloring, too. He’s in a gray Berkeley T-shirt and jeans. One of the Dobermans steals a look into the bedroom from behind him.
“Can you, uh, cover yourself?” he asks.
I realize Tolyan is out from under the sheets and fully exposed. No wonder Lyosha reacted like he’d been visually violated. I throw the other end of the sheet over Tolyan’s midsection. He grunts.
“We are now,” I say, doing my best to sound normal and carefree. The son of the guy I just slept with barging in on us is something that happens to me all the time, hahaha!
Lyosha slowly lowers his hands. “Could you, you know, put the gun down, Dad?”
“Why? So you can steal one of my cars?”
He’s here to steal a car? Tolyan’s tone’s flat and cold, tinged with irritation, so I don’t think he’s kidding. But something about the situation doesn’t add up. Tolyan keeps that room upstairs for Lyosha. I presume that means he’s also providing for his son in other ways, including a car.
“How did you know?” Lyosha sighs, his shoulders slumping. “Never mind.”
Tolyan finally lowers the gun. “Out. We need to shower.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll just wait over there.” He gestures in the general direction of the kitchen.
“Shut the door behind you and put the dogs out,” Tolyan orders.
“Yes, sir,” the kid says, surprisingly obedient. Based on what Tolyan said about cats and teenagers, I thought he’d be more rebellious.
The door closes. I jump out of bed, sheet still clutched to my chest. “Omigod, so embarrassing. But I’ll go shower.” Before the kid barges back into this room for whatever reason. I’d rather jump off the balcony—without the parachute—than face him again in this condition.
“You can use my bathroom,” Tolyan says calmly, like the situation’s totally normal. He didn’t have to use the gun, so I guess it’s perfectly normal to him.
“I can use mine…” Then I stop. His son’s outside, and I don’t want to go out like this. “Okay. Let me use it first.”
I dash into his en-suite bathroom and close the door. The place smells faintly of his shampoo and body wash. I pee, then step inside the glass stall. He has shampoo but no conditioner. Of course. Well, I’ll just have to deal.
The shower sprays hot water. I wash quickly, checking the bathroom out a little. The double vanity is made of pale marble, with bottled water on the counter. The laundry basket is half-full, and I realize the sunken tub has Jacuzzi jets.
As I cut the water off, I also realize that I don’t have a fresh towel. The door opens, and Tolyan walks in, still completely naked. His gaze sweeps over my nude body, which is covered with beaded water. Fire burns in his gray-blue eyes, and his cock starts to swell.
Heat flushes my cheeks. The wetness between my legs isn’t just from water anymore. But this is no time to indulge, not when his son’s waiting.
“Um. Can you hand me a towel?” I ask.
Tolyan grabs one of the towels from the metal rack on the wall. “Need some help?” he asks, his eyes narrowing with singular intent.
“No, I, ah, think I can do this myself.” If I say yes, we aren’t leaving the bathroom for a while. And his college-age son will definitely know the reason.
Our meeting’s already been embarrassing enough. I don’t need to make it worse.
With a small sigh, Tolyan hands me the towel. It smells of fresh detergent. I dry myself and wrap it around my body. “Um. You don’t happen to know where Lyosha is, do you?”
“My guess is he’s watching TV or checking his phone.” He puts a finger under my chin and tilts it up. “Don’t let the boy disrespect you. He’s my son, not our boss.”
Easy for him to say because it’s his son, and it’s obvious Tolyan’s in charge. I’m in a sort of weird position because I’m here under his protection and now we’re sleeping together, but does that officially make me his girlfriend? We didn’t get a chance to talk about anything, and now Lyosha’s here. Still, I give Tolyan a small smile, since that’s what he’s expecting right now, and I don’t want to have the “where are we going from here?” conversation with his son waiting outside. “Okay.”
“Good.”
Tolyan steps into the stall. I dash out, then look for my clothes. Tolyan’s bedroom’s huge and painted in a pale sage green. The wooden floor is spotless, except for our clothes flung all over. I put on my bra, then the rest of my clothes minus the panties. I shove them into my pocket, then pick up his clothes and lay them over the back of an armchair in front of the gas fireplace. Not that I noticed last night, but this room doesn’t have anything personal, either. No photos. Just one large contemporary painting with a vast white background and a small splatter of bright scarlet in the upper-left corner that reminds me of blood. The bed’s a four-poster, carved out of dark cherry, and the sheets are the color of the Caribbean in a sunny summer.
I don’t see anything that looks like a hiding place for weapons. But of course a hiding place wouldn’t be obvious. This room probably has its own separate armory or something.
I look at the damp towel. Normally I’d put it back, but Tolyan’s in the shower. I don’t want to leave it on the floor, but I don’t want to put it on upholstery.
Just take it to your room and put it in the laundry.
The second I step outside, Stravinsky comes over and whines, his gaze absolutely forlorn. I run my hand over his smooth head.
“What’s wrong?” I ask softly.
“He’s begging for a treat.”
I almost jump. Lyosha’s watching me, left shoulder against the wall and a hand on his right hip. The posture says he’s too cool for any school.
His eyebrows quirk. He knows he startled me, and from the small smile curving his lips, he’s enjoying having me off balance.
So much for him watching TV or checking his phone.
“Don’t give him anything,” he says. “I already gave him two biscuits.”
“How about Mussorgsky and Tchaikovsky?”
Surprise flickers in his gaze. “Dad introduced you to the pack, huh?” It’s more of a statement than a question. “Don’t worry, I didn’t forget about them.”
I nod, still uncertain how to treat him. Tolyan said he was forty, and Lyosha’s a freshman. I’m closer to Lyosha’s age than Tolyan’s.
Awkward.
I wish I could go back to my room and change into something else. But Lyosha isn’t moving.
Instead, he looks me over with a thoroughness that reminds me of Tolyan. “So. When did you move in?”
“Um…” I blink. Lyosha isn’t hostile, but he doesn’t exactly seem friendly, either. It’s like he’s trying to figure out how to react to my presence and what I’m really doing here. He might’ve decided I’m too young for his dad. Or that I’m trying to score myself a sugar daddy.
Since I can’t tell him the whole truth, including the fact that I’m pretty certain his dad murdered somebody even though everyone thinks it was a suicide, I keep my mouth shut.