This time Cheslav doesn’t even give whoever he’s talking to a few seconds to answer. He jams his thumb into what I can only presume is the Call End button. Then he walks over to the counter, muttering in Russian.
“Bad news?” I ask.
“You won’t have to come to my game tomorrow night after all,” he answers with an irritated look. “Or meet my brother. The season has been put on pause due to virus.”
My heart stops, then surges with empathy. “That’s not good news,” I answer. “It’s your last season. No wonder you’re so upset.”
Cheslav’s jaw tightens. “I am fine.”
I look to the side. Think about not saying anything, like a good little pet who’s on her last day of service. But he looks so angry.
“It’s okay not to be fine with this. I know you’ve got the whole macho Russian thing going on, but if I were you, I’d be crying into a tub of ice cream right now.”
It’s a joke, but his expression becomes even harder. “That is because you are weak. From weak family. Do not mistake me for this.”
His words hit me like a punch in a face. And the warm, happy feeling I woke up with completely disappears.
“Okay, that’s really rude. Why would you even say something like that to me?”
Cheslav sneers. “Luckily, I am paying for you to put up with my rude. Now come back with me to bedroom. I would like to forget about hockey for a while.”
His dismissive words feel like barbed wire squeezing around my heart.
He reaches for me, but I push his hands away. “No.”
His eyes narrow. “What did you say?”
“I said, no!” I repeat. “I’m not weak. And I’m not going to just lie back and let you fuck me like some kind of object after talking to me that way.”
He goes very, very still. “Perhaps you forget our deal.”
“Perhaps you forget that I’m a human being with feelings,” I shoot back.
“Three hundred thousand.” He crooks his head to the side. “That is enough to pay for any and all feelings, da?”
“Nyet!” I answer, not realizing how true that word is until it comes flying out of my mouth. “That money doesn’t buy my feelings. If you had any, you’d understand why.”
He sighs like I’m getting on his nerves. “I do not want fight. Forget what I said. We will eat quickly, and then we will stay in bed until it is time for you to leave.”
Time for me to leave….
The languorous desire that had hung over our days together like a heavy fog dissipates. And suddenly, I can see this situation clearly. See Cheslav clearly.
He doesn’t respect or even like me. He was just using me. Just like my brother used me to sort out his debt. Just like all athletes use women as far as I can tell.
A horrible shame crashes over me as I say, “Actually I…”
I do a quick calculation of how much money is left on my brother’s debt, then decide out loud, “I think the time for me to leave is now.”
He looks at me, the sneer morphing into confusion. “What do you mean?”
It’s like the Instagram filter has dropped from this entire situation. How could I have let sex get in the way of my good judgment? I can’t believe this hockey asshole had me so far gone that I actually agreed to a date with him even though our so-called relationship only began after he blackmailed me into having sex with him.
“I don’t… I don’t think you’re a blackmailer who turned out to be nicer than I expected. I think you’re an awful Russian blackmailer who was acting nicer than I expected. But it was just acting.”
I know I’m right in my assessment when his eyes go dead at my words. “You still owe me a day, krasotka. Or did you forget?”
“No, I didn’t forget…” Tears of shame and disappointment threaten to descend, but I blink them back. Because I’m not weak. I’m a strong black woman, and I did not claw my way into a better life to let some hockey player demean me.
And I prove it by striding out of the kitchen and back to his bedroom.
There I yank open a few drawers until I find something I can work with—exercise clothes. I throw on a plain grey tee, and I’m pulling on his basketball shorts when he follows me into the room.
“You look silly. And this is a violation of the good pet rules. Take off my clothes.”
“I’ll pay you back for the outfit. And for the day,” I answer. “I’ll put a check in the mail as soon as I get home.”
With that, I charge forward to push past him.
But he steps in front of me. Like a big Russian wall.
“Get out of my way!”
“Krasotka…” he starts.
“What does that even mean?” I demand.
He rubs a hand over his closely cropped hair. Like he’s having a hard time being patient with me. But he answers. “Beauty. It means beauty.”
A day ago, even a few minutes ago, I would have found that meaning complimentary. But now… “No! Don’t call me that! I’m not a beauty queen or an animal or a pet or whatever you wanted me to be for these five days. I’m an accountant—a boring accountant who got in way over her head with you.”
I try to sidestep him again. But he steps in front of me again.
And I just lose it.
“Get out of my way!” I scream at him. “If you keep me here, that’s kidnapping on top of blackmail!”
He grits his chiseled jaw, but after a heated beat, he steps aside.
I rush past him and grab my phone off the table with the chessboard which I set back up after his temper tantrum about me leaving on Saturday. He’s still playing himself, I see. A few more pieces have moved on both sides of the board.
Whatever, I’m done here. So done. I continue toward the exit but stop again when I find Vlad in front of the elevator doors.
“No leaving,” he reminds me. “You still have one more day until your time is up.”
Before I can answer, a voice behind me says something in Russian. Harsh and short.
I look over my shoulder to find Cheslav. His hands are loose at his side, and his expression is shadowed over with fury.
I brace, prepared to fight my way out of this penthouse if that’s what it takes.
But then Vlad says, “I will take you to your home now, Princess South Carolina. Sorry for mistake.”
So in the end, I don’t have to fight my way out of the Russian’s penthouse. Vlad takes me by the elbow and escorts me into the elevator.
I’m relieved. Or at least I should be.
But for some reason, it feels like my chest is cracking as I step into the elevator. And my eyes immediately find Cheslav again when I turn to face forward.
I look at him, wondering what parts of our time together were real and what parts were just his game.
He looks back at me, his eyes green ice.
Then the elevator closes.
Chapter Eleven
When I get home, I find my brother gone. There’s a hastily written post-it stuck to my door: Sorry, sis. Talked to Nat, and she said I can move back in.
I don’t know if he’s sorry about the position he put me in or for moving out. Either way…