You Don't Know Me: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (4 page)

Tasha Evanoff

‘A
re you hungry?’ he asks.

I grin at him. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

He grins back and I stare at the beauty of the man. I have never seen him smile with his teeth showing before. He is spellbindingly handsome.

Unaware of my appreciation of him, he jackknives upright and, naked, walks to the dressing room. He comes back wearing track bottoms and holding a shirt in his hand.

‘Wear this,’ he says, holding it out to me.

I slip into it and fold the sleeves up.

He gazes at me.

‘What? What are you thinking?’ I ask.

‘How fuckable you look.’

I blush and he laughs.

‘Come on,’ he says leading the way. We go downstairs in our bare feet.

‘What’s there to eat?’ I ask, sliding onto one of the creamy yellow stools. His kitchen looks like it is hardly ever used. Every surface is gleaming with newness.

‘I don’t know,’ he says opening the fridge.

‘You don’t know. Who does the shopping for you?’ I ask curiously.

‘I have a woman who stocks my fridge and my cupboards.’

I get up and join him in front of the fridge. We study the contents together. His fridge is well stocked with unopened packets of food. Fresh vegetables, salad in a plastic bag, cheeses, meat, fish, jars of condiments and containers of cooked food.  

‘You’ve got
Khachapuri,
’ I exclaim, my stomach rumbling at the thought of the crusty bread shaped to look like a boat, the middle filled with different types of melted cheese and baked with an egg thrown on top of all that cheese. Mmmm …

‘Shall we have one?’ he asks.

‘One? I’m not sharing my
Khachapuri.
Get your own.’

He grins down at me and for a second there is something soft in his eyes, then it is gone and replaced by something slightly distant and unreadable.

‘Fine, we’ll have two
.
I was just thinking you might want to save some space for the
Morozhenoe,
’ he explains in an amused voice.

‘
Morozhenoe
?’ I echo, my eyes bright. I love creamy Russian ice cream.

‘Uh … huh,’ he says, taking two portions of half-baked crusty bread filled with cheese and putting it on the granite counter top.

‘Oh my. A midnight feast with
Morozhenoe
. I used to have it direct from the carts whenever I went to Moscow. Now that I know you have it, I’ll have to come here more often,’ I say with a laugh, and suddenly realize what I have said.

There is no expression on his face as he unpacks the bread. ‘Do you want yours with an egg on top?’

‘Yeah,’ I say softly, walking back to my stool. Somehow the mood has been ruined.

I watch him crack two eggs on top of the bread boats and put them into the oven. He has big powerful hands. There are stars tattooed on them. I think of those strong, tanned hands on my body and the thought arouses me, makes me want him inside me all over again.

‘You don’t cook often, do you?’ I ask.

‘Almost never.’

‘So what happens to all the food if you don’t eat it?’

He shrugs carelessly. ‘I think Irina takes it home.’

I nod, my body going cold. When I asked him for one night it never even crossed my mind that he might have a girlfriend. Just because I saw him alone all the time I just naively assumed that he didn’t have one. Have I just had sex with someone’s boyfriend?

‘So who’s Irina?’ I ask as casually as I can.

He frowns. ‘Sort of my housekeeper.’

‘Sort of?’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘Complicated as in girlfriend?’

He looks surprised. ‘No, I’m not with anyone,’ he says.

Getting information from him is like squeezing blood from a stone, but it is a strange relief to know there isn’t a girlfriend lurking somewhere. He pulls open the freezer and takes out a bottle of Tovaritch vodka. My father’s favorite. Putting my elbows on the smooth cold surface and supporting my jaw in my palms, I watch him pour us a couple of shots.

He brings them to me.

‘I don’t want to get drunk,’ I say.

‘Want a raw egg?’

It is a Russian tradition. If you don’t want to get drunk have a raw egg before you start drinking. I shake my head.

‘Drink it in one go and don’t exhale through your mouth,’ he advises.

‘Got it,’ I say and take the glass.

‘
Vsego khoroshego
!’ he says.

For a second I hesitate. That phrase can mean all the best or goodbye.

As if he has understood the reason for my hesitancy. ‘All the best,’ he says in English.

‘All the best,’ I echo. It had not felt right. The thought that he might have been saying goodbye. I down the drink. It slides smoothly down my throat.

He opens the oven and the delicious smell of bread baking fills the kitchen. We sit and eat. He seems to watch me eat more than he eats.

‘Are you not hungry?’ I ask.

‘I’m hungry, but not for food.’

When I finish, he scoops ice cream into bowls.
‘
If only we had some chocolate pieces to sprinkle on top,’ I say as I stuff my face with soft creamy ice cream. He gets up and opens a cupboard, rummages around and finds chocolate sprinkles. ‘Will these do?’

‘Okay,’ I say.

When I lay down my spoon, he comes over to me. He grasps my waist as if I weigh no more than a child, and puts me on the granite top. The stone is cold under my thighs.

‘My turn to eat ice cream,’ he says.

The ice cream is cold and I do giggle to start with, but not for long. He ruins ice cream for me forever.

Tasha Evanoff

‘W
hat time is it?’ I ask.

He swivels his head at the alarm clock by the bedside. ‘Nearly four.’

So the night is all gone and it is almost time to leave. I sigh.

‘Can I use your shower before I go?’ I ask softly. I reek of sex.

‘Sure,’ he agrees. ‘There’s a clean bathrobe hanging behind the door.’

He watches me get out of bed. I walk away feeling sore between my legs. The bathroom carries the same décor as the rest of the house. There is a pale pistachio wall with a massive mirror encased in an ornate creamy lemon frame. I use the bathroom, ooh, sore, and get into the shower. I switch it on and adjust the temperature setting before I step into the rush.

I close my eyes and turn my face up to the water cascade. I try not to think. It cannot be over. Our time together flew by too quickly. How could something so wonderful be over? Suddenly, I become aware that the shower door is open. I twist around and Noah steps into the cubicle.

I watch the water pouring down his face.

He doesn’t say anything, but simply
puts his hand to the back of my head and swoops down on my mouth. Unresisting, I flow into his arms, my body yielding to the hard planes of his. His insistent mouth parts my shaking lips and sends wild tremors through my body. The rest of the world falls silent and becomes nothing while I cling to him as the only solid thing in my shifting world.

The whole night he has avoided kissing me and I thought it was because he didn’t want to, but this kiss is hot and full of a kind of wild desperation. Like a condemned man who decides to gamble his life on a game of Russian roulette.

His tongue invades my mouth and I suck on it.

He pulls away from me and we stare at each other. His eyes are blazing and his jaw is clenched so tight I feel a spark of fear. Before I can ask him what is wrong, he turns away and walks out of the shower cubicle.

Wrapped in his bathrobe I venture cautiously into the bedroom. He is not there, but he has brought my clothes up and laid them on a throne-like red velvet armchair. I dress quickly. He has also put a hairdryer out and I use it.
I pick his hairbrush and run it through my hair. It feels strange. I have never used anyone else’s brush in my hair before. Probably because I’ve never been allowed to stay at a friend’s for a sleepover, or pajama party.

Stepping in my shoes I go downstairs. He is in the living room, holding a glass of something amber.

‘Thanks for bringing my clothes up,’ I say shyly.

He lifts the glass in my direction in acknowledgment of my words.

‘I guess I should be going.’

‘I’ve called someone to take you back,’ he says quietly.

‘No, that won’t be necessary. I really should call a taxi.’

‘You’re either leaving with my guy or you’re not leaving at all. Take your pick.’ His voice is hard and unyielding.

‘Look, if I happen to meet someone I know, it is better if I am in a taxi. I don’t want to get anybody in trouble.’

‘Don’t worry. Sam will be driving a taxi.’

‘Oh, is he a taxi driver?’

‘No.’

‘Right.’

‘Do you want a drink?’

I shake my head. ‘I want to keep my wits about me.’

He nods. ‘Good idea.’

‘I’ve had a … really good time. Thank you.’

He drains his glass and pours himself another. He downs that one too and stares at me as he does it.

‘What time is Sam coming?’ I ask, fidgeting nervously.

‘Soon.’

‘Okay. I’ll have a glass with you.’

Silently he pours us both a drink and brings mine to me.

‘We should drink to something.’

He raises a cynical eyebrow.

I raise my glass. ‘Here’s to happy lives for both of us.’

‘Happy lives,’ he echoes, an odd edge to his voice.

We knock it back. He turns away from me and walks towards the bottle.

‘What will you do today?’ I ask into the awkward silence. He is so distant, so cold, it is impossible to imagine that it is the same man who licked ice cream off my body while I giggled like a schoolgirl. Or the man who came into the shower and kissed me like I was the most precious thing he’d ever had.

He shrugs. ‘Sleep. You?’

Talk about short answers. I can play the same game. I grimace. ‘Boring stuff.’

His phone vibrates and he goes rock still. Something happens inside my body when I watch him pick it up and put it to his ear.

‘Yeah, she’ll be out now,’ he says.

I want to touch him. I want to kiss him. I want our goodbye to be different. I feel … oh, God … I can’t …

I don’t want to leave him.

Noah Abramovich

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jqpAgMxhx30

Run

O
nce the taxi has driven off, I close the front door and walk into the living room. The house feels like a fucking tomb. No wonder I never come here. This is a family home. It is meant to be filled with the sound of a woman and children. Not this deathly silence.

I have the urge to smash something. I pick up the glass I left on the coffee table and throw it blindly. It crashes into the wall and smashes with a resounding noise. Then the silence returns. I press the heel of my palm into my forehead. Damn it. Damn it.

This can’t be fucking it.

No fucking way.

I stride to the bottle of cognac and pour myself a large measure. I drink it so fast the liquid burns my throat, but on an empty stomach it is finally starting to dull off the sharp edges. I sit down on the couch and pour myself another. Tasha Evanoff. My limbs feel heavy and dead. I grasp the bottle by the neck and take a long swig.

Ah, fuck it. She’s just a woman.

There is a Chinese saying. People are like a finger in water. Take the finger out and the water closes over seamlessly. Not even the memory remains. No matter how important they seem to be their absence doesn’t count a damn.

I look at the dent in the wall. It is some kind of specialist paint or shit. I’ll have to get that annoying designer back in here. A thought crosses my mind and I go into the kitchen. I stand at the doorway and look at the counter smeared in ice cream. I see her again, spread out on my dark granite completely coated in the oozing sweetness, squirming, laughing, a creamy sticky mess.

I see me bending down to slowly lick the drips from her breasts, her stomach, my tongue exploring everywhere, every inch, pretending I was not really in search of the sweet nectar between her legs. More ice cream lands on her giggling body, more licking, until she didn’t squirm or giggle anymore.

I turn away from the empty counter. I have never felt so alone in my life. I sit on the couch and pull my feet up. Not long before daylight. She would have arrived at her home by now. I call Sam.

‘All done,’ he says crisply.

‘Where did you drop her off?’

‘One street away.’

‘Right. Thanks.’

I drink until I can’t see straight, but the wanting doesn’t go away. I can’t face the bed. I close my eyes and sleep comes. I wake up at the sound of someone in the kitchen. My head is hammering. I look at the bottle rolling on the floor. It’s empty.

I groan when Irina comes into the room.

She is coming into the room bringing a small saucer. ‘
Nikolashka
,’ she says. Her voice rings like a fucking Church bell in my head.

It is an old Russian cure for a hangover. A slice of lemon with a teaspoon of sugar and a teaspoon of coffee on top.

I shake my head and pain shoots into it. ‘
Nyet,
’ I whisper.

‘It’s either this or
haash.’
There is not an ounce of sympathy in her voice. Fuck that.
Haash
is a Caucasus thick stew that is prepared by cooking tripe and beef trotters for six hours, and to make it worse, it is consumed with radish and lots of garlic. I’d rather die than let one drop of that shit into my mouth.

I put my feet on the ground and a bolt of pain hits my brain.

‘Fuck,’ I curse, cradling my head.

Irina stands patiently next to me with her saucer.

I reach out a hand, take the lemon slice and, sliding it between my dry, crusty lips, chew it slowly. As soon as I have swallowed it, she nods with satisfaction and goes back to the kitchen. I stand up slowly and go straight into the bathroom. I switch on the shower and stand under the hot jet. The sluggish blood in my veins starts pumping. I roll my neck and stretch the knots from my shoulders. Last night feels like a dream. I get out of the shower, brush my teeth, and walk naked to the bedroom.

Slivers of sunlight slanting in through the window shutters make me squint. My eyes turn to the unmade bed. She was no dream. I walk to the bed and, grabbing a fistful of bedding, pull it up to my nostrils. Her smell clings to the bed sheets like early morning fog across a lake.

I can’t just let go of her like that. She belongs to me.

I go to the window and pull the shutters open. Bright yellow sunlight blinds me for an instant, then I see them. An Omen. In my head Babushka is saying,
eto magiya
(it’s magic). Two blackbirds have settled on the pillars on either side of my gate.

A dormant memory, fresh as if from yesterday, fills my mind.

Babushka’s hands with their bulbous knuckles are moving quickly. She is peeling red onions to make pickles for the winter. It always makes the whole house smell of vinegar. Around her head is the triangularly folded headscarf and I am reading the newspapers to her. Suddenly a bird flies in through the open window and perches on the inside ledge.

‘Look, Babushka?’ I gasp.

She looks at the bird.

‘What kind of bird is it?’ I whisper back.

‘It’s a blackbird,’ she says and smiles.

‘Is it a good omen?’ I ask curiously. Babushka assigned meaning and superstitions to even the smallest occurrences.

She throws a peeled onion into the bucket and picks up another one. ‘All the birds that wear robes of black come to tell us the seeds of change have been planted in our lives. Often they bring news of death because that is the greatest change of all.’

‘Who will die in our house?’ I whisper aghast.

‘No one. When you see a blackbird you must smile. Tis a great blessing. It is an early warning. Telling us to be prepared. To love those around us even more deeply than we think is possible because one day they will be no more.’

She smiles at me and I smile back.

‘Now sing,’ she says.

And I sang for her. I was eight years old.

That winter was the first time I knew Mama was ill. That time they cured her. The next time the illness came back I would be thirteen and this time she would suffer for two years two months and five days before she left Babushka and I forever.

For a moment I just stand and watch silently. What seeds of change have you brought? What do I have to be prepared for? Who do I have to love even more deeply than I think is possible before they are taken away from me forever?

I don’t move but they must have sensed my figure because they look up towards me before they simultaneously fly away. I draw myself away from the window and Tasha Evanoff fills my head.

Her luscious curves, warm sweet breath and eyes full of simple joy. No matter how much I try to make myself believe last night was nothing more than two animals acceding to their wildest, lustful desires, I know different. I also know slow darkness will follow after taking the forbidden. But I don’t care. I shrug a shoulder.

I’ve waited for a long time to make that pussy cry out for me and fuck me it did, over and fucking over. Hell, I can’t remember the last time a woman made me feel this alive.  I drag myself back to the bed, my cock stiff and throbbing with blood surging from my brain. I get in and grasp its thickness firmly. With long slow strokes, I visualize that sweet pink flesh that drove me to such wickedness hours earlier.

I see my cock power into her, thrusting mercilessly, as savage as the Alpha wolf with his female. I took her like it was my last day on this earth. What a fucking glorious ending! My free hand grips my chest and my heartbeat rises as my orgasm begins to race forward like an unstoppable freight train.

Oh, fuck, oh, fuck me. My cock pulsates, frantically cheering my hand on, like it has a fucking mind of its own. I stroke faster and faster, and feel the perspiration form across my forehead. My whole body stiffens as I shoot my hot seed into the air.

Fuck. Fuck you Nikita Evanoff.

This, this is just the fucking beginning ...