Rough Exile

“Of course.”

Living here wouldn’t have given him many opportunities to find partners, but it was strange to think he was almost thirty and his number was so low. I was probably a terrible judge of what was ‘normal,’ considering what my life had been like.

“Your turn to ask a question or dare us to do something,” I told him, not really remembering if there were rules about turn-taking. “You can pick either of us.”

“Do you like when men are rough with you?”

“You’re supposed to ask if I want truth or dare.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll answer that, though.” I gave the question some thought, wondering if this question was going to land me in a world of hurt later. “It depends on the man, I think. Sometimes it’s hot, and I get off on it—on feeling helpless and used—but some men are crueler than others. I absolutely hate it when I haven’t consented to it.”

Ilya swallowed and took my hand. It was warm around mine. “I’m sorry men have done that to you.”

“Thank you.” I smiled and squeezed his hand. I took another sip of my drink. The cognac had a complicated flavor, and it cleared away the taste of the bad memories.

“My turn again?” I looked back and forth between them. Bron was staring into his glass. Was he bored or trying to remove himself from the game without leaving the table? “Bron.”

He raised his head and met my gaze, looking far too forbidding to take a turn at this silly game.

“What?”

“Truth or dare.”

“Truth.”

“Have you ever been married?”

Ilya’s mouth opened, and his gaze darted to Bron, who rested his forearms on the table and leaned toward me.

“Twice.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Women like hard men but hate when they don’t go soft for them.”

“You were married?” Ilya looked crushed.

“Did you think I was a little virgin like you when I got here, boy?”

“Well, no, but…”

“But?”

“Was I your first man?”

“I’d hardly call you a man.”

Ilya pulled his hand away from mine, and he turned his glass tumbler in a slow circle. “Answer the question.”

“It’s not your turn,” Bron replied smugly, raising his own glass to his lips.

“This is a stupid game,” Ilya grumbled.

Bron actually laughed. “I like it.”

Prick. He knew poor Ilya was jealous, and he was laughing at him instead of giving him reassurance.

“Truth or dare, De-li-lah.”

“Truth.”

“What does your family think you do when you’re gone to the Island? What do they think you’re doing now?”

I pressed my lips together. “They know I’m a sex worker. They don’t know the details.”

Bron’s brow rose. “They have no objections?”

I rolled a sip of cognac around my mouth, savoring the burn and appreciating that it didn’t have the same kick whisky did. When I swallowed, the warmth gave me the courage to tell the unvarnished truth. “They’re ashamed of me, but not so ashamed that they refuse the scholarships.”

Wow, apparently I was feeling catty tonight. I wasn’t usually one to air my family’s dirty laundry in public.

“You work hard and suffer for them, and they’re ashamed of you?” Ilya snapped. “How dare they? The ungrateful shits. How many sisters would do what you’re doing for them?”

I had the urge to defend them, now that he’d passed judgment. They were all sick of me parenting them, and ‘meddling,’ but I’d gotten them through high school with good-enough grades to go to college, but not quite enough to get the scholarships we’d hoped for. If they were going to get out of Mom and Dad’s world, which revolved around the store, and only the store, I’d needed to do something to get the money. Of course, they didn’t understand—it wasn’t something they’d ever thought about except to either judge or pity the people who had to do it to get by.

“And your parents? They couldn’t help?”

I snorted. “If our parents had their way, we would have worked at their store in exchange for room and board for the rest of our lives.”

People always talked about multi-generational family businesses like they were the best, but sometimes they only stayed afloat by exploiting their children’s labor. As their only employees, they hadn’t paid us, and we’d gotten no say about our schedules. I’d missed my graduation raising the next generation of labor for my parents.

Such a hardworking, friendly family. Pillars of their community.

Sure, our parents were those things, but they also hadn’t set aside a penny for our education and would only let us work other jobs if they didn’t cut into schoolwork or our hours at the store. It had felt so claustrophobic.

My whole life had. It still did.

“Your family should make a shrine to you.” Ilya raised his glass to me.

“I’ll be sure to tell them that the next time I see them.”

I was glad Ilya had gotten over his shock at Bron’s revelation about his ex-wives. I’d had a hunch, but I hadn’t wanted to upset Ilya. How had they lived under the same roof for so long and never discussed it?

“My turn. Truth or dare, Bron.”

“Dare.” His eyes were at half-mast. Was the man drunk or was the alcohol just helping him relax?

Time to shake things up.

“I dare you to kiss Ilya.”

He frowned at me. There was a line there, and after spending so much time with them, I’d noticed it, but I didn’t understand it. Was he trying to keep Ilya from falling in love with him? Because if that was the case, he’d failed spectacularly.

“It’s a kiss,” I teased. “What’s the big deal?”

“I’m not gay,” he snapped.

“You’ll fuck him, but you won’t kiss him, and that boundary means you’re straight?”

“I do these things to teach him to be harder, not because I like it.”