“This is Clemson’s sister, as requested,” Vlad says beside me. “Princess South Carolina.”
The Winner’s green gaze rakes over me. And I swear I can feel it pressing into my skin as it moves up my body. All the way from the bottom of my toes to the top of my head.
I didn’t choose to be here. And I don’t like or date athletes. Yet, suddenly I feel self-conscious. I fight the urge to pull my sisterlocks out of their messy over-the-shoulder braids and groom myself.
For him. For The Winner who pulled me away from an exciting weekend of preparing for the CPA exam.
But right now, the only thing getting studied is me.
I swallow, feeling even more scared than when I turned around to find a stranger in my kitchen.
Even though The Winner hasn’t said a word, his intensity speaks volumes. And the examination goes on for several excruciating seconds.
Eventually, his mouth turns up at the corner and he glances over at Clem. “You were right. She is very good girl. Upstanding.”
The Winner has a Russian accent, too. Not as heavy and broken as his employee, but close enough. Maybe I was mistaken about him being an athlete. Could he be mafia?
And they were talking about me before I got here? My stomach knots with fear. Seriously, what has my brother gotten himself into? Gotten the both of us into?
I glance over my shoulder at Clem, who’s still sitting on the couch like a little boy awaiting his punishment. Then I turn back to the Russian, irritation and fear chasing the next words out of my mouth. “Look, I don’t know why you had me dragged out of my house at four in the morning, but congratulations, you’ve officially freaked me out. Now can you please tell me what this is all about?”
Another amused half-smile…that instantly disappears.
“Clem, Vlad, you will give us the room,” he says without looking away from me.
Chapter Three
That one command is all it takes. Vlad grabs Clem by the arm, and Clem doesn’t fight him at all as he’s pulled off the couch.
“Clem…” I say when I realize he’s planning on leaving me here alone with a man I just met.
“It’s okay, Billie, he won’t hurt you,” Clem says as Vlad pulls him past us. “He promised.”
“He promised? What do you mean he promised?” I call after him. “What’s going on?”
The only answer I get to those questions is the ding of the elevator Vlad and my brother have obviously gotten on. Oh God, my brother’s been dragged away.
And now I’m alone.
With the huge Russian winner.
I turn back to face him, my heart racing with a strange mix of curiosity, fear, and uncertainty. What now?
Apparently, introductions.
“Hello, I am happy to make your acquaintance,” he says, holding out a large hand to me. “Cheslav Rustanov. But you may call me Chess.”
Chess…
Suddenly I know why he seems familiar. This was the hockey player we got a few years back. Some big deal who’d won three Stanley Cups, according to the local NPR station. For a while the city seemed to be littered with billboards of him standing next to a red king chess piece and the declaration, “The King has come to play for the Charleston Knights.”
So not mafia, I realize, putting it all together. Hockey. He’s a hockey player. With a henchman who was totally willing to pull me out of my condo.
“Hi, I’m Billie,” I answer, awkwardly extending my elbow into the air instead of shaking his hand. “I’m pretty sure this is what we’re supposed to do now.”
Chess lowers his hand, his eyes twinkling with amusement. Like I’ve said something really funny, not given him a proper COVID etiquette reminder. South Carolina hasn’t had any confirmed cases yet, but the virus landed on the West Coast in February. And Cynda, who’s a nurse, told me that she thought it was only a matter of time before it spread across the entire United States.
“Please forgive me for dramatics,” he says. “This situation is very confusing for you, da?”
Da. I think that means yes in Russian.
I nod, then force my voice back up my throat to ask, “What’s going on? Why did you make Clem leave?”
“Would you like something to drink?” he asks instead of answering my question. “Vodka? Wine?”
“It’s five in the morning.”
He moves up the sunken den’s short set of stairs toward a wet bar I hadn’t registered before on the sidewall. “Gin and cranberry. That is your drink of choice, da?”
I jolt. How did he know?
“I have no gin,” he says as if I answered him. “But vodka and cranberry is good substitute, nyet?”
“What’s this all about?” I demand again as I watch him make two drinks. A vodka cranberry for me and just a straight shot of some vodka with Cyrillic letters on the label for him. “Why did your employee break into my home with a gun?”