In the end, I can’t think of any other way.
Oh God, oh God, I’m really going to do this.
With trembling fingers, I reach down and pull my loose tank over my head as quickly as I can.
But not quick enough. The embarrassment descends as soon as the shirt comes off. And instead of casting it aside as Gina would have in one of her strip routines, I end up clutching it to my chest.
My body is nothing like Gina’s. She’s all juicy curves with lush breasts and a butt so round and beautiful, my brother demanded to be introduced to my friend after the Atlantic City Queen America finals, even though he already had a wife and kid. I’m also not as gorgeous or confident as Cynda, who has men lining up with just a flash of her cynical eyes.
I’m only an A-cup, which doesn’t match my thick hips and thighs. And sure I’m pretty, especially in hair and makeup. But I haven’t worn extensions since I put my hair in sisterlocks. And the majority of my MAC products are currently at home, collecting dust now that I’ve become a full-time accountant. The truth is, I’m not even really Princess South Carolina. True story, I was the runner up. The winner had to drop out at the last minute when she broke her leg, and I ended up going in her place.
This deal is wrong. What Cheslav Rustanov is demanding of me is wrong. But somehow, I feel like he’s the one getting the short end of the stick.
I wait for him to be like, “Nah, on second thought…”
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he walks around the coffee table and settles onto the couch. It’s the same place I sat when I waited for him earlier, I note as my heart thumps like a rabbit inside my chest.
“Tell me, what do you know about the Rustanovs.”
“Um…I once was in the dance chorus of a summer stock version of Chrysanthemum. The original opera singer for that production. Her name was Sirena Rustanov. Any relation?”
I’m joking, but he answers, “Yes, she is the wife of Boris Rustanov, one of my cousins. Funny you should mention her because she started off as his pet also.”
“His pet,” I repeat.
“Yes, that is how Rustanovs refer to the women they acquire and keep. Women like you. Do you understand this concept, Princess South Carolina? That for these five days, you will be my pet and I am the man who will train your body to worship my cock?”
Such nasty words delivered in such a casual tone. I should be screaming in horror. But my heart beats faster, and a long-absent desire pools in my lower belly.
I close my eyes briefly, embarrassed that I’m not completely repulsed by him like I was with the football players who tried to come on to me when I was a cheerleader. What is wrong with me?
“The rules are no leaving. No questioning. You obey my every command. Say you understand,” he says, interrupting my guilty thoughts.
His tone is commanding. Also low and dangerous. And for reasons I couldn’t even begin to explain, the lips between my legs tingle with anticipation.
My cheeks light up with flame, but I somehow manage a quick nod.
“No, you will say this out loud.” His voice is a hard, unforgiving thing. “I understand that I am yours to command, Chess. For these five days, I am your pet.”
I swallow, not sure I’m going to be able to get the words out. But I try my best, my voice weak and thin, “I understand that I am yours to command, Cheslav. For these five days, I am your pet.”
The hard planes of his face light up with smug approval. Even though he’s dressed semi-casually, he puts me in mind of a portrait of someone great. A king or a general. Men with the kind of power that makes artists want to paint them.
“As I told you before, my friends call me Chess.”
“I thought I was your pet, not your friend,” I point out, my tone frank and snide.
“You can be both,” he answers, his tone reassuring and cold.
I think about it. Then ask, “Is pretending you’re my friend and calling you Chess part of the deal?”
He regards me for a long, cool second. “No, you may call me as you wish,” he answers. But then his face ices over with cold, hard intention. “Until you wish to call me something else.”
Chapter Five
Technically, I won that fight. But I don’t feel triumphant. Like, at all.
As it turns out, standing across from someone half-naked while he sips on vodka fully clothed really messes with the power dynamics of a conversation. Especially when that someone made you establish that you were little more than an animal at his command before you won one itty-bitty conversational turn.