“It would be nice,” I told her, my voice sounding off and not from feeling bad. “I’m sure Ivan will look great with whoever is his partner then.”
It was her turn to tense around me. I felt her head move but didn’t hear anything come out of her mouth except a “Hmm” I didn’t know what to do with.
And as much as I told myself to relax, I couldn’t.
Because I wouldn’t be the one standing beside Ivan when he made it to the Olympics in two years, and I was going to have to be okay with that.
I just wasn’t right then.
And from the weird vibe I had gotten for a moment from Mrs. Lukov, I didn’t know what was going through her head.
What I did know was that what might have been a minute later, she patted my back and rubbed a circle a lot like the one Ivan had given me, before she said, “I know exactly what you need right now to get over this virus.”
I’d had Mrs. Lukov’s teas once years ago while I’d been on my period and had almost thrown up. She’s sworn it would stop cramping. What it had done was killed my appetite.
“Fresh squeezed orange juice for the vitamin C—”
Oh, thank God. I relaxed in her arms then.
“And vodka. It will kill all the bad germs in you.”
Then I tensed back up. “Ah—”
“Vanya said you weren’t on antibiotics,” she told me like I didn’t know. “You don’t have practice tomorrow. It will be good for you, Jasmine.”
Where the hell was Ivan and why wasn’t he telling her that I couldn’t drink? I didn’t want to. I didn’t like the taste of vodka, but—
“Are you going to tell me no?” the older woman asked, but it came out more like a dare.
Did I have the balls to tell her no?
I couldn’t begin to count the amount of times I had gotten into arguments with people. Couldn’t begin to imagine ever putting a number on the amount of people I’d called bad names. It had been a long time since I cared what anyone other than my family thought, and even then, that pressure usually wasn’t enough to keep me from doing something that would embarrass them.
If this was my mom, I wouldn’t have a problem telling her no.
But she wasn’t.
And from the tone of her voice, chances were that I’d hurt her feelings if I didn’t do something she thought would help me.
Fuck.
“No, Mrs. Lukov,” I said, a moment before Ivan kicked me in the calf.
I lifted my leg to try and donkey kick him back, but he was out of range.
“Excellent,” the woman responded, pulling away from me with a smile on her face and two hands on my shoulders. “Vanya?“ She looked around at the floor suddenly, like she remembered something and was confused. “No babies?”
Babies?
“I left them at home,” Ivan replied.
Oh. Oh.
“You didn’t bring my little Lacey?” Mrs. Lukov asked, disappointment dripping from her words.
“No, especially not Lacey.”
Her shoulders dropped in definite disappointment, and she even frowned before glancing at me and shaking her head. “He always comes with at least two of his babies. Always. They make a mess, get hair everywhere, and now I miss them. Silly, isn’t it, Jasmine?” She gave Ivan a tender look that only a loving mom was capable of. “Vanya and his rescues. Always taking the things other people don’t want anymore, ever since he was a little boy.”
Something weird happened in the upper half of my body, and I couldn’t help but slide a look toward Ivan, who had leaned against the kitchen counter and crossed his arms over his chest while I’d been with his mom. His eyes met mine. And they didn’t go anywhere.
“Next time I suppose. The soup is ready, let me make you something to drink, and we can eat!” Mrs. Lukov exclaimed.
I woke up knowing I wasn’t in my bed.
I woke up knowing that mostly because there was no way I’d wake up in my bed naked.
And my room wasn’t painted a royal blue.
But mostly, I didn’t sleep topless ever. I didn’t trust anyone in my family enough to not barge into my room while I was sleeping and do something to me. And I wasn’t about to scar them for life by seeing parts of me that I would rather not see of theirs.
And as I blinked into the semi-dark room, something else confirmed I wasn’t in my room or my house.
There was no way in any universe, or in any level of hell, that I’d wake up in my bed in only my underwear with a fucking arm wrapped around my waist.
I could have freaked out the second I realized the heavy weight draped over my hip and curled over my belly was covered with hair. I could have screamed when I felt the first puff of breath against the nape of my neck.
I could have done any and all of those things after I woke up.
But I didn’t.
Mostly because I knew that fucking royal blue. I’d seen it when I’d been snooping the day before. And as I glanced down and squinted, I knew the shade of skin color resting against my belly. Lighter than mine. Dusted with dark hair. The forearm lined with ropey, lean muscles. If that wasn’t enough, I would be able to recognize the fingers on my belly if I were blindfolded.
But even knowing all of that, I still couldn’t help but turn into a mannequin as I lay there, without a top or a bra, and basically in the arms of the one and only man in the world who I would let touch me like this because I trusted him, even though I wouldn’t tell him I did. Because I wasn’t even sure when I’d started to trust him, but it had happened at some point. It had just snuck right up to me, and was there when I needed to think about it.
But what the fuck had happened?
“Morning, Meatball,” the familiar voice whispered softly and roughly, the puffs of his breath touching my neck… along with what had to be his damp, soft lips as they formed the shape of every letter coming out of his mouth.
“Morning?” I asked, frowning in horror but not as much as I would have figured.
What the hell had happened? I tried to think…. But all my body could do was acknowledge the fact that I felt like shit and couldn’t remember a single damn thing after we’d made it to his parents’ house and his mom had started shoving borscht and what she refused to call screwdrivers, but was really a screwdriver, at me every chance my glass went empty, despite Ivan telling her to stop after the second one.
But like my own mom, nobody told Mrs. Lukov what to do. Especially not her son.
And after that, everything was a blur of nothing.
What in the fuck had happened? I wondered as Ivan sighed against my neck.
“Quit freaking out. You spilled Gatorade all over yourself getting out of the car and crawled into my bed halfway through the night.”
Oh God. I groaned in horror. Seriously. Horror. Where the hell had the Gatorade come from, and had I been that drunk that I’d spilled it on myself and decided the best thing to do was to strip down instead of shower? There was a reason I rarely drank, other than because of how high in calories some drinks were.
And Ivan must have known exactly that because he chuckled, his mouth landing on the nape of my neck. “I told you to go back to your bed, but you kept saying you were dying—”
I wanted to be surprised.
I wasn’t.
“—then you kept saying ‘I broke it,’ and I asked what you broke.” His voice cut off at the same time those puffs of breath came in quicker and lighter against me.
Fucker.
He was laughing, half asleep and trying not to.
“And you said you broke your… your…,” he managed to choke out, those puffs getting faster and faster, telling me he was laughing. Like the way his upper body was shaking didn’t say exactly that and much better.
I groaned. “Shut up.”
He was still shaking. “You kept insisting you broke your liver,” he huffed out.
Fine. It did feel like I’d broken something. And broke it good. I couldn’t remember shit. I’d drank more than I ever had. More than I might ever again. But how much vodka had Mrs. Lukov been slipping into my drink to begin with? It hadn’t tasted like she’d put a lot into it but…
Fuck.
But Ivan kept right on going. “And you wanted me to take you to the hospital.”
I groaned. I groaned on the inside.
“You said you wanted me to hold your liver together—”
Oh God.
“Just for a little, Vanya, just a little,” he choked out. “I broke it.”
I’d called him Vanya? Huh. I shoved that aside and focused on the most important part. “So you let me stay in your bed? Without a shirt on? So you could hold my liver together?”
The arm around me tightened. “You insisted.”
“Without a bra.”
“You came to me that way. What was I going to do? Force you to get dressed? You know how stubborn you are when you’re not drunk.”
“You could have gotten dressed.”
“I was in my bed, comfortable, asleep. It was you that showed up.”
I tipped my head to try and look at him over my shoulder before remembering I probably hadn’t brushed my teeth. “Do you even have pants on?”
“No.”
“You couldn’t put any on?”
“And ruin how warm I was?”
“You could have put a shirt on me.”
“And put my hands on you when you hadn’t given me permission?”