“Wait,” I breathed, spinning around. “Can you at least call me a cab?”

He scowled. “I might as well phone D’yavol to pick you up.”

I stared at him, thinking I should probably refrain from drinking the water here.

He shook his head. “Go home, Mila.”

Once again, the door slammed shut in my face.

schlimazel

(n.) a person who suffers from bad luck

As the deadbolt locked into place, I wondered what happened to good ol’ Russian hospitality. They hadn’t even offered me anything to eat. Practically blasphemous, I’d learned from growing up in a Russian household, especially from a couple who seemed very in touch with their religious side.

With the weight of my papa’s secret sitting heavy on my heart and the obvious fact I wasn’t welcome here, a pathetic part of me wanted to listen and just go home. But if I returned now . . .

I’d dream.

I’d wonder.

I’d carry on existing.

And I wanted to live for a change. Just for a few days. Before The Moorings sucked me back into its passionless hole. Before I married Carter Kingston, had two-point-five kids, and drowned in social luncheons, pastel-colored cardigans, and ropes of pearls.

The iron gate swung back and forth in the icy breeze.

Squeeaak.

Clank.

Squeeaak.

Clank.

I slipped my duffle bag over my shoulder, put my numb hands in my pockets, and started to walk in the hope of finding some form of transportation. It was so cold I’d get into a cab even if the devil himself was driving it.

Jet lag and lack of sleep pulled on my muscles. I hadn’t gotten more than a minute of shut-eye on the plane, mostly because the two terrors sitting beside me were little-boy versions of the Energizer Bunny.

Fishing my cell phone out of my pocket, I turned it on for the first time since I landed in Moscow and found thirteen missed calls and five voicemails from Ivan.

Someone was being a bit dramatic.

I read the texts I’d received from a couple fr

iends and a few from Carter confirming our date at eight, reconfirming it, and, after I missed it completely, hoping everything was all right.

I’d stood him up.

I should feel guilty, but my chest was light, taking in breaths easier for the first time in years.

There was nothing particularly wrong with Carter. Our relationship was amicable, maybe, if I reached a little, even nice. But when it came down to it, the last time his lips were on mine, I spent the entire kiss mentally conjugating French verbs for my upcoming exam.

Papa didn’t know about the few online courses I’d taken. He’d blown a gasket at my request to attend college, which meant he silently stared at me like I asked to visit North Korea before he said, “Nyet.” So I thought it was best to keep my classes on the down low.

The first four voicemails from Ivan sounded very Ivan-like and straightforward, excessively informing me he would land in Moscow at three a.m. and demanding I stay in my hotel room until he arrived. The fifth, however, raised the hair on the back of my neck.

He blew out a rough breath, then a curse, and a thump sounded through the line, as if he actually hit something. “I cannot believe you did this. I trusted you not to go to Moscow.”

Tags: Danielle Lori Made Erotic
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