Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
THE RED BEAR
I walked into my apartment, preceding Knox and Brady.
Jacques ran to us, stopped, sniffed the hem of my dress, my foot, and started licking.
I turned when I heard Brady mutter (his mutter laced liberally with humor), “Later, brother.”
“Thanks for the ride,” Knox replied.
And oh yeah, his voice was laced with humor too.
A lot of it.
I watched them clasp hands and bump chests, Knox doing this holding the handles of the to-go bag he had, but that night had been such that I did not rejoice in seeing this male camaraderie.
Stiffly, I walked to the bathroom.
In it, I took off my shoes.
Instantly, Jacques grabbed one by the strap and dragged it out of the bathroom.
I let it go. I’d already said my sad goodbye to those boss shoes.
I stepped into the shower and shed my dress and underwear.
Silently, Knox appeared, scooped up my clothing and kept his face averted as he turned, bent to nab the remaining shoe and strode out of the bathroom.
But I still saw his lips twitching.
I adjusted the nozzle before I turned it on so the water wouldn’t hit me until it was warm.
I watched Knox return with one of his tees (men dug women in their tees, as pertains to Knox, this was okay with me because I loved wearing his tees) with a clean pair of panties on top.
He set it on the lid of the toilet, looked at me, his eyes danced, my eyes thinned, and he walked out again.
When the temperature was right, I stepped under the spray of the shower, doing it looking down.
Red ran down the drain.
* * *
Allow me to rewind.
The evening started out killer.
Honestly, I wished real life could go slow-mo and a natural wind would come up to blow our hair and artfully drift through our dresses because when the Angels rolled into the Red Bear, we were working it.
My dress was hot. Raye’s dress was class.
Harlow’s cutesy lilac number was adorable.
Jessie’s black cigarette pants and satin blouse were awesome.
Shanti’s tight black cami and wide leg marigold satin pants were stylin’.
Willow’s plunge-back white top with quarter-length sleeves, black tailored short-shorts and delicate silver heels were daring.
Gemma’s black wraparound top with black-and-white checked, sheer flowy skirt were the perfect mix of sexy and feminine.
And Joey’s white tank, tangle of necklaces and shiny champagne jeans were rock ’n’ roll chic.
I was totally having visions in my head of brushing my curls away from my face in a slow-mo head shake as the girls, waltzing along the red rug that ran up to the carved wood double door, made our way to the Red Bear.
When we got inside, we all had just enough sophistication not to oo and ahh verbally, we just did it in our heads (and I knew I wasn’t the only one because I saw their faces said the same thing my mind was saying).
When we met Dimitri there months ago, we didn’t go to the restaurant proper. We went to his den tucked at the back of the restaurant beyond the kitchen. It had a welcoming, professorial feel. Even so, it totes gave Russian mob vibes.
The restaurant was not that.
The walls were red, yes.
But there were crystal sconces on them. The tablecloths were bright white.
There was a single red rose in a delicate vase on each table, along with votive candles.
The waitstaff wore black bowties, pressed white shirts, black pants and long white aprons.
The lighting was superb, low and intimate enough to make this the perfect place for a couple’s night out, not so low you couldn’t read the menus or wouldn’t take your mom there for a nice meal.
It did not say This is likely a front for money laundering.
It said Yes, you can propose to your woman here, and you’ll never forget that precious memory.
I should have known we were going to see this because I’d looked up the menu online, and it had beef stroganoff on it, but the beef in their stroganoff was filet mignon.
The very pretty, slender, black-body-con-dress-wearing, blonde hostess looked up to us from her podium as we arrived.
Her eyes widened.
“VIPs,” she said with a distinct Russian accent.
How sweet.
Dimitri told his hostess we were VIPs.
“Please, this way,” she said and gestured to the side with her slim hand tipped with blood red nails.
We walked farther into the restaurant and headed toward a space in the back corner that was on a rise and delineated by intricate latticework dark-wood panels.
You could see in, but not quite. It had a huge, round table in it, but there was not a single red rose decorating it.
Instead, a massive bouquet sat in the middle, with another rose at each place setting.
And there was a large champagne stand with several bottles already chilling and a napkin folded over it resting by the table.
Oh, and Titus was there. He was wearing a black T-shirt, black slacks and a perfectly tailored gray blazer with the fine edge of a black pocket square in it.
He was working it too, but the man was gorgeous. He worked everything.
Last, for some reason, Tex was also there.
As for his apparel, instead of his usual flannel, he wore a jean shirt buttoned up to his throat (you couldn’t see it under his beard, I just knew because that was how Tex wore all his shirts). And that was the only nod he made to being somewhere fancy.
Titus stood when we ascended the three steps to the private-but-not-totally-private room.
Tex was leaned back in his chair with both his arms spread along the ones beside him, and he didn’t get up.
“My babies,” Titus greeted warmly and magnanimously, as was Titus’s way, opening his arms wide, his invitation to line up for hugs, as was also Titus’s way.
Dutifully, the Angels moved in single file, each of us receiving a tight Titus hug.
It wasn’t until Titus helped Gemma into her chair and pushed her under the table when someone brought it up.
And it was Jessie who did it.
“What are you doing here?” she asked Tex.
“I know how this goes,” Tex replied.
“How what goes?” Raye asked.
“Ethnic restaurant relying heavily on the color red for décor,” he didn’t quite answer.
Harlow leaned into the table and explained, “It’s a Rock Chick thing.”
Ahh.
No one asked because no one wanted to know.
“I’m not taking any chances,” Tex decreed.
“Heads up,” Titus murmured.
We all turned to the wide space that led into our VIP section to see Dimitri sauntering our way.
And…hot damn.
Black shirt, open at the throat, under a black suit. Hair perfect. Face perfect. Body perfect.
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t just keeping good relations with our allies that brought us to the Red Bear. Maybe it was just to get another eye full of Dimitri.
Though, total honesty be damned (on this occasion), I wasn’t going to share that with Knox.
“Ladies,” he greeted when he arrived, dipping his head in the general direction of the table. His attention moved to Titus, “Bratukha.” Then his eyes focused on Tex and he said nothing.
“Dimitri, this is Tex. He’s our boss,” Raye introduced.
Dimitri made no response, Tex made no overtures at greeting, the two men just stared at each other.
I shifted in my seat.
“He’s also kind of an honorary Angel,” Willow added. “He taught us how to break and enter.”
Auspiciously, this worked to break the ice, and all the girls did their version of swooning without actually swooning when a slow, glamorous smile spread across Dimitri’s face.
“Welcome to the Red Bear,” he said to Tex, then to the rest of us, “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve set your menu so you can experience the best of our fare. Simply tell your server if there’s something you don’t eat. This evening is on me.”
“Nah, man, it’s on me,” Titus chimed in.
“They’re my girls, it’s on me,” Tex grunted.
It was really hard to be annoyed at how the men thought they could horn in and pay for food we all could afford to pay for ourselves (not to mention, this was something Arthur would totally reimburse us for) when they were being so sweet.
“As the bill won’t be presented, this discussion is unnecessary,” Dimitri said smoothly.
Tex scowled.
Titus said, “Thanks, brother.”
Gemma said, “That is so sweet.”
Dimitri looked to Gemma.
She blushed prettily.
Dimitri smiled his glamorous smile again, but the full force of it was directed at Gem.
She blushed so much deeper, I thought she might pass out.
Man, I really needed Knox and Brady to sort their shit so he could light a fire under Brady, or we might lose her to the Russians.
“We know you’re probably busy, but will you have time to join us for a drink?” Jessie asked.
Dimitri executed a bow that would not be sexily performed by anyone else, but he rocked it.
“It would be my pleasure.”
He walked out, and like they timed it, three servers walked in. Two carried trays. One went to the wine bucket and pulled out a bottle of champagne.
She also pulled out a bottle of vodka.
While she poured champagne in flutes and vodka in beautiful shot glasses rimmed in a delicate pattern of gold, the servers set plates in front of each of us.
On them were three blinis smothered with a touch of sour cream and topped with generous mounds of caviar sprinkled with finely chopped hard-boiled egg and onion.
I’d never had caviar, so once everyone was served, I was dying to dig in and give it a go.
But Raye raised her glass (she picked vodka, I did too) and said, “To good friends.”
Everyone raised their glasses, except Tex, who said, “Yo, can I get a beer?” to the server who was leaving with the empty bottles of champagne.
He nodded.
We toasted, sipped (or shot, as the case may be), and I went in.
I wasn’t sure what it said about my palette that I liked the blini, sour cream, egg and onion, but wasn’t too hip on the caviar, but bottom line, caviar didn’t really do it for me.
“How’s your man, baby?” Titus asked.
I looked to him and saw he was looking at me.
“Recovering. Really well. He’s already back to work. Light duty.”