3. Hope
CHAPTER 3
Hope
M y foot bounces, and I know I’m sobering up.
Shit, how did I let her get me into this? Charlotte is a friend from school, and while I don’t see her all that often since we graduated, when I do, she always has some crazy scheme planned.
The door creaks open, and my gaze shoots to it. My hands are cuffed to the table, but if they were free, I’d fucking strangle this asshole’s neck.
They’re treating me like a common criminal.
And I wasn’t even the one who took the fucking wallet.
“Miss Ivanov.” There he is again, dressed in all black, his sleeves still pushed up, but this time, he doesn’t have the hat on. His dark hair is messy, with loose, short curls on top, and a distant memory returns of a time I once ran my fingers through it.
“Mr. Hero,” I sneer, now wishing I’d actually looked at the badge he flashed me in the park before taunting him that it’s fake. If I had, maybe I wouldn’t have been so surprised by my captor. He doesn’t smile as he approaches, then leans over and unlocks the cuffs.
“You can behave?” he asks. I nod and rub my wrists where I’ve hidden them in my lap. “I just have a few questions.”
“I didn’t do anything.” Those are the words that leave my mouth when I’d really like to tell him to fuck right off.
Those crystal-blue eyes pin me in place. “Did you not try to bribe me?”
“I…” Words fail to leave my mouth now, and all I can do is shake my head.
“If you want me to take this further, the next step will be a strip search.”
My jaw drops just as a loud knock comes on the door. We both turn as his partner enters the room. Braxton gets up and joins him. And after exchanging a few quiet words, both turn to look at me before his partner leaves and Braxton moves to stand next to my chair. He leans down, and I smell him, my nostrils flaring at his fucking intoxicating scent. I avert my gaze because I should not be attracted to a cop. That’s a disaster waiting to happen. I didn’t know he was a cop that night we spent together, and I wish I didn’t know now.
“I’ll be seeing you real soon, Shortcake.” He pulls away then and goes back to the door, holding it open. “Your father is waiting for you.”
My stomach drops.
“Oh fuck. Maybe you should arrest me,” I say, not getting up. It’s not that I’m scared of my father. It’s more that I hate to disappoint the man.
“You want me to arrest you?” Braxton raises a brow.
“If I hit you right now, would you arrest me?” I ask.
I notice the smirk he tries to hide as he leans against the doorjamb, expecting me to leave.
“Good night, Hope.” He nods to the door, and I manage to stand and force my feet to move in that direction. I contemplate hitting him. I really do. But I keep walking, and he follows right behind me. I pause as I reach the door that leads back into the main room of the precinct, and in a deadly serious tone, he says, “I’ll be seeing you real soon.”
I bite my lip. Shit . Did I just get in the bad graces of a detective? I think I did. His gaze flicks to my lips, and I remember how he bit them all those years ago.
Braxton is five years older than me, and he looks even better than when I last saw him.
I push through the door and find my father waiting with Rya Monti, one of the best criminal lawyers in Manhattan. They both turn to me, and my father nods toward the exit, not saying a word. Not that I expected him to. I don’t bother looking back as we leave, and when we reach the car, he thanks Rya.
I see her husband, Crue Monti, standing beside his car. I don’t even know what fucking time it is, but my father wasn’t messing around when he called the ex-head of the Italian mafia and his wife in.
“Thank you for your time. The money’s been transferred,” my father tells Rya.
She kicks up a smile, her silvery eyes twinkling as she turns to me. “Our children are growing up faster than we’re ready for, it would appear.”
My father’s jaw tics and I internally wince. He’s so disappointed. Most likely because I got caught. Crue and my father exchange a brief nod, and then my father turns on me.
“I didn’t mean to,” I start.
“It’s fine, Hope,” he says, and his Russian accent is thicker than usual, which means he’s angry.
When I sit in the passenger seat, he closes the door behind me, and I watch him prowl around to the driver’s seat. He looks like he’s considering whether to burn down the building or not.
I gather the courage to speak again ten minutes into the drive. His gloved hands grip the steering wheel tightly, and I know he’s thinking about contingency plans. Most parents would be disappointed at having to bail their child out of temporary lockup, and I hope he doesn’t force me to have some type of security after this.
“You’re angry,” I finally say.
He shakes his head, and when we stop at a red light, his green gaze meets mine for the first time since picking me up. I know he’s seeing eyes that remind him so much of my mother’s ocean blue ones and vibrant red hair similar to my Aunt Anya’s. I’ve been told I look a lot like she did when she was younger, just shorter and plumper with my mother’s figure.
“I’m mad that they would have left anyone else alone, except they knew who you were.”
Ohhhh. He’s mad that they picked on me for my name.
“If you want to go back and take your revenge, I’ll cover you. If you want me to kill any of them, let me know, and it’ll be done by dawn.” He pauses before he says, “Do you understand?”
I try to hide my smile. “Mom would hit you over the head if she heard you talking like that. But I understand, and it’s fine. I was drunk and got caught.”
“We don’t have to tell your mother if we kill someone; it can be our little secret. But speaking of your mother, she’s not going to be happy. She only flew in tonight, and you had her worried.”
The guilt immediately floods me. My mother embraces the dark within my father, but she’s far more the worrying type, and I know she’s probably pacing the house, waiting for my return. It’s moments like this that I feel like a child again.
I explain everything that happened in detail, leaving out one fact—that I know Braxton.
When we arrive at my parents’ house, my mother is waiting at the front of their three-story home. She immediately runs down the stairs and pulls my door open.
“You’re okay?” she asks, a tenor in her tone..
“Yes,” I tell her before she pulls me in for a hug. She smothers me, but I hug her back since it’s been about a month since I last saw her in person. With both of us traveling so much for our respective art, it feels like it’s been forever, even though we FaceTime almost daily.
“Let her get into the house,” my father says, chuckling as he embraces us both and then leads us to the door.
I silently thank him, and my mother laughs, bumping against my hip as if I betrayed her by taking his side. She catches me before I stumble over.
“Oh my, you’re drunk,” she chides.
“We should get her a bodyguard for when?—”
“No!” I yell, interrupting him. “We discussed this. When I turned twenty-one, there would be no more security.”
My mother bites her bottom lip but tries not to laugh as my father practically sulks as we walk back into the house.
“I was worried,” she continues as she pulls me in for another hug.
“I’m fine. Just need a shower and some sleep.”
“You do reek of alcohol.” She chuckles. They seem to find it so hilarious because I don’t go out all that often. But when I do, I always end up like this. Like an alter ego of my usual quiet self comes out.
“I was drinking with Charlotte.”
“That explains it. Let me guess. She left you behind while the police cuffed you up.” When I don’t reply, she shakes her head. “I had a friend like that once. You’ll one day learn they aren’t the best type of people to have in your life. Why didn’t you ask Billie or Ivy if they were free?”
My father heads toward their bedroom, most likely going to prepare for sleep or a business meeting. Three in the morning seems like prime time for criminals to get on calls.
“Ivy’s not in the country, and Billie said she was busy this weekend, but I’ll meet with them soon.” Ivy Walker and Billie Taylor are my two closest friends. Much like me, they were raised with fathers who were on the shadier side of business. Ironically, our fathers, who all have lethal reputations, raised us like little princesses.
“Were there any boys?” she asks.
“Mo-om,” I groan. “I am not having this discussion with you. I need to sleep.”
She presses a kiss to my forehead. “Fine, but we’re going to have a serious discussion about this tomorrow.”
I roll my eyes because that isn’t going to happen. I’ve never been the bad girl type. I keep to myself and was a good student. This is the most mischief I’ve gotten up to, and it’s almost as if they’re relieved I’m living a “semi-normal” life.
I head to my room, which hasn’t changed much since I was a teenager, and fall onto my bed.
I’ve considered getting my own place, but I travel so much that I’m rarely in one place for any length of time.
“I knew I left this here,” I say to myself as I reach for my phone on my bedside table.
After having a shower and getting into bed, I check my Instagram page. It’s become a habit. I have over one million followers, and I’m always curious as to what they’re saying about my new collections. Not that I care so much what they think, but I’m always intrigued as to how many people truly understand the message I’m trying to send through my sculptures.
I have a new message, which isn’t uncommon. Most of the time, I ignore them. But the name of the account is what has me opening it.
Hello, Shortcake…
I stare at it, thinking this night couldn’t have gone any more astray. Why the fuck is Braxton Hero messaging me? Is he seriously trying to get himself killed?
I don’t reply. Instead, curiosity gets the better of me, and I stalk his profile.
“Boring,” I say on a yawn. He barely has any photos, and those he does have are of him and his workmates when he’s receiving awards. A real A+ plus type of guy—the furthest thing from the man I met four years ago, who strangled me in pleasure.
Closing the app, I fall asleep almost immediately.
And dream of him.