Chapter 11
brOOKLYN
Good girl .
Fuck. Even just replaying those words purring from his sinful lips in that absurdly hot accent sends pulses of heat through my core.
But with the giggly, blushing little tingles come other things, too. Like the utter embarrassment at having fucking kissed him.
Yeah, that happened.
What I don’t get is why the billionaire criminal kingpin who happens to own the ballet company I dance for offered to coach me. It would be laughable except for the inexplicable fact that Kir really does seem to know his shit when it comes to ballet.
Which is…unexpected.
I meant what I said. There are plenty of rich guys in New York who fund galleries or concert venues or orchestras, because it’s a tax write-off and a feather in their cap that tells people they’re not just rich, they’re patrons of the arts .
Barf. Even though that’s literally how all art, ever, has been funded.
But Kir managed to torpedo that idea in about three seconds when it became abundantly clear that he was extremely well versed in ballet technique. To the point where his coaching, though harsh and demanding, was perfectly spot on.
Part of me wants to shake off everything he said as bullshit or him just trying to lord it over me. But the professional dancer in me knows every single thing he said to me is exactly what Madame Kuzmina would have said, too.
So how the fuck does Kir know so much about ballet? You don’t get that knowledge just by buying a company and watching a few performances a year.
But today, same as last night when I was huddled in the back of Pearl, trying to stop my pulse from hammering and my thoughts from racing, I don’t get too far trying to puzzle that out.
Nope, I veer off track pretty quickly to the much more pressing item: the small fact that I fucking kissed him.
And he kissed me back.
Hard. Possessively. Consumingly. He kissed me in a way I have never been kissed before. Whatever it was… fuck … I want more of it.
Even though that cannot happen again.
For one, he’s, well, him : the head of a Bratva criminal empire. Something like twenty years older than me, if sickeningly gorgeous. If you want to get picky about it, he’s kind of my boss, too.
But the even more burning reason why what happened last night is filling me with shame and embarrassment as much as a throbbing, tingly heat is the fact that Kir’s friends with Ivan Yelchin.
If I put myself in his shoes, it looks even worse: a much younger, desperate girl throwing herself at him because of his personal connections which could help her achieve her dream.
Fucking cringe .
Like, just shoot me. I know exactly why he shoved me away last night with so much scorn in his eyes. There he was, offering to legitimately help me, and I went right to “I’ll fuck you for a ticket to my dream”.
Ugh .
The idea of ever seeing Kir again, much less having another intimate, one-on-one coaching session with him, makes my stomach churn and my ego crumble to dust. Even though that is not why I kissed him.
I kissed him because…well, let’s blame temporary insanity.
But also, I got swept up in it all. The dancing.
The light touches. The commanding tone telling me exactly what to do, and when.
The low lighting. Fuck me, the “good girls”.
The fact that Kir’s an outrageously attractive man, and when I slipped and fell into him like that, I just… I don’t know. Went stupid.
Lost control.
“Brooklyn.”
In the alley behind the theater, I blink away my thoughts when I hear my name. I glance up and grin when I see Val marching toward me, dragging a wide-eyed, stunned-looking Evelina.
“What’s…uh, what’s going on?” I arch a brow, glancing at Val with a reproachful look, then at Evie with a softer one. “Is this man harassing you, ma’am?”
Val flips me off. “Dude, I’ll return you so fast.”
I snort a laugh.
That’s our in-joke. Like me, Val went through the foster system in New York when he was a kid. I really can’t tell if it makes it better or worse that he has no recollection of his life before foster care, because of an accident that left him with some memory loss.
He’s only just recently been reintroduced to an older brother that he never knew he had.
I’m not sure how close they are, even though they’ve been catching up a lot: Val is a party-boy with an insatiable appetite for bedding strangers of either sex.
Vaughn, on the other hand, is “the Marquis”: the mysterious new leader of a shadowy criminal organization called the Obsidian Syndicate.
I would imagine that “catching up with your brother over coffee” might be strained in terms of common interest.
But getting back to our “I’ll return you” joke: it’s gallows humor about foster care. If you fuck up, you’re going to get “returned” like badly fitting pants.
Val, dressed in black jeans and a baggy sleeveless t-shirt with huge armholes that show off his chiseled arms and some of his grooved torso, all covered with an array of tattoos, clears his throat. He grins wickedly as he leans against the brick wall, glancing at Evelina.
“Guess what Evie saw.”
Poor Eveline turns a spectacular shade of crimson.
I frown. “Do I want to know?”
“ Oh, hell yeah ,” Val snickers.
I put my arm protectively around Evie. “Everything okay?”
Despite growing up as a literal Bratva princess—or maybe because of it—Evie is extremely sheltered. Like the girl gets beyond flustered just hearing the word “penis”, which is endlessly amusing to Val.
She sighs heavily. “I didn’t mean to ,” she whispers. “I just wanted to come in early and use one of the stationary bikes downstairs, and…” She blushes again and buries her face in her hands.
I turn to glare at Val. “What the fuck? What did she see?”
He grins. “ Kir , in just a pair of shorts, working out in the weights room.”
I feel a tingle ripple through me, and instantly, the replay of that kiss last night roars into my mind.
The tight grip of his hands on my sweaty back. The taste of his lips. His raw, masculine scent. The feel of his tongue capturing mine.
“Of all the fucking people,” Val sighs. “And it’s wasted on Ms. Prude here.”
“I am not !” Evie squeaks. “I just…” She takes a breath. “I wasn’t expecting it, that’s all. So it…rattled me.”
“Prude.”
She shoots Val a dark look. “Am not .”
“Cock. Cum. Wet pussy.”
Evie shrinks against me, groaning as her face suffuses with heat. Val, of course, thinks this is the funniest fucking thing in the world.
“Hey, enough.” I poke him, grinning. “Leave poor Evie alone.”
“Okay, okay.” He sighs and reaches out to lift Evelina’s chin, raising her eyes to his. “I kid because I’m jealous.”
She grins.
“I mean…shredded, right?”
She blushes. “He’s…got a lot of muscles.”
Val’s grin turns lecherous. “What about package?”
She frowns. “Package?”
Oh, sweet, sweet Evie.
“Like, do you think he was freeballing in his shorts? Any chub going on?”
It suddenly clicks with Evie, and her face turns purple as her eyes go wide. “Oh my God , Val!” she squeals. “Don’t be so gross!”
Val erupts in laughter as I punch him in the shoulder.
“Dude, I’m going to return you so fucking hard.”
My friends really are the best. Even with all the stuff swirling through my head about the kiss, and Kir in general, Val and Evie’s antics manage to take my mind off it.
The rehearsal day is its usual blur of Kuzmina’s own brand of punishment, then I end up getting a coffee with Milena down the street and catching up on everything that’s been going on with her and Nero De Luca, the head of the De Luca mafia family.
She’s recently told us she’s in a very serious relationship with him, and I’m happy for her.
After that, though, it’s time to face the music.
Dread pools in my stomach as I approach the back door of The Mirage for my shift. I managed to dodge Lou yesterday, but I know he’s not one to let things go.
He made it clear the other night what he wants, and he’s not going to forget about it.
I shudder, pausing at the back door.
Am I really going back in there?
I exhale slowly, resting my forehead tiredly against the wall next to the door. I could just… not . I could turn, walk away, and never come back to this hellhole.
But then I feel the hunger pangs in my stomach, and the way my toes chafe against the worn interior of my shoes.
I think about my bed tonight being the back seat of an Accord.
About Derrick, languishing in jail for a crime he didn’t commit.
About forensic accountants who cost seventeen fucking grand.
Fuck .
Resignation stabs into me, and I go to open the back door. Just then, I hear the crunch of tires on gravel behind me.
“Brooklyn.”
I instantly tense, confusion, panic, and raw fear flooding my veins at the sound of James’s voice. My throat dries as I turn, looking at him idling his banged-up Mustang, his arm hanging out through the window. He leers at me with a look that’s half-creepy, half-angry as he shakes his head.
“The fuck you doing here?” he grunts.
“I…” I swallow through the sandpaper in my mouth. “I just…”
“I thought you were quitting this fucking place.”
I bristle. “What are you doing here, James?”
“I asked you a fucking question,” he snaps. “I mean what the fuck, Brooklyn? Is it that you like being a fucking whore?”
“ Fuck you !” I snap. “I’m not?—”
Holy shit .
I snap my mouth shut, my stomach churning with sheer panic at what I’ve just said to him. I’ve never raised my voice like that to him before.
James’s face darkens. “The fuck did you just say, cunt?”
“James, I’m sorry,” I blurt, deflating. Feeling pathetic and scared. “I—I have to get to work?—”
“Get the fuck in the car.”
Ice slides through my veins. James’s eyes pull to slits.
“I said get the fuck in the car!” he roars, banging his hand on the outside of his door. “Fuckin’ now , bitch!”