Chapter 4 Mischa #2
Anatoly runs his hand through his hair. “He’s FBI or something.”
“He’s British,” I say. “He cannot be FBI.”
“He can be something,” Ivan says.
Konstantin shakes his head. “Billionaire’s kids don’t do dirty work.”
“We do!” Maxim protests.
“We’re not Sivishni’s real kids, Max,” Gregor says, in a measured tone.
“I have to devour every inch of him,” I say.
“Hey, hey. Lemon? Look at me.” Anatoly clicks his fingers at me and shakes my shoulders. “Hey! Look at me!Snap out of it. We can salvage this. Lemon, you need to leave, now.”
A quick shower in the changing room and I am ready to go when he enters, towel over his shoulders, still with the wet swimming top clinging to him.
We lock eyes and the wind is knocked out of me.
There is nothing but him, looking at me.
I forget where I am. I forget who I am. I definitely forget my duty.
The hole in my heart closes for the first time in forever. He looks stunned to see me.
“Oh wow... hi, hi... hello. Mischa, right?” he says. “I never thought I’d see anyone here... you...” his voice cracks from nerves and he coughs, “you’re in Boston?”
I have to look away. It HURTS to look away. He’s beautiful. I have had a lot of sex with a lot of hotties, but GOD DAMN. He’s a marble statue. And that FACE. I CANNOT THINK.
“Austen. What are you doing here?”
“Yeah it’s... very private here. Only just heard about it from the review in the paper, and I thought as long as I’m here.
.. There’s an eighties rock cover thing tonight downtown…
it’s stupid. You know, I’ve been to the pizzeria a few times but didn’t see you this week.
I was hoping to not eat pizza there again. ”
I feel timid. Jesus Christ. I am not fucking timid.
I smile. “I’ve been in Boston.”
“Do Italians also like saunas?” he asks.
“I guess so,” I say, confused.
“You’re Italian, right?”
“No.”
“Oh sorry I assumed you were,” he looks at his feet, and flicks his eyes up to me in that shy, boner-inducing way.
It’s hard to maintain any self-awareness. I’m totally fucking infatuated. I put my sports bag in front of my cock, just in case it spontaneously inflates again. This is what love feels like? Holy shit.
I clear my throat and try to compose myself. “Because of the pizzeria, I get it.”
“Wait, are you Russian?” he smiles.
“No. I mean, kind of,” I wince a little. “What did you want to ask me?”
“What?” he searches my face.
“At the pizzeria? I felt like you were going to ask something.”
“Oh, um…” he thinks about it and shakes his head, and looks at me sheepishly. “Since you work out, maybe you wanted to spar with William or something? My shoulder’s hurting, and that’s actually why I’m here...”
“I don’t believe you,” I say, before I realize I’m saying it.
“What?” he says, confused.
“I felt like you were going to ask me out when you mentioned the film festival.”
Austen looks right at me and his mouth drops open, which could be discouraging, but I no longer feel shame, or any other emotion apart from the one making my body tingle.
“I didn’t mean to come across that way,” he says. “Sorry, I don’t talk to people much and apparently I’m not good at it.”
My superpower tells me he’s lying.
The yearning for him possesses me completely. I need to scratch this itch.
I have to.
I have to have him.
I have to look at him all the time, because nothing in life could feel better, except for touching him.
I have to touch him.
“Can I ask you out?” I ask.
There is a pause so long, it feels like we’ll be married between question and answer.
“Ask me...?”
He thinks for a moment before he understands. Then weighs it up in his mind until the fear forms on his face.
“I’m not interested, I’m taken—by a woman—sorry,” he says, but his eyebrows flash, again.
I should be deterred, telling me he’s straight, and falling for a straight boy, a straight “taken” boy for that matter, is a one way ticket to getting your heart ripped out, but I just can’t buy into this farce he’s spinning.
He thinks words can convince me, but how can they when his eyes, and beautiful face, are telling the real story?
I have seen enough people interested in me before to know he is too.
I cannot be alone in feeling this way. He can’t just slip through my fingers like this. We love each other too much.
“I don’t believe you,” I blurt out again before I realize, “You went back to the pizzeria, without William, everyday, all week? Nobody does that for pepperoni, or potato dumplings either. You wanted to ask me something. I already said yes. Yes yes yes.”
“No…” he stutters. “Please don’t read into it. I actually wanted to ask if you could give us jobs in your restaurant as, well... as line cooks?”
“After you tipped three grand?”
“I’m a big tipper.”
“Why does a big tipper want to be a fry cook, exactly?”
His eyes drop to his feet again. “I... I just... like cooking.”
“Why didn’t you call?”
He shakes his head. “The restaurant number doesn’t actually work.”
“Really?” I gasp in surprise.
Because it’s a front for money laundering and there’s not a chance in hell we’d be out there delivering food all night and that’s why Anatoly bet me a grand Austen would never call me because that fucking asshole knew all along oh my god I am so stupid I’m going to kill him...
“I just wanted something to do,” he insists. “Just a job. Not to lead you on.”
Lies.
“Listen...”
My brothers enter, and silence descends over the changing room. They move in front of the person I am talking to. They see that it is indeed the object of my affection. They stare at Austen in a way that I understand can be quite intimidating to be on the other end of.
Maxim looks furious, and drops his robe to show his intimidating tattoos and even more intimidating monster cock. He moves to me, putting his hand on the small of my back and whispering for me to leave with a gentle push.
I move to the door.
“Don’t hurt him,” I say in Russian, and leave.