Chapter 7
Tell Me Anything
Isla
Who the hell was Roman? I kept asking myself that question.
When he left me to shower, I closed my eyes and thought back to last night.
I vividly remembered someone standing at the side of the house, definitely a man.
And then it kind of all went blurry in my mind.
It had to have been him. Why the hell was he standing there before I almost died climbing out?
Roman was a man of few words, clearly just taking pity on me.
Obviously rich as fuck, he led a very different lifestyle than me.
Although he was also very gentle and wanted to make sure I was okay.
Ugh. He said I wasn’t his type, but why would a random stranger take care of a lonely and abandoned girl in such a kind way?
And I was lonely and abandoned.
Roman was rough around the edges, but when he grabbed my jaw like that and forced me to take the pain meds, I almost put his thumb in my mouth.
Hmm...was I into that kinda stuff? I didn't know what kind of stuff I was into.
The last two years of my life had been a monumental disaster, and carnal desires were the last thing on my mind.
And yet, when I first saw him, I was lightly reminded of how good sex felt.
How a man feels. My last boyfriend, actually my only boyfriend, broke up with me two years ago.
Or maybe I broke up with him; it was hard to tell.
It was all too painful; I tried to block it out.
We were deeply in love, but it wasn’t working out between us; we both knew it had to end.
That didn't make the breakup any less painful, though.
But then my life turned upside down after that breakup.
I didn't even get a chance to move on when my older brother was diagnosed with an aggressive cancer a few weeks later.
My parents and I spent all our free time and attention on him.
I was finishing my second year of med school and literally drowning with studies, and my brother was in the ICU while my parents and I took turns to be with him.
Slowly, everything became worse. My brother was fading as the months dragged on, and there was nothing the doctors could do. It was just too invasive, too all-consuming. We saw him transform in his hospital bed until he became unconscious.
I was in year three of med school, and it was March.
I had been studying in the library when I got the call.
My parents were driving over to the hospital when their car was involved in a forty-car pile-up on the highway.
Many people died that day, including them.
I saw their car after, and there was nothing left of it; it just looked like a pancake.
I buried my parents, alone. They were both only children, and my grandparents had all passed away before I reached the age of fourteen.
I wondered if it was possible to die of heartbreak. My family was warm, kind, and loving, and in one second, it all shattered. We were inseparable. We loved and supported one another. But at their funeral, I stared at the fresh mounds of earth and knew that it was all broken.
Two weeks later, my brother took his last breath in his hospital bed.
At the cemetery once more, I buried him with our parents, their graves still fresh.
I was left alone. Completely alone, I had no one to rely on.
I stood at the graves of the three people closest to me and wondered what on earth I did to deserve this?
Did I do something awful to someone to get this kind of punishment?
I had always been a good person. A good girl.
I was honest, kind, and respectful—there was no way to justify this fate.
And there was also no way to stay in university after everything that happened.
So I dropped out. Dropped out of med school—a program that I worked incredibly hard to get into.
Not only was I left with no money and almost a two-year probate, but I physically couldn't get out of bed.
School, house bills, staying alive—it all became too overwhelming. I was kicked out of our house when I found out that it was under one of my father’s companies’ names—the sale was forced by the bank. All the other company assets were repossessed and sold off.
No house, no money, I stayed with a friend and found a job at a medical office. I deferred my spot at university until I could come back. That was a pipe dream, but I didn’t want to let it go.
Almost a year and a half later, probate was almost done, but I decided to just leave it all behind and move literally across the country. And how did Los Angeles welcome me? By burning down my apartment and the little possessions I had into raging flames.
To be honest, I was desensitized to it all at this point. It took me a long time to land that apartment. It was cheap as hell, and I pleaded with the landlord, explaining my circumstances. No one wanted to rent to me without a local job.
And now, literally four days after I arrived in L.A., I was half alive, living in a stranger's home. I could only try to take this situation at face value. What else could go wrong? He was a mafia boss or a serial killer? Neither one would have surprised me at this point.
Roman crouched in front of me, his smile shy. It was cute. The brute weight of his frame only deepened the charm of his boyish smile. He was so damn handsome; did he realize that?
"So? Tell me something else about Roman." I didn't know how I had the courage to ask that. He hesitated, clearly not sure how to approach the question, but sat down on the floor in front of me, hanging his tattooed hands off his knees.
He had letters tattooed on his fingers and hands, but it wasn't English, I didn’t think. There were a few other symbols, a weird cross, and a skull, but when he saw me inspecting his large fingers, he slowly pulled away and leaned back on his hands.
"Okay," he began uncertainly. "I've lived in this place for three years. I hate cooking. Um…pfft...what else?" I saw right through his efforts to not reveal any details.
"You drink your coffee black," I added just as his beautiful, surprised eyes stared into mine.
"Creepy. How did you know that?" That smile never faded. Damn. His smile was so disarming.
"Pretty elementary, Watson. You have no milk or cream in your fridge.
By the way, your coffee machine brews absolutely awful coffee.
" I had no idea why I felt so free talking to him.
Either I inhaled too much smoke last night and had smoke poisoning, or I just stopped caring about everything.
"Moka pot is the only way to go. And you obviously need to add milk.” I returned his smile, unable to hold back.
"Duly noted,” he added in contemplation. But suddenly, neither he nor I knew how to continue the conversation, both of us immobile, just staring at each other. “You should get some sleep. It's late,” he murmured, but didn't move.
I really didn't want him to go. I hadn’t had a conversation like this with anyone for a long time. I had no more phone and couldn't even call any of my girlfriends back home. But mostly, I just wanted to talk to him.
"Okay, tell me one more thing, though. Anything."
I probably sounded like a complete lunatic, begging him to stay with me and asking him random shit, but his facial expression was kind, and he smiled again. Oh goddamn it, his smile was literally making my pussy ache, what the fuck.
"You tell me one thing first, and then I will." He reversed it, but I didn't know what to tell him about my depressing and sad circumstances. After a minute of self-doubt, I just came back to what we spoke about earlier.
"I don't actually have any friends to go to here. I just moved to L.A. this past weekend. Thanks for letting me stay here,” I whispered, afraid he didn't hear me, but he nodded without hesitation.
"You're welcome. Don't feel like you have to leave anytime soon. There are already enough homeless people on the streets." He chuckled lightly, and it made me smile too. "I don't know what to tell you about myself. Ask me something."
I looked him over and made a mental list of what I wanted to know.
Everything, duh. I wanted to know everything about him.
He had a barely discernible accent when he spoke English; I wondered where he was from.
But also, how old he was. And what he did for a living.
And what he liked to do for fun. And if he was the kind of guy who moaned in bed.
And what he looked like naked. And if he loved his parents.
And if he ever had pets when he was a kid.
On and on it went in my head, and I caught myself thinking that I had known him for less than twenty-four hours.
"What's your last name?" I finally asked something random. He was silent for a few seconds.
"Agapov,” he finally responded. That didn't sound like an American last name at all, maybe Eastern European?
"Mm. Where is that from?"
"Russian." He didn't hesitate this time, locking his gaze with mine once more. Damn. I would have never guessed he was Russian. Although, I wasn’t sure I had met any Russians before in my life.
"You're Russian?" I felt the need to clarify for some reason.
"Yes. I'm Russian,” he responded with a small smile that, at this point, was the only thing I wanted to see.
"You can't believe it because I don't have a thick Russian accent?
" he added in a thick Russian accent, and my giggles spilled out of me unrestrained.
Actually, yeah. I imagined all Russians to speak English with a thick Russian accent.
"Yeah, kinda. You have a bit of an accent, though. I guess you've been here a long time?" I continued with my interrogation, now propping myself up on my elbow, my messy hair overtaking my shoulders and upper body.
"Yeah."
"Uh huh. Like you were born here?" I probed again.
Jesus, trying to get information out of him was like pulling teeth.
"Don't worry, I won't use it against you. I won’t quiz you on the Bill of Rights or anything.
" My little joke relaxed him, and he gifted me another one of his heart-stopping smiles.
"I was born in Russia. I came here when I was eight. I have an American passport as well. But I may be a little rusty on the Constitution." So he had been here a long time.
“And how old are you now?” I pressed, trying to pull another detail out of him. He hesitated, guarded as ever. These were simple questions—just me being cautious about whose house I’d ended up in. After a beat of silence, he finally shared.
"I'm thirty-five. How old are you?" Damn. He was ten years older than me. In a way, that made sense. He had a fucking monstrosity of a condo, and he looked mature.
"Twenty-five." My own voice sounded so squeaky and unsure in my ears.
"Still so young. Lots of time to get your ID back." His smile never faded. It was weird. He looked menacing, violent, and tough, but his kind smile was making me short-circuit. "But also, it was supposed to be one question, and you've asked like a million now. Go to sleep."
At this, he rose up off the floor and reached for the lamp, his tall stature shocking me once more. I must have looked disappointed that our little question and answer period was over because he asked, "What? You look like you want to say something."
That he stay with me. That's what I wanted to say. But there was no way in fucking hell I would utter those words.
"Not at all. Goodnight."