Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Alexei
The door to Jason’s apartment cracked open, and a pair of stunning silver eyes stared through the gap. But something was wrong. A raw redness rimmed them.
“Lauren?”
“Jason’s not here.”
“I am lending him my PlayStation console. I thought he—what is wrong?”
She closed the door, undid the chain, and pulled it open. “I can make sure he gets it.” Her voice fractured a little.
I could have passed the bag to her, turned around, and went about my business, specifically the business of fucking Jessica Murdock into the middle of next week. Teary-eyed women were not my thing, but Lauren was a friend. And I hoped she saw me as one, too.
“Why are you crying?”
“I’m not.” Her follow-up sniff confirmed that pathetic untruth.
“Why were you crying?”
“I have a headache.”
“I would think a tough girl like you would not cry over a headache. May I come in and take care of you?”
She blinked at me. “What does that mean?”
I didn’t know. My typical methods of care usually involved orgasms. Not that I wouldn’t be interested, but I knew better than to mess with a girl like Lauren Yates.
She deserved better than that, a thought I never expected to hear in my brain in a million years. Was this what they called a conscience?
I searched it for something else to offer.
“I can make tea.”
She provided no response. Was tea not a good thing?
“My mother swears—or swore by it.”
“I’m not even sure we have any.” But she was drawing the door wider. That last-second switch to the past tense had done its work. A dead mother was remarkably useful, though I despised myself a little.
I stepped inside, closed the door, and placed the shopping bag with the console down. “Where is Jason?”
“He’s staying over with Emily.”
His latest fling. Pretty, but not much else.
“What about the other roommate?”
“He moved out at the holidays. Why all the questions?”
“You are alone. And upset.”
“I told you. I have a headache.”
“Yes, you did. Let us make tea.” I gestured with my hand for her to lead the way.
After a moment she went ahead of me, and I got a better look.
Yoga pants hugged her ass, giving it a sexy sweetheart shape.
Usually, she wore baggy shorts over leggings—Michigan was cold for most of the school year—and oversized T-shirts or sweats.
Not tonight. Everything on her body revealed a sensual wave of curves.
I had caught a glimpse the first time we spoke, when I awoke her as I had sex with another girl.
That night, more than six months ago, I had decided I wanted Lauren in a way that was not safe.
For me, but especially not for her. I did not need to ogle her in yoga pants and revealing sleep shorts.
I was enraptured with her fearless attitude and wry sense of humor.
Now, to see this vulnerability—headache or not—only drew me in deeper. I should not have offered to help but help I would.
“Take a seat. I will do what I can with your supplies.”
I proceeded to open cupboards, conscious of her watching me yet offering no input. Perhaps it amused her to see me fumble my way around her kitchen. Finally, I came across a box of a lemon-ginger nonsense and a single English breakfast teabag in a crumpled packet.
“A little caffeine is good for a headache. Do you have a kettle?”
“Just a pot.”
“It will do.” I went about my business, and something about the companionable silence soothed me. Lauren was not a twittering kind of girl, which was eminently enjoyable. Finally, I set two cups down.
She took a sip. “Not bad.”
“It is the best I can do given the resources.”
“A poor workman blames his tools.”
“Back home, we say ‘plahohmu tantzohru yaytsah myeshayut,’ which means, ‘a bad dancer blames his balls.’”
She barked out a laugh. “How is that even the same thing?”
I shrugged. “Because if you’re terrible at something you will blame anything—even your balls—for your bad performance.”
“You crazy Russians.”
I liked that she found it amusing. I was determined to do anything to make her smile. “Who does this crazy Russian blame for your upset?”
“You don’t need to hear this.”
I frowned. “Is it related to women’s problems? Periods or such?”
“No, but if it was?”
“I would tuck you under the covers and read you a bedtime story.”
She smiled. “You have an answer to everything. But not to this. It’s my father.”
“He is ill?”
She shook her head. “He’s about to be sent back to prison.”
Back? “This is not his first time.”
“No. He has a history of stealing from people, taking their savings and pretending to invest it, but really he pays one client with the funds from another.”
“A triangle scheme.”
“Pyramid, but you have the idea. Today he was found guilty and he’ll be sentenced in a few weeks.
It doesn’t look good because he’s a repeat offender.
He asked me to come to the trial, so it would look like his family was supporting him.
I didn’t.” She looked up. “That makes me a bad daughter, right?”
“It makes you a human.” I knew something of the pain of an incarcerated father, though my father’s crimes would not be considered punishable by the West. “When was he in prison before?”
“When I was twelve until the age of fifteen. I lived with my sister and Gunnar, and when he was released, I tried to make it up to him.”
“What do you have to make up to him? He did these things that took him away from you. What about your mother?”
“She died when I was twelve. Ovarian cancer. He blamed her death for losing control, pushing him to make all those mistakes.”
Both of us motherless. I knew there was a reason for the closeness I felt to her.
“We have to accept responsibility for our actions, do we not?” As a journalist, my father’s anti-corruption crusade was considered brave by many, a beacon of democracy in the gutter of authoritarianism.
Yet it had produced negative consequences for my mother, or at least that was the story he preferred to tell. It worked better for his brand.
But today was not about my father.
“I suppose. Now he—he wants me to say something nice about him,” she went on. “To give him a character reference and tell the court that he’s a good person at heart, but I don’t know if he is. And I worry that turning him down means I’m not a good person either.”
Tears fell down her cheeks, and I rushed to wipe them away with my thumbs.
“How could you think you are not good? You are the captain, an example to all your teammates, the person everyone trusts to lead them.”
“Yeah, goody two shoes.”
I did not understand. “You have two shoes and they are … good?”
“I’m never the bad girl, the one who gets to indulge her dark side. Instead, I’m the good daughter, obedient sister, great friend, exemplary captain. I always do the right thing. Because I can’t be like him.”
“You will not be. But no one expects you to be perfect, either.”
My hand still cupped her jaw, and the warmth of her skin seeped into my palm and all the way up my arm.
But it was her eyes that held me captive—those silver discs, mercurial and seeking.
I found myself moving incrementally toward her.
Aching to be close, though I knew nothing good could come of it. At least, nothing good for her.
I, on the other hand, would enjoy it very much. To be fair, she would, too.
But after … neither of us would enjoy that.
Seeming to sense my hesitation, she pulled away, with good instincts of self-preservation, no doubt well-honed because of her father’s behavior.
She returned to her tea, taking a careful sip. “I’m probably keeping you from something or someone important.”
“There is nothing or no one as important as you at this moment.”
I meant it. Lauren and I had become friendly over the last few months, if only because we were leaders of our respective teams—well, she was the captain of hers and while I was not the captain, I commanded influence over mine.
The guys looked to Isner and me as the voices of reason and encouragement, probably because we were both older.
Six months was a long time in college hockey.
But Lauren’s leadership skills did not come from age. They came from years pushing herself to be the best while at the same time distinguishing herself from her father’s misdeeds. I understood this. There was a lot to be said for bossing people around as therapy.
She raised a lone eyebrow. I had amused her.
“More important than the cute blonde fawning all over you in Brewski’s last week?”
“I do not remember her name.”
“Oh, I’m sure you have a Russian term of endearment you can whip out when you need it.”
“It comes in useful, for sure.”
“You need to come up with a naming convention. Like Red or Blondie—”
“Or Silver Eyes?”
“They’re blue. Average, ordinary blue.”
Nothing average or ordinary about them. I stared at them now, noting the flecks of green, how they magnified when she was excited, something I usually noticed when we practiced together. I saw it now.
“You are not an average girl, Lauren. Neither are your eyes.”
“Trying a new move, Nazarov?”
Ah, deflection. I would play her game. I inched closer, under the pretext of role-playing my moves.
“I am always looking for ways to improve my chances with girls.”
“You were saying something about my eyes.” She managed to sound bored, but there was no missing that slight tremble in her voice.
“They are stunning. Deeper than the ocean, clearer than a stream. Stories are told with those eyes.”
“Oh, yeah?” She was aiming for skepticism, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her. “Once upon a time there was a smooth-talking Russian who lied his way into a girl’s good graces … nice story.”
“I’m not lying.”
Her breath hitched. “Good. I hate liars.”
Because of her father. But also, more. “Isner said your last boyfriend cheated on you.”
“I sure know how to pick ’em.”
Her tone was sarcastic, so I assumed it meant she did not know.
“Some guys are not worth the trouble.”
“Is this the point where you tell me you’re not one of those guys?”
“Oh, I’m not worth the trouble either, Silver Eyes.”
We were so close, the flirtatious manner of our conversation heating me from the inside out. My cock had stirred to action long ago; now it grew thick, heavy, eager.
I like this girl. I like her a lot. And that is not good.
Yet I could not move away.
“So what do you do next with these girls?”
“I touch their face or hair. Just something subtle to indicate my interest.”
Which I did because the vibe was moving in that direction toward some sort of inevitability. But I did more than that.
My lips touched hers. Just a brush, ready for rejection. But rejection did not come and oh my Christ, she moaned into my mouth and her taste … I would never forget how good she tasted as long as I lived.
She pulled back, her lips a little puffy, her silver eyes like slivers of moonlight.
“So that’s what it’s like,” she murmured.
“Yes.” I could barely get the word out, but her words confirmed that she had been thinking about it, too.
“Not sure what all the fuss is about.”
But then she smiled and I fell further than was safe. To a deep and dangerous place.
Now it was my turn to assume casualness. I needed to desperately grasp the reins here. “Perhaps I should try again, seeing as you do not impress so easily.”
“Perhaps you should.”
Instead, she kissed me, nudging my lips apart with her own. Those lips never stood a chance, and neither did I.
I couldn’t get enough of her.
A wild want overcame me. I palmed her ass and scooped her into my lap.
I needed to be closer, chest to chest, mouth to mouth, her softness to my hardness.
She ground her body against mine and that fueled me to a frenzy.
Cupping her neck, I held her in place as my tongue explored her mouth, twined with hers, and—
She pulled back. Blinked. “Someone’s here.” Barely giving me a chance to come to full awareness, she unhinged her body from mine and scampered to the other seat at the kitchen table. Then she threw a dishcloth at me with a gasped, “cover that up!”
My boner. I did as I was told, just as Jason walked in.
“Naz!” He shot a quick glance at Lauren, then back to me. “Everything okay?”
“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “I brought over the PlayStation and Lauren made me tea.”
“Cool. Thanks.”
“Thought you were staying over at Emily’s,” Lauren said, her voice a touch rusty.
“We had a fight. She told me I should switch from defense to offense. That forwards were sexier.” He leaned against the kitchen counter. “Can you believe that shit?”
“Perhaps she is right,” I said. “Forwards definitely score more. In all areas.”
“True,” Lauren agreed, which made me laugh.
“Fuck you, guys. I’m going to beat your ass at PlayStation. What games did you bring over?”
“Hockey Legends. It is filled with … forwards.”
Lauren cracked up. I slid a look to her, then back to Jason, who should have been eyeing us with suspicion but was too caught up in his personal drama to notice.
“Ganging up on me? I’m going to order pizza, though neither of you deserve it.” He took out his phone and scanned the screen. “What do you want on it, fuckers?”
I found Lauren with one sneaky eyebrow raised.
As I held her gaze, I murmured, “everything.”