13 #2
"And you? You just gonna stand there pretending you don't care?"
"Yeah." She steps onto the landing. "I'm not putting on a show and I'm not begging. What I can't stomach, I don't swallow. The drama's all yours."
"So what is this, the world lesbian drama championships? Does the winner stare at the horizon the longest without crying?"
"You tell me," she tosses back. "I came to see if there was anything alive here."
"Well, shit, you're asking me to blow off my life for one killer fuck and a few pretty lines whispered in bed. I've had you clocked for, like, two hot minutes, Nat!"
"No. I said I don't share my toys. If you can handle that, go ahead. I'm not the villain for saying it out loud."
My eyes sting and I swallow my pride. This woman rolls out the passive-aggressive artillery and doesn't even blink.
No scene, just boundaries. And those boundaries hurt and turn me on—embarrassing to admit—because the idea of belonging for a minute hits these internal buttons that are at ninety-five percent and begging for a fast charge.
Flash fantasy: her knee between my legs in the entryway, my skirt up without asking, my back arched against the cold wall, her voice in my ear saying "still," my phone tossed on airplane mode, the client canceled with an eight-second voice memo, and me trembling, dying to leave a toothy souvenir on her shoulder.
"I don't know what to do," I whisper, and lower my head half an inch, pure Pavlov.
"Yes you do," she says. "You just don't like it."
Silence. My purse dangling, my stomach doing cartwheels.
She stands straight, spine firm and righteousness stamped on her face.
And in my body there's this weird tug-of-war between the calendar professional and Nat's willing pet, and I feel like saying fine, whatever she says.
I don't say it. But my neck tilts a little and my thighs press together, my own internal siren for a ridiculous turn-on.
"On your knees," she says softly.
My knees bend half an inch without permission.
I can hear my own breathing, my pulse goes offbeat, and I start to laugh because what a dumb little humiliation, and how badly I want to give her the satisfaction.
I don't go all the way down because if I do, I'm staying, and the client will leave me a two-star review and they'll freeze my profile on the site.
I straighten. I bite my lip. I hate myself a little. I adore myself a little.
"I can't," I spit. "But I want to. And that's the problem. I want to stay and have you send me a voice memo tomorrow with a list of rules, and at the same time I want to keep my work clean and not be a total asshole."
"Your call."
I've got fifteen minutes to get out the door looking decent.
I catch myself in the hall mirror with war paint on and the face of a kid begging for recess.
I cover my mouth, breathe, think about sending the client a voice memo with a ragged voice, babbling about a fever, a stomach bug, a vet emergency with the cat.
But I tell myself, "Don't be tacky, Alaska, you're a courtesan, not a social-media manager for bullshit. "
"If I stay, you're going to order me around," I say. "You know it. And I'm going to obey and laugh at myself inside for what a dumbass I am. And then the guilt will hit. And if I bail…"
"Don't wait for me tomorrow."
I hug my purse to my chest. I'm this close to saying, "Okay, I block the client, grab my phone and send a Venmo refund, get naked, drop to my knees, and log out of the world.
" I'm this close. But I'm not that brave or that reckless.
Or both. I scratch the back of my neck, smile without meaning it, look at her mouth, swallow the moan climbing my throat just from seeing her standing there with that invisible remote.
"What if… I stay?"
"Then tomorrow you'll know what it feels like to be chosen for real. No buts."
My voice catches for a second, not sure if what I just heard is a threat, a promise, or just a delusion after three nights of lousy sleep. Whatever it is, I swear it makes my hair stand on end and my panties teeter on the verge of a panic attack.
I bite my lip to buy time and check the time on my phone, indecisive. I have no freaking clue what to do, but what’s crystal clear is that this isn’t just a knockout standing in front of me—this is one of those fork-in-the-road moments that look so cool in black-and-white movies.
"So…" I manage in a whisper, in that "are you chewing me out or proposing" voice. "So are we actually doing the girlfriend thing now, or what?"
She shoots me a look that has me fantasizing about white dresses and considering hiring a wedding planner.
"Are you going to be my girlfriend, Nat? Are we going to do girlfriend stuff? Are we doing serious things, or just the other ones—the coming and screaming weird words?"
For the first time I see her actually hesitate. Real wavering, eyes wet, the kind that pokes a bruise right in my chest. It makes me soft. I hate it, and I want it.
"Is that what you want?" she asks in a voice that doesn’t sound like a drill sergeant or a dominatrix, but like a real person who maybe has panic attacks at night.
"Me, I… I don’t know," I stammer. "Look, it’s not just sex for me. What do you want me to say? It’s gotten out of hand.
I wake up and my pillow smells like you, and I don’t wash it because I’m a dumbass.
I shower and I imagine anything except functioning like an actual human.
And you blow my mind, Nat, to the point I’m kinda thinking of quitting my job for you.
Only sometimes, with you, I feel like I have to take myself apart and rewire everything just to keep you from walking out the door. "
"Isn’t that what everybody asks of you?"
"Yeah. Or not. Whatever it is with you, it fucks me up three times as hard."
Nat steps closer. Just one step, and I’d swear she grabs me by the gut and turns me inside out.
"Look, Alaska." She plants herself in front of me and grips my waist. "I don’t know how to be a Disney-princess girlfriend. But if you quit that job and bet on us, I’m really going to try."
My brain immediately commits the following fantasy: me in a polka-dot apron, chopping carrots; her sharpening whips and sticking a to-do list in Russian on the fridge. Long live radical love.
"Look, babe, is this a romantic proposal, a threat, or are we skipping straight to an ironclad contract with orgasms and a clause that I can bail if you get even more intense than me?"
"It’s a warning." She smiles; for the first time since last night, she doesn’t look like she’s breathing fire out of her eyes, which is progress. "I can give you everything I’ve got, Alaska. The good and the so-so. Loyalty, pleasure, whatever you’ll let me. I choose, you choose. But no games."
"So are you going to behave too, or am I the only one who has to retire from the pirate life?"
I need her to spell it out—enough with the emotional quicksand.
"I don’t have anyone else," she fires back, steady. "Not since you came in going full throttle, with that lipstick and those eyes. If you stay, Alaska, let it be clear: there aren’t others, and there won’t be. Cross my heart—Russian honor."
My lip trembles and, honestly, I don’t know if it’s because she just gave me a rush, because stage fright is kicking in, or because I’m two surviving brain cells away from pouncing on her.
Or maybe it’s all of the above, because my body is very into butterfly effects—lesbian-drama edition.
For the first time since this whole saga started, somewhere between porn and a weird thriller, I can tell this isn’t the little jolt of "oh God, what if she doesn’t like me?
" Nah. This is fear level "if she bails, I’ll become a Jehovah’s Witness so I never have to suffer again. "
Because, let’s be real, Nat isn’t the type to bluff.
I don’t know if she’s allergic to shellfish, if she cries at Titanic, or if clowns give her the creeps, but when she gets serious, she gets serious.
So if she vanishes now, I doubt I’ll ever see her again, and that scares me more than losing my job.
She moves toward the door and I, without thinking, grab her wrist. It comes out of me, pure reflex.
"Wait."
Nat stops. I stop hyperventilating, and a weird calm settles over me.
"Listen," I say, swallowing pride, spit, and nerves. "Tonight… it’s just dinner. I’m not sleeping with her. I won’t lay a finger on her.
I won’t let her touch me, either. I can’t just ghost her like that; I owe her at least a decent goodbye, right?
But sex? Not a chance. I swear it, swear it twice. "
"Are you sure?" she asks, doubtful.
"I just want to close this clean. Tell her face-to-face that I’m somewhere else now.
In something I don’t even have a name for yet, but it’s got my insides doing cartwheels.
I want to end it like civilized people and not like those drama queens who leave everybody hanging with an emoji. You picking up what I’m putting down?"
Silence. My jaw vibrates, embarrassment climbs my throat, and another speech starts jittering around inside me. But she doesn’t let go of my hand. She doesn’t start walking again.
"Are you going to tell me the truth after?" she says, staring at—what, my karma? My aura?
I nod so fast my chin smacks my chest.
"I’ll give you the play-by-play down to the salad ingredients, babe. Whatever you want: the after-action report, the TripAdvisor review, the mood board. If you need the restaurant receipt, I’ll bring it and we can analyze it together—maximum intense dyke edition."
A tiny smile slips out, the kind that, if the sun hits you, you think you imagined it.
"No need for the receipt. But I do want you to keep your word."
"Deal," I reply, so solemn I almost kneel. "Sworn before Our Lady of Hot-Mess Desperation."
Nat looks down at my hand, turns it, and laces her fingers with mine. Inside me, it’s: Houston, my underwear just fell off.
"I only ask one thing," she says, full boss voice.
"Name it, queen. Want me to bring you my client’s head on a silver platter, or get your name tattooed on my ass in invisible ink?"
She laughs because she can’t help it. I crack her up, that’s for sure. But she gets serious fast.
"When you walk out that door, you’re going to tell your boss—or the escort union’s top brass—that you’re out of the business because you’re with Natasha Velikanova. I want them to know. Crystal clear. Okay?"
And I can already see myself showing up at the agency: Bea, honey, I’ve got myself a dominant blonde who smells like danger and says either I shut down the whole gig or she cuts off my supply of affection.
Love’s like that, boss, you know. It almost sounds romantic, sure, but out of Nat’s mouth it vibrates like a velvet threat.
"Should I save you in my phone as Russian Domme of My Nights, or do you prefer My Mysterious Beloved Tuesdays-and-Thursdays?"
She squeezes my hand, doesn’t let go. I take the chance to lean in a little closer, just in case this goes mystical.
And she kisses me. For real. No order, no rule.
She devours my mouth—slow, firm—grabs the back of my neck, I kiss back, my balance goes, I forget the time, the lipstick, the entire dinner.
She heats up my whole body and leaves me shaking.
"Okay. Go," she murmurs.
"But… is this official permission or more like ‘you better go before I turn around and stage a live jealousy scene’?" I ask, half joking, half hoping she’ll give me an excuse to stay home, baby her, and play naked Twister. "I’ll be at the restaurant next to the Ritz, okay? If you don’t trust me, you can swing by the bar for a drink and watch me from a distance like my guardian angel in an expensive coat with a taste for trouble. "
"No," she says, and pins me with those blue eyes that look like two ice cubes in a glass of vodka. "No need."
No? No what? She doesn’t care if I go, or she doesn’t trust me at all?
With this woman, both could be true. Either works for me.
Works if she turns me loose but knots me up in my head, works if she lays down the rules and I play to follow them, works if I stray an inch and get a scolding and a trip to bed.
I swallow a laugh, breathe, nod, give her another quick peck, adjust my dress, grab my purse, repeat my zero-sex mantra, and head for the door with my phone buzzing, her scent stuck to my tongue, and the weird certainty that if I do this right tonight, I come back and reward myself big time—knees on the floor, hands where she says—and me happy, the leading lady of my own private circus.