26. Dimitri
26
DIMITRI
I never thought of myself as a man possessing much patience. The last two years proved otherwise. But after this weekend? I am fucking losing it.
I'm pretty certain letting her walk out of my room instead of dragging her to my bed right then was the single hardest thing I've done in my entire life. But if she can't even bring herself to ask me whether there's something between us when I've made it crystal clear, she's not ready for me to take her and shove her into a cage, forever ending her current life.
Soon .
As soon as she asks for it.
After she's up, showered, and ready, we eat breakfast on the veranda, enjoying the cool January sea air. It's…nice. Comfortable. Actually no, the word I'm looking for is normal. It feels completely ordinary, like we've been doing it for the last forever, and expect to do it the following weekend.
And then I have to drive her back home.
Fuck my life.
We're approaching the city when I realize I don't actually need to drop her off right away.
"Would you like to see Wolfie? The pet sitter should have left by now."
"Oh yes, please. That would be great. If you don't mind, of course."
"Do I seem like the kind of person who'd offer if I minded ?" I roll my eyes. "Besides, I have to show you around the building's security, if you were serious about wanting to keep the little monster."
So, I buy myself a little more time. A little torture .
I give her a tour of the apartment, showing her the access codes, paying particular attention to the emergency buttons she can use to call for help.
"It's important," I stress. "Not all of my associates are of the nice variety."
"I figured." She shrugs, seemingly unbothered. "I mean , you do have two dozen ex-sex slaves that some of your associates rescued in the basement of your Hamptons house-palace-fortress thing."
"And you aren't scared," I note.
"I'm with you," she blurts out. Then she seems to realize what she just said. "I mean, you have a bunch of bodyguards who clearly know what they're doing."
"So do you." I lead her back to the lounge. "I noticed that about your sister and you. Not much seems to faze either of you."
"I guess," she says, heading straight for the playpen. "Back at home, we didn't grow up in the best part of town, you know. There were people involved in various dangerous things around us. Our mother had a dealer who popped by every other day. If I got scared at the slightest sign of danger, I would have had a heart attack by age six."
I think back to everything I know about Morgan, which admittedly, other than the size of her tits, isn't much.
But when she was in danger, about to be tortured, rape, killed, she kept it together. Not many girls could have.
It's hard to see the edge, now—in either of them, but Willow especially. She's all soft curves, pouty mouth, and pretty, preppy skater dresses. But she comes from a rough area. A dark past. I think I remember Cam mentioning Morgan went hungry a few times. Did Willow?
"Are you all right?"
She's staring at me, frowning, those big blue eyes full of concern.
I clear my throat. "Perfect."
"You don't have to lie, you know. You can tell me it's none of my business."
Now, I'm smiling. "You can tell when I'm lying?"
"Your eyes were practically shooting laser beams. I'm just glad I'm not the target."
She's brought Wolfie to her chest, and the lucky bitch is licking her entire face. Clever little thing.
"Have you named the other mutts?" I wonder. "Or just this one."
"Just her. I don't want to get attached, you know, as you're giving them away. But I looked at her, and the name just jumped out. Isn't it perfect for her?"
"You claimed her."
"Or she claimed me. Thanks for letting me keep her here. I'll chat with my roommates about finding a replacement, and look for pet-friendly apartments. It won't be for long, I promise."
I have to physically keep my mouth shut to stop myself from pointing out I have seven rooms, and she's very welcome to any; mine included. Instead, I just nod.
"Would you like me to walk them before I go today?"
"No need, Liv does it six times a day," I say. "She left less than an hour ago."
"The pet sitter?"
"Yes. She's a friend of a friend. Artsy. Somehow, pet sitting is her actual full-time job." I'm trying not to sound too judgmental, but honestly, it's hard.
Liv is…spoiled. Interacting with her over the last few days only served to highlight what I see in Willow.
Honestly, someone like Liv makes more sense for me on paper. Twenty-seven, a Tisch graduate, born and raised in the Upper East Side to a socialite and a multimillionaire dad at the head of a chain of hotels, she's elegant, refined, put together, only wears the right thing, knows how to throw a dinner party, and she bores me to tears every time she opens her mouth.
She's only "working" because she's currently fighting with Daddy, who tightened the purse strings. Apparently, she decided to walk out of the marriage he arranged for her—and good for her. But the fact that she agreed to the engagement in the first place before changing her mind three days before the wedding just shows how flakey she is. She's a nice enough girl, all things considered, but despite being eight years her senior, she doesn't have Willow's grounded assurance, maturity or self-confidence.
Willow would never have chosen art, and then painted for five years straight without it bringing any income. If she had a passion, she would have made it a side gig, and build a realistic career like a grown up. It's not that I don't value artists; I admire them greatly. But someone doodling in a flat paid for by Daddy without selling anything is not a professional art; just a jobless chick with a hobby.
Still, that means she lives close by and has plenty of time to care for the puppies, so I can't complain.
"How long do you have her for? I want to make sure I have a schedule worked out for Wolfie after the others are gone."
"The adoption event for the dogs is next week; the adults should be healthy enough by then. I don't expect I'll need her for longer than that, but if you need time to set your own schedule, I can keep her on for Wolfie—at least, during the day when you're working."
"That sounds good. I should be paying, though."
I grimace. The thing with paying Liv is, I get someone I more or less can trust in my apartment—though she doesn't walk in here without a guard. But I pay a lot for the privilege—a good ten times more than what your average pet sitter would cost. According to her employment file, Willow doesn't make the kind of money that'd allow her to pay a hundred and fifty bucks per hour for her dog to be walked—especially since it'll likely be needed at least twice a day.
"We'll see," I lie. "Make yourself at home. I have a call to make."
She stayed for most of the afternoon, and though Liv was scheduled to come back at six, still walked the dogs before heading out.
It's been three days and I'm in serious need of a fix.
It was one thing to stay away before, but after seeing her, touching her…after her bursting into my room, wearing nothing but my shirt?
Yeah. I'm not having the best time with it this time around.