Chapter 7
O n the other side of the wall, Dexter did not sense Lainey’s psychic directive. Nor did he feel any vibration in the force to tell him she’d patted their shared wall. In fact he wasn’t thinking about her at all. His mind was solely on his hunger, his pending supper, his relief at having survived another week with The Russians.
They’d been unbearably cocky since winning the Bristol Brothers account, almost unhinged in their machismo and strutting. Whenever they were in this mood, they tended toward self-sabotage, meaning Dexter had to be especially on his guard. In the last week alone he’d stopped a parking lot brawl over, of all things, a gum wrapper, vetoed plans to send containers of spoiled borscht to their many enemies, stopped a plan to also begin smoking their own fish on site and sell it to their higher end clients, and successfully dodged three of Sonya’s terrifying mating attempts. Before meeting her, he hadn’t understood how men could be sexually harassed. He definitely got it now, he thought, shuddering as he tugged his sweater lower. Sonya was not a fan of the word no.
If he let himself, he could wonder why he remained in his current job. That was why it was always best not to wonder. It was what it was, and Dexter was a follow the groove type person. The Russians were his groove and he was stuck there, probably for life, or until one of them accidentally killed him by setting off fireworks in the office or some horror he hadn’t yet thought to preemptively prohibit.
He finished his burger, cleaned up, checked his finances, and sat in front of the television to watch some sports highlights a few minutes before showering and slipping into bed. He had seemingly only closed his eyes when his phone rang, and since it could only be one thing that made his phone ring in the middle of the night, he was predictably less than enthused to answer.
“What?” he rasped, fumbling as he retrieved the phone from the charger where he placed it every night before bed, because routine was life.
“Why are you in bed?”
Dexter sat up, coming fully awake. He had expected one of The Russians, one of the brothers and even Sonya weren’t outside the realm of possibility. But never in a million years did he expect a call from their mother.
“Mrs. Popov?”
“ Why are you in bed?” she demanded, her rough accent making the words even more terrifying.
“Because it’s midnight?” he said, a question.
“Do you know where my sons are?” she asked.
His heart started to thud. This was going to be bad, this was going to be very, very bad. “No. Do you?”
“They are at bar.”
Dexter groaned.
“ Bristol Brothers bar. To, and I quote despicable morons, celebrate giant victory with stuffy American corporation.”
Dexter was already out of bed and throwing pants on. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Good, see that you do.” She paused. “Should I send Sonya to help?”
“No,” Dexter all but yelled, tossing his phone in his haste to pull a shirt over his head. Once fully dressed, he grabbed the phone and his keys and sprinted out the door.
Dexter wasn’t one for speeding, but he did so now as he headed toward Bristol Brothers and what could only be certain doom. What were they thinking? They hadn’t been, and that was the problem. Winning the Bristol contract had short circuited the tiny amount of self-control they possessed. Had they not listened when Bernard Geldof spoke? The one thing, the one thing , he asked of them was to remain scandal free. And now The Russians were bringing scandal to his home turf.
Any establishment owned by the Bristol family was the sort where there would be a line of Audis, Jaguars, and Teslas out front. Dexter screeched to a halt in front of the valet and tossed him the keys to his sensible, and therefore non-conforming, Honda. He sprinted inside, already hearing them before he approached. They were clapping, all four of them in unison, trying to get people to do the Cossak dance. Not that any of the four brothers could do it, but they liked to pretend they could by virtue of being Russian. (Sonya could, but that was another matter entirely, and one Dexter would rather not think about at the moment.)
The sight that greeted him wasn’t as bad as it could have been, but it was still bad. The Russians rimmed the room, clapping loudly, while one very drunk old man was attempting to do the Cossak dance, squatting and kicking his legs out. Unfortunately he kept tipping over, giving everyone in the room anxiety about the state of his hips, to say nothing of his six thousand dollar Brooks Brothers suit.
The Russians caught sight of Dexter and froze, their claps stopping mid-air as they tried to shrink into themselves like startled puppies. He went to them one by one, rounding them up like an oversized nutcracker collection.
“Come on, Dexter,” Andrei tried, cajoling. “We are celebrating, yes? No harm, look everyone is having fun.” He pointed to the people who were still swaying halfheartedly, even though the clapping had stopped. Dexter might have bought it except one thing.
“Why is that waitress crying?” he demanded.
“Oh, well, they were out of the good vodka, and it’s possible…” Yuri began, looking anywhere but at Dexter.
He sighed, not needing the rest filled in. They would have badgered and lectured her into tears. Hopefully a massive, immense tip would be enough to erase this, would keep her from complaining to her bosses. If they could just make it out the door with no more…
Too late. While his mind wandered, so did one of The Russians.
“Why does this place not have karaoke?” Maxim boomed, redrawing all attention on them again. “Who has microphone? I will sing.” And, sans microphone, began to regale the room at large with the Soviet National Anthem as, one by one, the three remaining brothers began to join in.
Everyone was looking at them, more than their fellow drunk people at the bar, all the business people enjoying a quiet dinner in the restaurant began to poke their heads in. Waiters had to pivot around the gawkers, around The Russians. Dexter knew enough about the restaurant business to know what a massive distraction and disruption they now were. He had about ten seconds to end this and get them out before…
Too late again. One of the managers appeared on the floor. Worse, it was a member of the Bristol family. Why? Why did one of them have to be here and actually working on a night when The Russians decided to make an appearance? Dexter was usually quick on his feet, but as The Bristol approached him, his mind blanked. What on earth could he say to explain to their newest million-dollar client why his bosses were acting like a pack of drunk hyenas at the bar they were supposed to represent? The man came to rest in front of Dexter, bestowing such a look of disgust on him he felt the shame of it all the way to his toes. Without a doubt, they were done, not only with the Bristols, but probably anyone who had ever done business with them.
“Dexter.”
“Mr. Bristol.”
“I was under the impression that Bernard impressed upon you the need for absolute discretion and good behavior,” Mr. Bristol said, voice stern and condescending.
Dexter, who hadn’t done anything wrong, still felt the chastisement in every pore of his body. “You see…” he began, but Andrei interrupted him.
“Come on, Boss Man, is celebration.” He threw his arms wide, slipping one around an unsuspecting woman who froze like a startled fawn.
Mr. Bristol, however, was properly distracted. “A celebration? What are you celebrating? Is someone getting married?”
Did…did he sound almost accepting of that proposition? If he thought they were there as customers to legitimately celebrate something other than the fact that he was now paying them to be obnoxious morons, could they get out of this debacle?
“Yes,” Dexter blurted.
“You two?” Mr. Bristol asked, eyes squinting as they slid between Andrei and the woman who was now wriggling from beneath his heavy, hairy arm.
“No,” she yelled, giving Andrei a shove that made him chuckle.
“No, it’s um…” Dexter’s eyes darted, frantic for an escape from the lie. He never lied, so of course he was predictably bad at it. Somehow he hadn’t thought Mr. Bristol would ask any follow up questions.
And then, like a beacon, no, like a miracle, he saw his neighbor step to the bar, messy bun and all.
“It’s me. I’m getting married. To her.” He pointed to his neighbor. All eyes zoomed in on her while she remained completely unaware.
“What?” Yuri boomed. “I didn’t know…” Dexter shot him a look that threatened to end him and he stopped speaking.
“Ah, well, Dexter, in that case congratulations. I guess that would explain a bit of celebrating,” Mr. Bristol said, tipping his head at Dexter’s neighbor. “Is she buying a jar of cherries from my bartender?”
“She can’t get enough of them,” Dexter said, nodding. “My girl loves her some cherries.” That appeared to be an understatement as she received a giant glass jar of cherries from the bartender, tucking them under one arm like a precarious football. She turned to go and froze when she realized everyone was now staring at her. She looked wary until she caught sight of Dexter, then she smiled and waved and headed over.
“Hey, what are you….” she began but Dexter grabbed her and kissed her, cutting off her words.
It was a perfunctory kiss, but enough to stop her from saying anything incriminating, unless she responded by slapping him across the face which, given the circumstances, she totally could and he wouldn’t judge her. But his eyes pled with her and she withdrew in silence, squint narrowed on him in speculation. Whatever brief interludes they’d shared had apparently been enough to buy him a bit of leeway.
“Hon, this is Mr. Bristol, the owner of this establishment and our new client I told you about,” Dexter said, sliding his arm around her middle as they faced Mr. Bristol.
“How do you do, so pleased to meet you,” she said, sounding like a non-crazy person for the first time in Dexter’s brief experience with her.
“I’m good, thanks. And congratulations to you,” Mr. Bristol said. Dexter gave her waist a small warning squeeze. “When is the big day?”
She glanced up at Dexter who was once again speechless with panic. Her brows rose infinitesimally. He tried to look pathetic and pleading, a thing which required exactly zero effort. “Soon?” she said, turning to face Mr. Bristol once more. “It was so nice to meet you, but I was in the middle of something, so…” she glanced longingly toward the door.
“Of course. I’ll see you in a bit, babe,” Dexter said, almost choking on the “babe.”
She chortled, “Okay, babe ,” she replied and eased out of his embrace.
“What? That’s it? That’s so lame, is no way to say goodbye to future wife,” Maxim boomed, starting to clap again.
I’m going to murder the moron, Dexter promised himself, but too late because the other brothers were also now clapping their encouragement.
“Real kiss,” Ivan howled, and now all the other drunk people in the restaurant were clapping, too.
His neighbor must have realized there would be no easy escape. With a sigh, she turned to Yuri. “Dude, hold my cherries.” Once her jar was safely deposited in Yuri’s oversized paws, she faced Dexter and made a show of cracking her knuckles and neck. And then she stood on her toes, threaded her fingers in his hair, pulled him close, and gave him the kiss to end all kisses, one that had everyone in the restaurant cheering, especially The Russians.
And then, when it was over, she calmly reclaimed her cherries and walked out the door, with the eyes of every man trailing after her.