Chapter 9
Artyom
Willow tilted her head.
When she smiled, shallow dimples sank into her cheeks. The corners of her eyes stayed a little pink, glossy under the warm yellow light—like a cherry soaked in liquor, ripe and swollen, the kind you barely touched before it bled sweetness.
Before I even spoke, she leaned closer. Her warm breath brushed my jaw, carrying that raspberry-sweet scent that was only hers, slamming straight into my nose.
"Hey." She poked my chest with one finger. "Is your body still as good as it was last night?"
I lifted a brow and said nothing.
Her gaze dropped right to my collar, traced down my clavicle like she was measuring me. It was so shamelessly open it almost made me laugh.
Like a body shrank overnight. The little thug just wanted a taste.
When I didn't answer, she got impatient, digging through her pocket forever. Finally, she pulled out a few crumpled bills.
She slapped them on my chest.
The cash spread out—mixed sizes. The biggest bill was ten bucks. The rest was coins—nickels, dimes, quarters.
"Here." She tipped her chin up. Her drunk eyes shone way too bright, her tone ridiculously righteous. "Take it. Take your clothes off and let me look."
I glanced down at the pile of change, then back up at her.
She watched me with pure expectation, mouth tilted up, dimples back again. Nothing like the woman who'd curled up like a quail in the conference room that morning.
So the little drunk had two faces.
If anyone else talked to me like that, I'd have had them feeding fish in the Black Sea.
But with her, I couldn't summon an ounce of anger. Something cold and hard in my chest softened, warmed by the booze on her breath.
I liked her like this.
Not the employee who couldn't even lift her head in a meeting. Not the soft target who swallowed every insult.
This version of her was alive. Cute. Mean little spark.
That reckless edge the alcohol dragged out of her—that was who she'd been before life sanded her down. The part that still hadn't gone out.
I leaned in, bracing a hand against the locker beside her, dropping my voice on purpose. "You want to watch me strip? Here?"
She nodded fast. Her curls bounced like a fluffy cloud, and her fingers still tried to worry at my collar button like she couldn't help herself.
"Could you?" she asked.
"Not here." I caught her wrist and guided her toward the door. "You are still on the clock. You want your boss walking in on that?"
She scrunched her nose and went, "Oh," like she'd finally remembered she had a job.
The disappointment still sat on her face, but she didn't fight me. She let me lead her out like a good girl.
I watched her float back toward the bar, the hem of her shirt still stained with brandy, hair puffed up in the light.
Less than two minutes later, Tom slid in, shameless as ever.
Suit and tie. Filthy grin.
He reached for Willow like he always did. Willow leaned back, her brow knitting tight, her usually soft face turning cold.
She snapped her hand out and knocked his arm away. "Don't fucking touch me!"
A few booths nearby turned to look.
Tom's face flashed blue, then white. His fist clenched, then slowly loosened. He was a seasoned slimeball—he fixed his expression in a heartbeat.
"Willow, you're making this hard on me." He lowered his voice like he was the victim.
"The bar isn't the place. If you need something, we can handle it in private.
" Then he turned to a guy watching and made a show of it.
"See? She is impossible. Just because I don't want to play her little games, she starts acting up. "
Willow's lips trembled with rage. She stared him down.
Somebody else heckled from the side. "Hey, chubby girl, you have a huge appetite. You really try to get it on in front of everybody? One guy can't satisfy you anyway!"
I saw Willow's shoulders go tight.
But this time, she didn't back up.
I strode over, pressed a hand to the middle of her back, and shoved the bottle of brandy she'd handed me earlier into her grip.
"The quickest way to deal with trash like that," I murmured, "I don't need to teach you, do I?"
That was when Tom finally saw me.
The swagger on his face froze. His lips twitched. "Mr. Sokolov... what are you doing here?"
I didn't even look at him.
My eyes stayed on the little drunk in front of me, the one holding the bottle.
She stared for two seconds, then her eyes lit up.
She tightened her grip, lifted her arm, and smashed it down.
Glass exploded. Liquor and blood ran from Tom's temple, down the bridge of his nose, into the corner of his mouth, dripping onto the crisp collar of his perfectly pressed suit.
Tom clamped a hand over his head, his face dead white.
He didn't dare say a single harsh word. He just stood there, pathetic, holding the wound and stammering apologies.
"S-sorry, Mr. Sokolov... I didn't know she was with you, I—"
I still didn't look at him. I looked at Willow.
She stood there, chest heaving like she'd just sprinted for miles. Her breathing came hard and messy, but she held herself straight—straighter than I'd ever seen her.
She didn't look at Tom. She looked at me.
Those ice-blue eyes held booze, adrenaline, and something careful—like she was asking: Did I do it right? Was this what I was supposed to do?
I nodded at her.
Then I took the jagged bottle neck from her hand and tossed it into the trash.
Tom stayed where he was, blood seeping between his fingers.
He swallowed, making a dry, scraping sound. "Mr. Sokolov... could this not get out?"
I tilted my head at him and let out a laugh.
He could joke about a girl's body in front of half a bar, but he was terrified his own stupidity would travel.
"You should feel lucky," I said. "She used a bottle today, not my gun."
Tom's breathing stopped.
He turned and staggered for the door. His dress shoe slipped on the wet floor, and he almost ate it.
The crowd erupted—cheers, whistles.
Willow watched Tom run, and she smiled.
It started at the corner of her mouth and spread, like the booze finally crushed whatever she'd been forcing down. Her laughter started to wobble out of control.
She turned, poured herself a drink, and lifted it high. "Every girl's tab tonight—on me!"
The liquor swirled, catching the overhead lights and breaking into shards of gold.
"To every woman who ever got turned into a joke!"
She tipped it back. The drink spilled down her chin and soaked into her collar, blooming dark.
I watched the shaky drunk shine in her eyes and realized it—she usually panicked over sneaking a single sip because she worried about money. If she sobered up tomorrow and remembered she'd crowned herself queen of buying the room...
This little penny-pincher was going to want to punch a wall.
I turned and gave the bartender a look.
In the end, every tab in the place went on mine.
Then I walked up beside her.
She tipped her head back and hiccuped. "What?"
"It is time to go home."
She nodded, sweet as anything, dug out her wallet, and handed it to me. "Help me pay."
"Okay."
I slid her wallet into my coat like it was nothing.
If I paid her tab, her money was mine.
I scooped her up. All her weight melted into my arms—soft, warm, boneless. Her curls brushed my neck, making it itch.
The night air outside the bar bit a little. I pulled her closer into my chest.
She stayed obedient, head tucked against me, fingertips absentmindedly hooking my shirt buttons like a kitten finding its spot.
We got into the car.
She slumped in the passenger seat, half-asleep, her head bobbing like a pecking bird.
I reached over, gathered her in, and let her rest against my shoulder.
Her lashes fluttered. She didn't wake.
The car cut through the night. Streetlights flashed past the windows, painting her face in shifting stripes—when it lit up, I could see the faint curve at her mouth; when it darkened, she became nothing but a soft outline.
When we got home, she actually woke up. Her lids hung half-open, her pupils hazy with water.
I carried her upstairs. She stared at me, slow and fogged, then suddenly smiled.
"Artyom." She whispered my name. "Today is the happiest day of my whole life."
I bent and set her on the bed, then crouched to take off her heels. The clasp was tight. I pinched the little buckle, my thumb brushing the skin of her ankle—warm, smooth, pulse beating underneath.
"Why are you happy?"
She frowned and thought hard, the line between her brows deepening, then easing.
Finally she shook her head. "I don't know. I just... don't feel so suffocated. Like something that used to be blocked up inside me cracked open."
She leaned forward and fell into me, arms around my neck. "I like myself like this."
I looked down at the crown of her head, those deep copper-red curls spread out under the warm light.
Loud. Beautiful. Unapologetic.
"Yeah," I said, sliding a curl off her cheek and tucking it behind her ear. "Then you need to keep it."
She didn't answer. She just held on tighter, like she wanted to press herself into my shadow.
Outside, the night stayed still. Only the wind moved now and then through the trees.
She lifted her head, the corners of her eyes still pink from drinking.
"You... still want to take my order?"
My throat worked once.
She didn't even wait for my answer. Her fingers started searching—messy, clumsy—undoing my shirt buttons.
It was such a simple thing, but something inside me snapped.
Heat surged up from my gut, sharp and out of control.
It spread like fire through my limbs—over my chest, up my neck, into my fingertips—until even my breathing went heavier.
"Are you taking it or not?" she asked again.
Her voice turned softer than before, almost like she was coaxing me.
The light hit from the side, casting a faint shadow under her lowered lashes. The wet shine still on her lower lip looked like a cherry you shouldn't bite but would anyway.
Did I have a choice?
I answered without hesitation. "Of course."
Not just this one. Every order after it, I'm taking it.