Chapter 34 Natasha
NATASHA
I’d fallen into Lachlan’s orbit again. This time, I would never come down. I remained focused, though. As his biggest cheerleader, I attended most Dodgers’ games. Most, because he played for almost the whole week, and I had to work.
Today, I signed a contract with the art gallery in Long Beach and provided the curator with a larger selection of photos. My favorite gallery owner and artist, Essence Travers, mounted photos on her walls that I thought would be hidden forever. I was too self-critical.
With an empty leather portfolio in hand, I started out the passenger side of my AMG and into the hot July air.
“Allow me.” Borya came around and reached for my portfolio.
“Relax, Borya. You aren’t my personal butler.” I danced away from his attempt to grab it. “Ha, ha!”
Borya grumbled, approached the towering doors, and unlocked them. At the sight of my father strolling through the foyer, he reached for the portfolio again. I swatted his hand.
Pop didn’t offer us a cursory glance. He was on the phone speaking low and angrily in Russian.
Borya took the portfolio just as my phone rang.
“Hey, Pop?” I greeted him.
He turned around, his harsh expression washed away. “Help your mom with dinner, please.”
I flicked my brow at the flecks of powder on his chiseled jaw. Momma and her games. Usually, dough-covered my parents from head to toe. Vassilievich and I’d raced to escape the kitchen while they kissed and cooked. “Pot pies?”
“Figure it out,” he said, retreating toward his study.
I watched him go. Borya tracked upstairs to leave my portfolio at the door to my room.
“Hello?” came from my phone.
Oh. I’d answered. As usual, sight unseen. I lifted the phone, a picture of Jordyn in her wedding dress on the screen. “Sorry, Jordy.”
She sniffed.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing … I butt-dialed you.”
Smelled like a lie. She had secured the nosy big sister angle when we became reacquainted. Okay, two can play that game. “Mm-hmm. Be honest. Nobody butt-dials anyone anymore. You been crying?”
“It’s nothing.” Her growl was commendable.
“I’m hosting our Taco Tuesday at The Red Door. My treat since I’m not going to Scotland tomorrow.” Yep. Lachlan’s orbit. He wasn’t going, so I wasn’t, but were we really at the family vacation stage, though?
“Not sure I’ll come, Cutie Pie.” She hung up. Cryptic. I was nosy, but my heart was also set up to support my friend. Her voicemail picked up the second I called her back.
“Huh. This is payback for the times I pissed off Boobie.” My mouth twisted to the side. I should drive down to San Diego this weekend, check on my brother. With a crammed summer session, he didn’t return home much.
I stopped dead as I reached the kitchen, head tilted, eyes closed, and sighed. “Chicken and dumplings.” Wait. Pop should be hap—
I dodged dough that flew in my direction. Laughing, Momma swayed over—I wondered if she ever walked. Everything she did reminded me of a monarch. Black royalty. “Y’know,”—I took the towel she handed me to wipe up the mess— “Pop treats you too well. You’re like a kid.”
She took the towel and swatted my arm. “Help me cook. If you want to eat.”
“I do.” I approached the bright red stove with gold fixtures. One pot sat on the eight-range. “Looks like you don’t need help.”
She took my shoulders and spun me around.
Ugh. Chopping boards, mixing bowls, measuring cups. Every utensil needed sat in the sink. “We have maids for this.”
“In my kitchen?” She snorted.
Okay, she still owned a stink face, despite marital bliss and domestication. “So … Momma, what’s with your worse half? Pop loves chicken and dumplings and y’all’s UFC matches in the kitchen—which I cannot stand. He seems …”
This was the part where she inserted an accurate response. Well, should’ve. Instead, she froze.
“Oh, Natasha, Dr. Ghannam called.” Her forced smile softened as she changed the subject, overshadowing Pop’s problems. She grabbed my hands, and we jumped up and down.
“Ghannam told me all about his team’s amazing discovery.
Updates to the compounds in chemotherapy drugs that will help patients feel less queasy.
I remembered wanting to take the nausea from you, baby.
” She hugged me, moaning deep for the times I threw up. “Let’s celebrate tonight.”
“Rain check?” I tapped a Converse against the marble floor.
Momma’s ombré brow lifted. “Guess I’m irrelevant.”
“Momma,” I sighed. “Tonight, I’m hosting an event at The Red Door.”
“And your parents aren’t invited?”
“Well …”
Her arms folded. “How much food will be served at said event?”
“Enough to feed ten. Twenty.” Thirty? No clue. I turned on the faucet. “Lachlan’s family leaves for Scotland tomorrow. A bunch of festivals. He won’t get to go. Baseball. But if all goes well, we’ll have a big to-do dinner.”
“Don’t give me that to-do about nothing, Cutie Pie.” She approached the sink while I poured soap. “Listen, baby, you’ve attended many MacKenzie events. Show them we raised you right. Be hospitable. However, I’d like to meet Lachlan’s family.”
“Soon.” And I smiled, hoping we all got along.
Sunken wicker chairs and couches gave The Red Door’s rooftop lounge a relaxed vibe. Crimson fire glass crystals sparkled in pits, and infernos writhed in the night—on low, for an aesthetic appeal in the summer.
The waitstaff stood in a line, hors d’oeuvres on platters, the only people up here besides me. I’d had a server place the Private Event pedestal near the elevator downstairs to deter our usual guests from their favorite area.
I inspected the food. “A good start. Let’s also make three of every menu entrée.”
The head assistant nodded.
“No.” I bit a hangnail, and it popped off with a sting. Nerves. So painful. “Just bring menus, please. Everyone can order what they want. Increase the music. Guests should arrive soon.” I turned away to answer my phone.
Lorenzo.
My thumb stopped a second away from accepting. Thank You, Jesus. This bad habit of answering everyone needed to end. The phone stopped. Then vibrated again. Him again.
I shoved the phone into the pocket of my flair leather skirt. Took a step.
A third call! My stomach knotted. Oh, I’m gonna give him a piece of my …
I answered before it went to voicemail.
“Natasha,” Vassilievich spoke, voice cryptic.
“Hey … How was school?” I fished, hoping to discern his mood.
“Didn’t go.”
“I thought you preferred Tuesday and Thursday. Instead of Monday, Wednesday, and―”
“I. Did. Not. Attend. Natasha! We need to talk.”
“Okay. I invited you up.”
“To party with those Scots? Nyet. Cancel. Let’s discuss with Father or Dyadya Simeon … if Father isn’t prepared to execute a plan.”
The stars scattered around the dark Los Angeles sky vanished as I found myself in a seat. “Don’t do this to me, brat.” I reverted to Russian, feeling tingly and unsettled as if my own brother wanted to pull the rug from beneath me.
“Don’t do this?” He gasped. “Father thinks I’m not a man.”
“No, he doesn’t!”
“Ever since I was five, Natasha. You tried to help me. Make me stronger.”
All shaky, throat clogged with unshed tears, I willed myself to tell him I was a horrible big sister.
“Thank you, sestra. The quest to help me jump off the quads, garage. That was beneficial to a certain extent. This situation will show him I am not soft.”
“Vass—”
His forceful “We will have this meeting” jarred my ears. “I love you, Natasha. It is my honor to defend you.”
“Wrong. You are my little brother. I defend you. I was cruel, bored. You just … wanted to read books! Forgive—”
“This weekend, Natasha.”
“Wait!” My stomach bottomed out with his final words as he ended the call.
Sometime later, I welcomed Lachlan’s family.
They didn’t trickle in handfuls at a time.
They came through. Deep. My face nearly vanished in a faux smile on Rory’s social media Live.
Big Brody pulled me into a hug that squeezed the daylights outta me.
Chevelle and Justice commended me on having their favorite wine, in addition to other libations.
And now Nan MacKenzie sized me up, like a mother hen ready to attack whoever harmed me.
“What’s the matter, lassie?” She placed the Resnov Water shot next to a plate of zharkoe—Russian chicken stew that disappeared from the menu during warmer months. She had chatted up the server before picking an entrée, and half the plate would be empty if she weren’t watching me.
“Fine,” I murmured.
“Och, you said that when I hugged ya.”
Nan climbed from the chair and gestured toward the bar at the opposite end of the roof. The popular area sat empty with the royal service tonight, blue label bottles scattered across the many tables.
We strolled past bodyguards. Some time ago, Pop had appointed additional shadows. Borya had tripped over his tongue, denying it months ago.
Wait … a few months ago meant Pop had issues he hadn’t told us about. Before the silent dispute this afternoon. And Momma said nothing. She didn’t allow him to keep secrets, not over twenty-four hours. Some attorney thing, I guess? Allowing him to work out bratva kinks.
I glanced over my shoulder. No whitish blond hair floating in the breeze. Borya must’ve taken a break downstairs. Have your drink, Borya. We were safe here. The Red Door was a second home. So many Russians and tons of regulars.
“We are having this blether, Natasha,” Nan reprimanded, voice as soothing as Momma’s.
Oh. “I’m uh, worried about Jordyn. She seems down.”
“Ah. You’re like sisters.” Nan nodded, glancing around although Jordyn and Jamie hadn’t arrived yet. Simona either. “They’ve been married for two years. Jordyn gazes at babies even more longingly than I do.”
I blinked. “You think they’re struggling to …?”
“We will pray.” Nan patted my hand. “Which is the reason why I’m telling you this. And I suppose”—she winked at me— “you’ll tell me the reason why you’re dreary or I’ll figure it out too.”
“Ummm …”
Nan patted my hand again. “Take your time, I’m a patient woman. I’ll tell me clan to give you a moment. They’ve waited to swoop in, comfort you.”
“They what?” That explained why Rory the Romeo turned into a stand-up comedian rather than being glued to his phone. Also why Willow kept complimenting my hairdo. Was that why Leith and Brody offered more than their usual grunts?
“Aye. I told them to allow me first.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Hush, lassie. We don’t apologize for our feelings here. Lachlan should arrive soon. If he can’t put a smile on your face, you’ll provide the dinner, we’ll give ye the show.” With a soft smile, she offered patience, eager to help in any way she could.
As she walked away, I heaved a sigh, ordered something sparkly and fruity.
While I sipped my drink, the bartender retreated to the furthest section of the rooftop bar.
I put my drink down, placed my elbow onto the glossy counter, and glanced at the red neon lights of the big sign, supported by heavy beams—a work of art.
The Red Room signage gave a vintage Los Angeles vibe, propped at the top edge of the building and viewable from miles away.
Well, in one direction since skyscrapers surrounded the lounge.
As I sat there, hand clutched around Pop’s large cross pendant, Vassilievich’s ending remark played through my mind, a taunt.
This weekend, Natasha. For now, I will pray. But if God doesn’t vindicate you before then … I will.