Chapter 8 #2
I head out and it’s not until I'm sitting at a red light when I remember Nala asked for chocolate. I already passed the turn for the store. I can keep going, tell the truth that I forgot, or make up some bullshit excuse that the store didn’t have any.
She wouldn’t know the difference. She doesn’t even know what the inside of a Russian grocery store looks like.
When the light turns green, I make up my mind and do a U-turn into the parking lot. Something about seeing disappointment in her eyes over this stupid request, just doesn’t sit well with me. The fact that it doesn’t sit well with me, is a whole other issue I don’t want touch.
Inside the store, I stop in front of the chocolate display, clueless as to what kind of chocolate she’d like.
I scoop up four boxes, dark, milk chocolate, hazelnut and another box with caramel, figuring she has to like at least one of them.
On second thought, I grab a handful of other candy. Might as well let her have her fill.
On the way home, I double back through a couple of streets, checking my mirrors. Once I get close to the apartment, I circle the block again and park on a different street.
I call out to her as soon as I’m inside.
“You’re back,” she says, her voice is soft and smooth, no longer damaged.
She follows me into the kitchen as I set the bags on the table and start unpacking. “I got your chocolate and some other candy. I found an American one too.”
When I pull the boxes out, her eyes and mouth go wide. "All of these are for me?"
I bite back a smile. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
She nods and walks over to me, choosing the dark chocolate. She looks up at me again, her eyes bright, carefully opening the box like it’s a Christmas present.
She takes out a square, holds it for a second then slips it into her mouth. Her eyes close and her entire body seems to melt as she chews. When she swallows, she lets out a small breath and flicks her tongue to catch a bit of chocolate at the corner of her lips.
"You like it?"
She smiles, nodding eagerly. "I like this one. It's bitter but sweet at the same time."
She takes another piece, chewing it slower this time.
I have better things to do yet I’m standing here watching her eat chocolate.
I can’t help it, though. The way her lips close around it.
They’re full and look so soft. She makes a small sound, almost like a moan.
My eyes trace to the black beauty mark at the edge of her upper lip.
It’s barely visible unless a person’s looking.
I'm looking.
She opens her eyes and catches me.
I turn away, reaching for a can, quickly shoving it into the cabinet. It’s normal to look. This is what happens when you’re around a girl for too long. It doesn’t mean anything.
"Do you want one?"
I look over my shoulder to see her holding the box out toward me, offering to share. There’s chocolate smudged on her fingertips.
"No. I don't eat that."
"You don't like chocolate?"
"I don't eat sweets."
"Ever?"
"Ever."
She shrugs and pops another piece in her mouth. "More for me." She eats one more, glances at me, then puts the box away. She washes her hands and comes back over, reaching for a bottle of sauce. “I can help with that.”
“I’ve got it.” I’m too aware of her. I don’t need her coming closer to me.
“I want to help,” she says. “I’m feeling better now.” She lifts her foot. “See? Even the cut’s healed.”
“Fine.” I move over, making sure we don’t touch. “You put that stuff away. I’ll make us something to eat.”
She nods, unpacking the rest of groceries in silence. A few minutes later, she drifts closer to the stove, asking, “Is cooking hard?"
I glance at her. "Why do you ask?"
"Because I don’t know how. I never learned.” She presses her lips together, gaze lowering. "I don't know how to do anything except read people."
"It’s not hard,” I answer. “I mean it can be. That’s why I only cook the easy stuff. If you look at the back of the box it tells you how to do it."
I fill a pot with water, setting it on the stove. “Be glad I call myself a businessman and not a chef.”
She smiles, then laughs, covering her mouth as if the laugh caught her by surprise.
I freeze at the sound, the way her face changes when she laughs.
She looks even younger, prettier than she already is.
Her brown eyes crinkle at the corners, drawing my attention lower to the two tiny dots at the top of her cheeks I never noticed before.
I don’t know why I said that to her. I don’t joke with anyone, yet here I am watching her laugh at my stupid joke and I like it.
"The soup you made for me was really good,” she says, resting her cheek in her hand, still watching me. “So maybe you could call yourself that.”
"That would be too easy. It’s hard to mess up soup."
She shoots me a look of skepticism. "I probably could."
I smile before realizing it. "Probably."
She smiles back, wider this time.
I turn my attention to the stove, focusing on cooking, not the feel of her eyes on me. Her presence is too comfortable, feels too natural. That’s not what this is. I better remember that.
She sighs, looking sad. "Roman, I think what I’m worried about is messing things up. The ingredients and measurements. I’m not good at math, so that doesn’t help. I used to watch cooking shows with my mom. Before I…” Her voice trails off.
She bites her lip. “It looked complicated. I never learned because I thought I had time.”
"It doesn’t matter if you know how to cook or not.” I tell her. “Nala, you can read people. See what they’re hiding. Cooking doesn’t mean shit. You can do what almost no one else can.”
She's quiet for a bit. “I didn’t choose this thing. I just have it and most of the time, I don’t even want it.”
"Well, there’s a lot of things people don’t get to choose in life.”
“I know.” She looks down at her hands then back up. “Like how you didn’t get to choose your father. I mean, no one does. But yours is… really bad.”
When she lays it out like that, it’s hard to disagree. “That’s one way to put it.”
She goes quiet after that. A minute passes before I hear.
“Roman?”
“What?”
“Will you tell me about your mother? What she was like.”
“Why?”
She lifts a shoulder. “Because I know how Grigori is. I want to understand what your mother liked about him.”
“You’re the psychic. When you figure that out you can tell me.”
She frowns, not happy with my answer. I don’t know what her angle is, why she’s asking all these questions. Pity, curiosity… maybe she wants to hear about romance or something. I have no idea.
I tell her point blank, “I don’t know. Maybe she liked his money. The lifestyle. Who knows. She went and fucked it up when she had me. He cut her off then. I don’t care. She was decent. That’s it, not the best mother. She would’ve been better off if she’d never met him.”
“But then you wouldn't have been born.”
I shrug, covering the pot. "That wouldn't have been a bad thing."
"You shouldn’t say that.”
My shoulders tense. I shouldn’t be talking like this with her. That’s what shouldn’t be happening. Yet… I keep talking.
“Why not? It's true."
"It's not.” She lifts her chin. “Roman, you’re the only reason I'm not in that basement anymore, terrified of the next time I have to see your father. So, no. It wouldn't have been better if you weren’t born."
"You think I took you out of that basement because I cared?” I ask, looking at her as if she’s stupid. “Because I’m a good person? I took you out for one reason only. To work for me. Don’t mistake that for anything else.”
She meets my gaze, lifting her chin higher. "I don’t care why you did it. Your reason doesn’t change what happened or what I said.”
I turn back to the stove, shutting this down. She’s wrong but somehow, I have the feeling there’s nothing I can say to convince her otherwise.
We sit at the table, neither of us saying a word, when I feel it again—her eyes on me. I draw in a breath, looking over at her. She has that look on her face, the one where her eyes go wide and her lips part but not enough to become a smile. She’s dying to say something.
“Ask.”
“Your favorite food. What is it?”
"Beef Stroganoff."
She wrinkles her nose. "What's that?"
"Beef cooked in sour cream."
"Is it sour?”
“No.” I’m only being polite, I tell myself. “What's yours?"
"Pizza.” She lifts a finger. “But…only with extra cheese. My dad used to bring it home on Fridays after work. My sister and I would watch a movie while we eat.”
She stares at her food, no longer eating, like she’s trying not to feel sad or cry.
I don’t know what to say so I just don’t. All I know is, I shouldn’t encourage this—us talking.
"Can I ask you something else?”
“You’re going to anyway.”
She exhales. "Okay. This one’s serious. Was your father ever kind to you?"
The question catches me off guard.
“No.”
"Never? Not even when you were little?"
"Never.”
“I can understand that he was horrible to me. I was nothing to him, but you’re his son, his blood. He shouldn’t hate you the way he does.”
I shrug. What am I supposed to say to that? I grew up knowing I was a mistake, a failed attempt from my mother to trap my father into marriage. My father never cared that I was his son. Nala must think love is guaranteed after a person is born.
"I don’t give a fuck what Grigori thinks about me.”
"I know. I don’t care what he thinks about me either. I just think it’s wrong he wasn’t a good father to you.”
Why is she saying this? Why is Nala sitting here—knowing I’m keeping her locked inside this apartment—acting like she gives a fuck about my feelings, or feelings she seems to think I have.
I don’t need her to care. Real or pretend.
I don’t need any of this from her. I stand abruptly, moving to the sink.
She follows me into the kitchen, taking the plate from me before I can wash it. For a second, I’m almost convinced she’s fucking with me. It’s doubtful, though, she’s too young, almost like a child. Nala’s curious about things, life and people after being locked away for so long.
I have to remember that.
I need to remember that.
"I like talking to you," she says, squeezing soap onto the sponge.
I raise my brows. "No one likes talking to me."
"I do."
"Nala, people don't talk to me. They report and they answer my questions. That's it. That’s all I need."
“Well, I’m talking to you.” She lifts a shoulder. "I’m alone most of the day. I like when you come back and I like hearing your voice.”
I study her face to see if she’s lying. She’s not, her dark eyes are open and honest.
Of course.
That’s why she can say shit like this to someone like me. She’s too innocent. I’d even go so far to call her naive, but I know she’s not. She’s seen too much. She just doesn’t understand how I am yet. She’ll get it soon.
"Your father liked hearing himself talk,” she adds, frowning slightly. “You don’t talk too much. Maybe that’s why I like it when you do.”
"I don’t need to talk a lot. Most people already can’t keep their mouths shut.”
“Most people,” she repeats. “Or me?”
“Most people. If I meant you, you’d know.”
She stares at me as if she’s lining up her next question. I don’t give her the chance.
“It’s late. You should go to bed.”
She blinks. “I’m not tired.”
“I know.”
She keeps staring as if she thinks she’ll get a different reaction out of me. Finally, she dries her hand on a towel. “Why are yo–”
“Goodnight,” I cut in, leaving no room for discussion.
She goes to say something else but thinks better and closes her mouth when I shake my head. “Goodnight.” I repeat, firmer this time.
Her brows crinkle. She blinks, sighing softly. “Night.”
She spins toward the bedroom, glances back to look at me before jerking her head up and straightening her spine. I don’t care if she’s upset.
My gaze tracks her as she heads down the hallway. I should stop. I know I should. I don’t. I can’t stop myself from watching her—this girl who somehow thinks we’re on the same level.
My eyes drift lower to the sway of her hips, the swell of her ass filling out the sweatpants and her braids brushing against her back with each step.
I’m enjoying the view, telling myself it’s innocent, not like I’m going to touch her—when I feel it happen.
The exact moment my cock wakes up, stirring inside my pants. I tear my gaze away.
Not happening. Not now. Not ever.