THE SOLDIER

Yeah, I’ll break things off this weekend. Not when I get there but at the end. After we have enjoyed ourselves. I’ll make sure she has the best orgasms of her life, and then I’ll let her down gently. Blame it on the distance.

Oleg parks in the underground lot beneath the building Ravil owns across from Lake Michigan. The neighborhood calls it the Kremlin because he only lets Russians live and work here. Russians and his American bride. Also now Oleg’s new girlfriend, Story. For a brief moment, the thought of demanding my slave move here to Chicago, of installing her in the Kremlin so I can dominate her twenty-four/seven, flashes through my mind.

But of course, I would never do such a thing. She’s an actress trying to make it in Los Angeles. Convincing her to move-and I’m not certain I could, even as willing as she is to do my bidding-would effectively terminate her dreams. I may be a selfish prick, but I’m not that big of an asshole.

I get out and check my phone. My suitcase is already packed and in my car. If I climb in now and drive straight to the airport, I’ll get there in perfect time.

But Ravil. The last thing I need is my ass handed to me by the boss. Not after I’ve worked so hard to make myself indispensable.

Blyad.’ I follow Nikolai and Oleg to the elevator and take it up to the top floor, where we all share the boss’ penthouse. He stands at the giant floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the lake, holding Benjamin, his five-month-old baby against his chest. He’s murmuring softly to the baby in Russian.

Not a good time to interrupt.Content (C) Nôv/elDra/ma.Org.

But I don’t have time to spare.

I go stand next to him, remaining quiet and looking out at the lake.

“What happened?” Ravil almost always speaks to us in English. When I moved here from Russia to join his cell, I didn’t speak a word. This was how he made sure we learned-by forbidding our mother tongue until we were fluent in English.

“Nothing. We took care of it.”

He slides a speculative look my way, but says nothing. Ravil is mild-mannered. Cool-tempered. Smart as hell. Not a man you should ever underestimate or cross. I’m fortunate he gave me a place here when I had to leave Moscow. I’ve tried to learn everything I can from him, emulate his ways. I’m rough around the edges, but growing more sophisticated every day.

I shove my hands in my pockets. Apologizing doesn’t come easy to me. I can’t think of the last time I did, actually. But I owe Ravil mad respect. “I should have asked your permission to leave town,” I say, my gaze dropping to the face of his cherubic infant as the baby’s eyelids flutter closed.

“Yes,” Ravil agrees.

Fuck. Nikolai was right. I owe him big time for telling me.

“I’m sorry.”

“Forgiven.” He says it easily, while still making it clear my transgression required forgiveness.

I take a breath but can’t think what to say next. Do I ask for belated permission? Maybe I should, but I can’t bring myself to even offer the possibility of me not going. I have a slice of pure heaven waiting for me in California, and I intend to suck all the juice out of it before I break things off.

I start to tell him this is my last trip, but I can’t make that promise, either.

“You’re figuring things out.” Ravil speaks for me.

For some inexplicable reason, my heart starts thudding. Ravil just spoke aloud what I’ve been pretending to myself I had already decided.

But what is there to sort out? Kayla is in Los Angeles. I’m here. What’s more, I have plans to go back to Russia when things cool down. I’ve saved my money to start my own enterprise there. Not going back isn’t an option-my mother is all alone there.

But he’s right-I clearly haven’t made my mind up yet, or I wouldn’t be going this weekend. My one-month arrangement with Kayla was over last week.

“Yes,” I agree.

“Let me know when you do.” He turns and walks away, leaving me sweating.

Fuck.

Another reason to conclude my adventure with Kayla this weekend.

And yet as I walk out the door to head for the airport, I’m almost certain I won’t.

Kayla

I sip champagne in the lobby of the Four Seasons Beverly Hills, positioned just inside the front doors, so I can be seen by everyone who comes in. I’m in character, playing my part, so I ignore the notion that I don’t belong here. That this place is for the rich and famous, and I’m just a wanna-be actress from Wisconsin.

I haven’t seen anyone famous come in yet, but it occurs to me that hanging out here might be a strategy to get “discovered.” You never know, right? That’s what we tell ourselves, anyway. Me and my roommates and the rest of the unemployed actors in L. A.

My phone rings, and I pull it out of my purse, swiping across the screen when I see it’s my agent.

“Hi, Lara.”

“Kayla, listen, clear your schedule for this weekend. I might be able to get you an audition. I’m working on it.”

This weekend. Fuck.

On weekends, I now belong to Pavel. But this is my career. It has to come first. “Yeah, okay,” I tell her breathlessly. “What’s it for?”

“It’s a new television series directed by Blake Ensign, and I think you’d be perfect for one of the parts. Oh-I have to take this call. I’ll talk to you soon.” Lara ends the call in her typical important-agent fashion, even though she’s not that important. She’s definitely not the agent to the A-listers. Or even the B-listers. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be my agent, would she?

But, whatever. I’m lucky I have an agent. It’s more than most could say.