of turning left, he whipped a u-turn and sped off in the opposite direction. I subconsciously patted my pockets, thinking I could dial Clay and leave the phone on so he could hear my directions, but realized with a sinking sensation in stomach that I’d left it in the front seat of the car, back when I’d gone out to do my business, so long ago.
“What are you doing?” I gripped the sides of the car as he raced through an alley, knocking a garbage can on its side.
“We have company.”
I stared at him, wondering if all of his English would be drawn straight from movie quotes.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to do this. I know practically everybody in the Twin Cities. I grew up here. I’m sure it’s just a friend being stupid.”
He glanced at me, a smile turning up the corner of his mouth.
For a moment, my heart froze. What if he knew who I was? What if he was taking me somewhere to lock me away forever? How had he found out?
When he spoke, his voice was gentle. “I will get my beautiful girl home safely.”
“Aww, honey, how sweet of you!” I gushed. I fanned myself. Honestly, this guy.
Andrey whipped in and out of the alleys of Minneapolis, apologizing every time he saw my hand reach for the stabilizer. Soon enough, Clay was nowhere to be seen.
** **
“Now, where are you going?” he asked. He leaned over and rested his hand on my leg. Or rather, my furry knee. I picked a few stray leaves out of my quickly deteriorating onesie.
His English was better than I’d initially thought – it was just the tough idiosyncrasies of the English language that tripped him up. But then again, didn’t the subtleties of English screw us all up at one time or another?
I shot him a look out of the corner of my eye and began giving him directions to my ex-boyfriend’s house. Blake and I had parted on less than stellar terms a few years before, but like everyone, we ran into each other once in awhile in the bar scene, which would end in a sloppy hook up about fifty percent of the time. He’d been my introduction to bad boys – a sports car driving, music bumping, jersey wearing, tattooed vice for nearly two years.
He was the closest person to this area, and the only person I felt comfortable enough with breaking into their place to use the phone. If he happened to be out, well, I knew the loose windows from experience.
When we pulled up in front of the post-college dwelling, Andrey didn’t even blink an eye.
“Welp, thanks!” I pulled the handle to swing the door open. It was locked. “Uh…”
“I’m not letting you go anywhere,” he said. His sweet smile contradicted his firm words. I was extremely confused. Was this guy one of the bad eggs? Or did he just not speak English very well and did not understand that trapping people in their car was kidnapping?
“Will you date me?” he asked.
“Go… on a date?” I asked.
“Yes. Date. With your hot buns.”
I smiled. I knew I shouldn’t. But when he said hot buns I just wanted to give him a squeeze and a kiss on the cheek. If that should lead to something else, well so be it. Plus, it could give me a one-of-a-kind insider’s perspective on the Russian mob. “I’d really like that.”
“Really?”
Before I could correct myself and tell him ‘Sorry, but I don’t date strange mobsters,’ he lifted my hand and kissed it gently. His lips were soft.
“I should go now,” I said, yanking my eyes from his.
“No.” His eyes darkened. He exited the car, walking around to the other side and pulling my door open. “Here you go.”
“Thank you,” I said. “You have such great manners. Most Americans believe chivalry is dead.”
He nodded, but it was obvious he didn’t understand a segment of what I’d said. Language barrier, I reminded myself. Chivalry was a three-syllable toughie.
“I’ll walk you up,” he said.
“No – that’s not necessary.” I freed myself from his grasp.
“Okay, then. I watch til you get safe inside. I stand
“What are you doing?” I gripped the sides of the car as he raced through an alley, knocking a garbage can on its side.
“We have company.”
I stared at him, wondering if all of his English would be drawn straight from movie quotes.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to do this. I know practically everybody in the Twin Cities. I grew up here. I’m sure it’s just a friend being stupid.”
He glanced at me, a smile turning up the corner of his mouth.
For a moment, my heart froze. What if he knew who I was? What if he was taking me somewhere to lock me away forever? How had he found out?
When he spoke, his voice was gentle. “I will get my beautiful girl home safely.”
“Aww, honey, how sweet of you!” I gushed. I fanned myself. Honestly, this guy.
Andrey whipped in and out of the alleys of Minneapolis, apologizing every time he saw my hand reach for the stabilizer. Soon enough, Clay was nowhere to be seen.
** **
“Now, where are you going?” he asked. He leaned over and rested his hand on my leg. Or rather, my furry knee. I picked a few stray leaves out of my quickly deteriorating onesie.
His English was better than I’d initially thought – it was just the tough idiosyncrasies of the English language that tripped him up. But then again, didn’t the subtleties of English screw us all up at one time or another?
I shot him a look out of the corner of my eye and began giving him directions to my ex-boyfriend’s house. Blake and I had parted on less than stellar terms a few years before, but like everyone, we ran into each other once in awhile in the bar scene, which would end in a sloppy hook up about fifty percent of the time. He’d been my introduction to bad boys – a sports car driving, music bumping, jersey wearing, tattooed vice for nearly two years.
He was the closest person to this area, and the only person I felt comfortable enough with breaking into their place to use the phone. If he happened to be out, well, I knew the loose windows from experience.
When we pulled up in front of the post-college dwelling, Andrey didn’t even blink an eye.
“Welp, thanks!” I pulled the handle to swing the door open. It was locked. “Uh…”
“I’m not letting you go anywhere,” he said. His sweet smile contradicted his firm words. I was extremely confused. Was this guy one of the bad eggs? Or did he just not speak English very well and did not understand that trapping people in their car was kidnapping?
“Will you date me?” he asked.
“Go… on a date?” I asked.
“Yes. Date. With your hot buns.”
I smiled. I knew I shouldn’t. But when he said hot buns I just wanted to give him a squeeze and a kiss on the cheek. If that should lead to something else, well so be it. Plus, it could give me a one-of-a-kind insider’s perspective on the Russian mob. “I’d really like that.”
“Really?”
Before I could correct myself and tell him ‘Sorry, but I don’t date strange mobsters,’ he lifted my hand and kissed it gently. His lips were soft.
“I should go now,” I said, yanking my eyes from his.
“No.” His eyes darkened. He exited the car, walking around to the other side and pulling my door open. “Here you go.”
“Thank you,” I said. “You have such great manners. Most Americans believe chivalry is dead.”
He nodded, but it was obvious he didn’t understand a segment of what I’d said. Language barrier, I reminded myself. Chivalry was a three-syllable toughie.
“I’ll walk you up,” he said.
“No – that’s not necessary.” I freed myself from his grasp.
“Okay, then. I watch til you get safe inside. I stand
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