But for some reason, Natasha seems to like me. Maybe she can sense my attraction to her—women are intuitive that way. She looks up at me with big sea green eyes like I’m someone worth having, and it shreds me from the inside.
Because I’m not.
I’m definitely not worth having.
And more than that, I’m not available.
Natasha
I use a keycard in the gleaming elevator to get to the top floor of the Kremlin, the high rise on Lake Michigan that houses most of the Russians who live in Chicago, including myself. Like every time I come to the top floor, my pulse quickens. Before the doors open, I put on fresh lip gloss and fluff my hair. Today I’m on a mission.
I shouldn’t have access to the penthouse floor, but Dima gave me this card when he booked his first massage with me. I thought it meant something at the time. The tattooed bratva member had been so attentive every time I’d been in his suite, working for his boss.
But then he rescheduled. And rescheduled again.
Four times.
And then the two times I gave him a massage, he acted stiff and stand-offish. So yeah, my hopes for something happening between me and the hot bad boy on the top floor have gradually dwindled to nothing.
I roll my massage table out of the elevator and stand in front of his door now, lifting my hand to knock. He opens it before my knuckles hit the wood. “Amerikanka.”
He calls me American. It seems like a friendly-enough moniker, but I’m not sure. It could be a dig. I think it’s a joke because I’ve fully integrated into American society. I worked hard to expunge the Russian accent from my speech. No one who met me would know I didn’t move here until I was nine.
“Hi.” Butterflies flap their wings in my tummy at the sight of him. He’s tall, lanky and blond. His black-framed glasses and friendly face make him look more GQ than street thug.
But he is a street thug, as my mother just reminded me by phone before I came up here. None of these men are safe, and they are definitely not for me, according to her rules.
Dima wears a worn Matrix t-shirt and a faded pair of jeans. His hair is rumpled, like he’s been shoving his fingers through it. He’s not beefy, but he has lowkey muscles, despite being a computer geek. IT Specialist is the official title, but I’d bet my last penny on him being a hacker. One of Russia’s finest, no doubt. The guy is always at a computer, and he seems hella smart.
“Hey.” He scowls at the massage table like it’s an unruly dog. Snatching it out of my grasp, he carries it in.
“It has wheels, you know.” I follow him in. I try to banter, to put him at ease the way he used to do for me when I came up to massage his boss’s wife during her pregnancy, but when I’m in his room, when we’re alone, I never see that easy-going smile or joking banter of his. Instead, he almost seems defensive. Like he’s mad at me over something.
He doesn’t respond.
“Or did you just want to show off your superior strength?” When he doesn’t answer, just starts unzipping the bag like he’s the therapist and I’m the client, I add, “I’m already well-acquainted with your muscles, you know.”
Yes, I’m shameless with my flirting. It’s because he never does anything about it! I could have sworn this guy liked me. I thought he was asking me to massage him as an opening to… more.
And no, I’m not that kind of massage therapist. I don’t do happy endings. But I could have sworn Dima was interested. Anytime I was in the main penthouse suite, his gaze would follow me. Sometimes there was a light touch—his hand at my lower back, like we were on a date.
And then the most glaring evidence: his hard-ons during the two massages I’ve given him. The tension he never releases. It’s like the guy suffers through my sessions instead of relaxing and enjoying them.
But he never asks me out or flirts back. I even tried asking him out, very casually. I asked if he was going to see his roommate’s band play at Rue’s Lounge. He said no, then showed up, didn’t speak to me, and glared at everyone who talked to me. And when I say everyone, I don’t even mean guys hitting on me. I was sitting with his suitemates—the members of his bratva cell and one of their wives.
After that, I stopped waiting. Stopped expecting him to do anything about it. And I should stop flirting because I started seeing a guy a few weeks ago. A hot half-Russian guy who just started as a personal trainer at my gym.
I pull out the sheets and cover the table, turn on my massage music, and get out the oil. “I’ll just wait behind the door while you get undressed and lie facedown on the table,” I say in my best quiet spa voice. I swear I feel Dima’s gaze on my ass as I walk into the bathroom—the only place to go to give him privacy in his hotel-room-like bedroom setup. I wait until the rustling sounds go quiet and then knock before I come out.
I pull the sheet down to expose his back. All of the bratva members have tattoos. Some are the same, some are different. I’ve memorized every one of Dima’s, which I find the most fascinating. Most of the bratva guys’ tattoos are crude, probably made in prison with a penknife and ink from a broken pen. Dima sports colorful art down both his arms. Across his right shoulder blade and down his right biceps are a series of ones and zeros. Computer code. That’s why I’m banking on him being a hacker. The bratva’s tattoos depict their crimes. Their stints in prison. Their initiations to the brotherhood. Who they served. How long they’ve served. At least that’s what I’ve surmised. I know better than to ask.
I focus on his right shoulder to start with—it’s always the tightest, not that he ever complains. This probably sounds weird, but I relish touching Dima. He may not enjoy my massages, but I sure as hell enjoy giving them. I like the feel of his muscles under my palms. The scent of his aftershave, his stoic silence.
Today, like the other times I’ve massaged him, his hips go cockeyed the moment I touch him, a boner tilting his pelvis. It can’t be comfortable. If I were the bolder, fearless version of myself, I would lean down and with a purr in his ear, ask if he wanted me to work out that particular part of his anatomy.
But that’s not me. I’m not a sex-kitten. I’m just friendly, helpful Natasha, here to serve with a smile.
I work out the muscles of his deltoid and biceps then down his forearm to his fingers. Holding his hand makes the flutters start in my tummy again. Like the hands are a more intimate body part than all the other places I’m touching. Dima wears a slender gold band with a diamond chip on his pinkie finger. I’m guessing it means something to him because it doesn’t go with the rest of him. He’s not flashy, not the jewelry wearing type. I work down each finger individually. He has three X’s tattooed on his knuckles. All the guys on the top floor have them. I’m guessing they represent kills.
“So, I hear your brother runs a Friday night poker game.” I don’t know why my heart starts pounding so hard. It’s a little awkward, but all I have to do is get an invite to the game. This is my mission.
Alex, my new guy, really wants to go. He got super interested when he heard I lived in the Kremlin. I guess he’d heard about the game.
Dima stiffens even more than he was. When he doesn’t answer, I plow forward.
“May I come?”