Naomi & Bradley, It All Comes Down… (Vodka & Vice, the Series Book 1) (9 page)

BRADLEY

Thursday, February 11

I wake up feeling like I’ve been run over by a Cold War era tank.  Luba is curled up next to me like a tabby cat.  I untangle myself from her crazy long legs and roll to the far side of her bed.  After the shoot yesterday, a bunch of us went to a vodka bar in midtown.  Somehow we ended up at Vaselka, eating pierogies drenched in sour cream and drinking borscht.  Russian comfort food.  Now my mouth tastes like onion, vodka, and tobacco and I can’t remember if we had sex or not.  I check under the sheets, see I still have my briefs on, breathe a sigh of relief.  It’s not conclusive proof, of course, but I can’t ask her.  I’m still a gentleman, after all.  Coffee becomes my focus.  I sit up, wince, take my giant throbbing head with me as I stand.  Easy, guy, one step at a time.  As I shuffle toward the kitchenette of her rented condo, I hear laughter from behind me.

“What kind of Russian man can’t hold his vodka?”  Luba taunts me from the bed.

“A suburban American one?”  I answer and she laughs again.  I’ve made it to the kitchenette.  “Where do you keep your coffee?”  I ask.

“In here,” she answers, patting the bed sheet just below her navel.  “Come and get it.”

The truth is, I can’t.  I tried early this morning, I really did.  But she looks and smells so damn much like Sabina, all I could think about was that horrible morning so many years ago, and my mother.  Once a man thinks of his mother, sex is out of the question.  Now I have a different reason for resisting her.  I feel guilty about Naomi.  I know we’re broken up and probably forever, but I just can’t help feeling like sex with Luba would be cheating. 

I ignore her come-on.  “You know what?  I’m gonna go get some.  I think there’s a café downstairs?  You want anything?”

“Dahling, you know what I want.  Why won’t you give Luba what she wants?  You are a—what is the word?  Tease.  Da.  Bradley is a big tease.”  She pretend pouts, and even in her morning wreckage, she’s stunning.  What’s wrong with me anyway?  I should definitely hit that.  No straight man alive would leave right now to buy coffee.  I dress anyway, head for the door.  She changes her tactics and starts hurling Russian insults at me.  “Cyka, blyat!”  Bitch whore.  Now it’s my turn to laugh.  Mother used that one on my nannies quite frequently.

When I return with two scalding coffees and some pastries, Luba is gone.  Only a haze of cigarette smoke is left in her wake.  There’s a note on the counter written in half English, half Russian.  I translate it in my mind as I read:

Bradley—you cannot resist me much longer.  If there is one thing Luba likes it is a challenge.  I will meet you later for lunch and then we can continue our beautiful dance.  Around 2, Bryant Park Café.  Kisses, darling.

Beautiful dance, my ass.  I will not meet her.  I’m going to Manny’s, then grabbing a protein shake, and even though it’s gonna hurt like hell, I’m heading right to the gym.  Pierogies are not in my training plan.  Luba is going to have to dance alone.

NAOMI

Friday, February 12th

I walk in my door, and practically trip over mounds of shopping bags, Viktor’s big feet, and a muscular arm offering me a Black Russian, my new favorite drink.

“Kukolka,” Viktor shouts.  That’s his new name for me.  I think it’s the Russian equivalent of "baby doll," and that works for me.  I smile.  Bradley never offered me anything after a long day at work but a “Hey.”

“What’s all this?”  I motion around to my white carpet, noting bright colors, sashes, and a boot box.

“For you darling girl.  I wanted to buy you something.  I can’t wait to see you model them all.”

I grin.  An honest, happy smile.  Man, this guy is good to me.  Too bad he’s leaving in three months. I’m going to miss him.

“C’mon, try them all on.”

“Now?  What about dinner?”

“I’m taking you out to eat, but first, I must see you in these.”

Viktor waves his arms about, grabbing all the packages and racing to my bedroom.  Before I can think straight, he returns, scoops me up in his arms, and kisses me hotly.

“I missed you KuKu.”  His term for ‘muffin’ I think.  Viktor’s heavy on the nicknames and nimble with his hands too.  He’s very affectionate, always touching me, smoothing my hair, holding my hand.

He’s also very active with his tongue, this giant Russian.  I let him go at it.  He’s one hot kisser.

Before I know what’s happening, he tosses me onto the bed, crawls over my legs, up my stomach, and presses against my breasts, as he whispers, “You’ll let me have you, all of you, today Kukolka?”

“Viktor, we’re roomies, just friends.”

“No, more than that.  Are you still mooning over that jackass that hurt you so much?  That asshat?”

In one of my weaker moments, I told Viktor about my last month with Bradley.  The hurtful things he’d said in our last text, how he’d brought a teenager into my loft and enjoyed dominant/submissive games when I was gone.  Everything.  Only, I did not mention my old boyfriend’s name.  It still hurts to say it out loud.  Whenever I talk about him to Viktor, I call Bradley by my derogatory name,
asshat
. It always makes Viktor smile.

“I’m just not ready to go all the way with you Viktor.  We haven’t known each other that long.”

“How long did you wait before you let this other man, this asshat have you?”

Oh, he was jealous.  Viktor has a hot, passionate nature and a temper.  I shrug, Bradley and I had spent that first night knotted in sweaty sheets, not even getting up to drink a glass of water.

“Viktor, you’re leaving soon for this new job.  I’m not getting hurt again.”

“I wish I could slug this asshat in the face for what he did to you.  Let me make you forget him…”  Viktor pleads, running his fingers under my bra.

I wiggle and he grins.  I can feel his heat against me and I reach up and lick his wide lips.

“Let me see what you bought me first?”

I wink and he relents, rolling over and taking me with him.

“You’re driving me crazy.  Let me see, put it all on.  Strip down, let me at least look at you.”

I obey him.  It’s easier.  And that’s the new Naomi right?  Sassy and free spirited?

When I’m down to my half-cup, pushup bra, and thong, I turn and see Viktor’s eyes darken. 

“I love you in turquoise.”

“I know, you always say that.”

“Hurry, I’m in pain, dress KuKu!”

An hour later, I’ve put on and taken off five outfits.  Viktor’s bought me Russian bohemian clothing from some secret shop he says all the American Russian women use.  He would know.

Viktor has purchased small gifts before, but nothing like this.  He hinted at receiving a bonus last night, money from an old LA job.  I don’t question him.  The same way I never probed into Bradley’s business. 

I open all the sacks and gasp.  He’s purchased a royal blue dress, full-skirted with lace see-through inserts at the waist, shoulder, and neckline.  A white shapeless dress, with the shoulders peeking through large cutouts, and the sleeves and hem decorated with heavy fringe.  A peasant tunic of black, short and showing almost everything, which Viktor insists can only be worn with the knee-high black, suede boots.  Next is a heavy turquoise shawl, which he lays over a nightgown of a white slip dress.  And my favorite and the outfit I leave on, tight dark jeans, with an even tighter navy and red striped knit top stuck in, and covered with a faux fur, brown vest.  When he sees me in this outfit he leaps off the bed, seizes my hair and messes it with his long fingers.  He sprays my black tresses with styling foam until we’re both choking, then he sorts through a small sack and removes a large silk scarf.  He wraps it around my head, over my forehead like an Indian headdress, and drops several weighty, beaded necklaces over my head.

“There!  Beautiful.  Put on the boots again.  You are my gorgeous Kukolka!”

This man is easy to please; I smirk and turn to look in my mirror.

“Wow!  I do look hot, and so different.”

“Hot?  Simply hot?  Hell, you are a goddess, perfection.”

Viktor was so good for me right now.  If anyone could raise my self-esteem and bring joy back into my life, it was my new mad Russian, Viktor.

BRADLEY

Friday, February 12th

The workout is always the same: abs first, weights and squats next, cardio last.  Don’t ask me why; I don’t argue with Miguel.  He’s the head trainer at my gym and he has the body of an Ultimate Fighter.  If he said I should smear peanut butter all over my body and stick bananas in my ears, I would.  Usually I feel spent and cleaned of all my toxins after a workout, but not today.  Pierogies are sticky.  I remember Viktor talking about the Russian baths and how great they are for detox.  I’d heard of them but never been, so I text him and an hour later, we are sitting, naked, with several other men in a dark, dripping cave-like room.  There is steam, there is eucalyptus, there is sweat. 

Viktor half whispers, “Thanks for the talk about my roommate, dude, you were totally right.”  He grins big.  “I bought her a bunch of clothes and dressed her up so good.  Ladies love clothes, for sure.  No better foreplay than dressing them up and thinking about taking it all off later, you know?”  A frown crossed his lips.

“Uh oh.  Let me guess, she took the gifts, wore the clothes, probably let you pay for dinner and then, nada?”  One look at his expression tells me I’m right.  I shake my head in solidarity with my comrade.  “Chicks.”

“No, but, the thing is, I think I’m really falling for this one.  She’s like, no one else I’ve ever known.  Even these little flaws, like she has this weird circular scar on her ankle I just can’t stop tracing.  You know?”

I remember something from a couple of years ago.  “Whatever happened to that Chinese girl you were dating?  You guys were pretty close.  What was her name?”

“Lily?  Yeah, I thought she might be the one, but her parents hated me.  Always asking what part of Russia I was from and I’d be like, Westchester, but they couldn’t let it go that I wasn’t Chinese.  Lily would say to them, we’re in America; it doesn’t matter where we started.  She might as well have been talking to the walls.  In the end, the pressure was too much for her and she broke it off with me, married a nice Chinese doctor.”  He makes a sucking sound through his teeth.

I decide to change the subject.  “I slept at Luba’s last night.” 

“Not much sleeping if you were in bed with that one,” he answered, smiling a strange smile.  I wondered if he had ever gone home with her.  “She’s wildcat in the sack.”  Wonder gone. 

“Nothing happened, thank god.  She’s probably pissed as hell at me now.  I blew her off to work out and come here.”  I laugh.

“Don’t tell me you’re sitting here with all these hairy beasts when you could be laying on top of that little bit of Heaven?  Idiot.”  He shakes his head and we both survey the unsavory dwellers of our sweat cave: old men with rolls of fat and bulbous alcoholic noses dripping into their bushy beards.  Viktor nods his head toward the door and I’m with him:  time to go.

We shower and dress in silence, but on the way out into the frigid evening, I stop him.  “Listen, I’m kind of miserable right now and who knows?  Maybe Luba would be good for a little post breakup fun.  But if you have someone you are really into, take my advice and don’t let her go.  I had a girl—the best girl—and I just let her go.”

“You going to start singing a country music song now?”  He says in that way us men do when we’re in danger of talking about actual feelings.  I don’t resent it.  What good would it do to spill my guts about Naomi to him?  Won’t bring her back.

“Yeah, it’s called, ‘Ain’t no girl as good as a steak and a beer.  You want to go grab some dinner?”

“Not tonight, my friend, I have to go meet my little KuKu for something called a poetry slam.  I don’t know what it is, but if it makes her happy, I know what’s happening afterward,” he says with a wink.

“Cuckoo?”  I ask.

“Not like a clock, man, like Russian for muffin.  She loves my little nicknames for her.  I think it turns her on.”

I wonder to myself why I rarely spoke Russian to Naomi.  I guess I thought I wanted to play the worldly New Yorker to her, not the naïve immigrant.  Besides, my skills aren’t nearly as strong as Viktor’s.  He used to spend summers in Russia, on the Baltic Sea.  I spent them in my pool, alone most of the time. 

We reach the corner and he says goodbye, off to a beautiful bohemian night with the girl of his dreams.  After he leaves, I remember something he said about her, something about a scar in the shape of a circle on her ankle.  So strange.  Naomi has a similar scar.  She got it when she was twelve and took a bad roll on her bike.  I remember when she told me about it and how painful it was and I had this intense urge to go back in time and catch her before she fell.

I sigh, take out my phone and punch Luba’s number.  I just don’t want to be alone again.