Her face is beautiful.
I wasn’t hungry when I came in, but her body has me famished.
Even beneath the hideous waitress outfit, the ratty apron, the second-hand dress, I can see her curves. The old thing does a terrible job hiding them, which doesn’t matter. I’ll be getting her naked anyway.
My pants start to feel tight around my thighs, and I realize I’m getting hard underneath the table just by looking at her. Now that’s something that hasn’t happened to me since…well, I can’t remember the last time.
I’m actually anxious waiting fo
r her to get to my booth. I want to snap my fingers and yell at her to hurry up. It’s a strain to keep my cool. By the time she sits down, her chestnut hair spilling down across her delicate shoulders, her big brown eyes looking at me with such innocence, I’m ready to bust in my pants.
“What’s your name?” I ask her.
“Mia,” she replies, in a voice made of music as she sets a plate of peach cobbler between us.
“Mia. I’m Anton Todorov. Do you know who I am?”
She starts to shake her head, then I see the recognition in her eyes, and she stops. “Y-yes.”
“Good.” I smile. “Now, Mia. I want to tell you something, and I want you to listen carefully. You, Mia, are going to be my wife.”
Mia, bless her innocent soul, takes one look at my men, looks back at me, breathes a long sigh, then faints and falls straight down, face first into the plate of peach cobbler.
2
Mia
I wake up to Anton Todorov wiping my face with a napkin.
Anton-fricking-Todorov cleaning peach cobbler off my silly mug like a father wiping mac n’ cheese off his toddler son.
I blink a few times and pinch myself on the thigh just to make sure I’m not dreaming or that Leonardo DiCaprio isn’t incepting me. But when I look up, sure enough, there he is, staring into my soul with those piercing blue eyes.
Anton Todorov.
The Boss. The devil. Lucifer in the flesh. I don’t know how I didn’t recognize him earlier.
“What, are you my nurse?” It’s the only thing I can think to say.
Anton doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t kill me, so that’s a start.
“Comedian,” he replies, not giving anything away.
He’s like a robot—a robot built for two things: murder and sex, and I’m not sure which one he intends to do to me. His face looks like it was built by an algorithm designed to penetrate past a woman’s conscious brain and go straight to that primal spot inside her that makes her forget everything like common sense and caution.
He brushes a bit of creamy hair from my face, and his fingertips drag across my cheek. Rough, like a carpenter’s.
“Calluses,” I remark. “Shouldn’t your hands be soft like a Wall Street broker’s?”
His eyes briefly show something like amusement. “You don’t get to where I am by having other men do your dirty work.”
“Is that a sex joke?”
“Would you like it to be?”
“I have to get back to work,” I say. But as I try to get to my feet, he places a firm hand on my shoulder.
“You must have missed what I said, Peaches.”