We walk across the warm wood floors to a place at the very end of the table, as far into the room as we can go. Romeo sits beside me, and we watch as a violinist walks into the room and starts to play for us. It’s incredibly soothing, echoing magically in this space, and Romeo reaches over to pour me a glass of red wine. I thank him with a nod and continue to glance around the room, taking in the artwork on the walls, encrusted by cream molding with gold accents delicately twisting around the curves and edges.
After what feels like only a few moments, the room begins to fill with the rest of the models. One by one, they find their seats and begin to do as Romeo and I are. It's silent and peaceful for only a few moments longer. Then the louder models arrive in a group, changing the atmosphere to make it feel more like a party than a meditation space. I don’t mind the change of pace, though; I’m quite used to this type of behavior, and in a way, I enjoy it.
Although, I think I enjoy it a lot more because Romeo is here. I’m certain that’s because I can hopefully get further information from him tonight. If I can get him to keep drinking the rest of the night, hopefully, he’ll open up more during leisure time tonight. I know what he wants from me. He probably wants it even more now since he’s seen me in the throes.
Perhaps I can give in ever so slightly, just enough to get something out of him. Anything so I don’t lose this job— my one chance, my big break. Hopefully, it’s easier than I’m making it out to be, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll pull something out of him that will give more leeway to the Bratva to attack sooner than we thought. That should guarantee my spot in the Mikhailov family.
“Aren’t you going to drink?” I point to Romeo’s barely sipped glass of wine. “You should drink.” I plaster on a flirting grin and summon a sparkle in my eyes, so he does what I tell him to.
“Hm.” He appears to be thinking for a moment, looking up at the ceiling.
“I will if you do.”
“Do?”
“Drink. I’ll only drink as much as you do.”
“That’s a dumb rule.”
“Maybe I think it’s dumb that you’re trying to make me drink more.” I lick my bottom lip and look at our glasses, brimming with the possibility that this could backfire on me entirely.
How badly do I want to know his secrets?
16
ROMEO
I’m definitely drunk, but so is Kira. We’re stumbling up to the third-floor theater with the rest of the group, snickering to each other about the way our feet sound when they hit the steps at the same time. Every time it happens, we lose it, and I think actual tears are rolling down her cheeks. I want to wipe them away, even though they are tears of laughter.
Fuck, now I’m admiring her cheeks. Like the way they grow pink when she drinks. Not just a little flustered, they’re full-on strawberry pink. It’s fucking cute, and I hate that I think that anything about someone could be cute, but I do. I really don’t want to watch this movie because I know by the state we’re both in, I could fuck her in a storage closet, and she would let me.
My biggest regret about today on the beach is that I didn’t actually get to fuck her. She seemed offset by the entire thing, but I’m glad we feel normal again. I don’t understand why she would have gotten so peeved at me anyway. It makes no sense. We like each other, right? Surely she wants to fuck at some point too. So, why is she being so difficult? At least if I fuck her, I can get these pathetic obsessive thoughts out of my head instead of worrying about what she thinks all the time. It's honestly exhausting to deal with.
It feels like I’m fighting my mind double than usual and triple than on the hardest days. She’s honestly the most captivating and frustrating human I’ve ever been around, ever needed to fuck despite the consequences— though I’m struggling to see any at the moment. She seems to think it will do something to our co-worker relationship or something. I think that’s bullshit, and I know— can tell by the look in her deep green eyes— that she wants me to fuck her for real.
“Let's go down here.” I grab her hand and pull her along a random hallway as she giggles, fighting my grip on her wrist unsuccessfully.
“Wait. The rest of the group is back there.” She’s shaking her head with a grin, perfect brows furrowed.
“But the most important people are right here.” I pull her around another corner, until I’m sure we’re alone. There’s music playing in these hallways from a speaker, and I’m pretty sure it's to let anyone know that’s still in their room that there is an essential activity. She toggles between my eyes, a small smile still pressed over her plump red lips.
“This is Mozart,” I remark, and she looks up, eyes trailing the ceiling to find the speaker. We’re nearly an inch apart, and I’m high off the scent of her. Everything’s blurry, but when I look at her, she’s perfectly clear. Sparking at the edges like the memory of her is burning its way into my brain. I grab her waist and pull it to mine, and her hands raise defensively. Before she can push me away, I grab them. Place one on my shoulder and keep the other in mine as I find her small waist again.
I lead us into a dance, and she shakes her head, but doesn’t stop me as I twirl us around to the instrumental song.
“It’s not Mozart, by the way.” She laughs as I spin her around by her fingertips, then pull her back to my chest.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Emile Pandolfi.”
“Who?”
“The song isSomewhere Out There.”
“Again, who?”
Her eyes tilt up to mine, and we stop moving.