Quarantales: The Complete Contemporary Romance Box Set, page 22
Whatever, I’m done here. So done. I continue toward the exit but stop again when I find Vlad in front of the elevator doors.
“No leaving,” he reminds me. “You still have one more day until your time is up.”
Before I can answer, a voice behind me says something in Russian. Harsh and short.
I look over my shoulder to find Cheslav. His hands are loose at his side, and his expression is shadowed over with fury.
I brace, prepared to fight my way out of this penthouse if that’s what it takes.
But then Vlad says, “I will take you to your home now, Princess South Carolina. Sorry for mistake.”
So in the end, I don’t have to fight my way out of the Russian’s penthouse. Vlad takes me by the elbow and escorts me into the elevator.
I’m relieved. Or at least I should be.
But for some reason, it feels like my chest is cracking as I step into the elevator. And my eyes immediately find Cheslav again when I turn to face forward.
I look at him, wondering what parts of our time together were real and what parts were just his game.
He looks back at me, his eyes green ice.
Then the elevator closes.
Chapter Eleven
When I get home, I find my brother gone. There’s a hastily written post-it stuck to my door: Sorry, sis. Talked to Nat, and she said I can move back in.
I don’t know if he’s sorry about the position he put me in or for moving out. Either way…
I crumple up the post-it and toss it in the very smelly trash he didn’t bother to take out before leaving. Why do I have the feeling this is the last I’ll see of Clemson too—at least until he needs something else.
No matter what…
I know I promised my mother on her deathbed, and I love my brother. But sometimes it feels like I’m a doormat. Something that only gets used when he needs to wipe his feet.
After taking a shower and changing into my own clothes, I find about a thousand messages from my boss when I sit down at my laptop to check my work email. My firm has called a company-wide meeting about whether to switch to a remote work model into the foreseeable future. So even though I’m taking a sick day, I’ll have to go into the office.
Okay…
First, I do some funds shuffling between my personal savings account and the one I made to hold the money I set aside for my brother. Then I write a check for forty-three-thousand dollars to Cheslav Rustanov and I drop it in one of my pre-stamped envelopes. After that, I pick up everything I’ll need to work from home.
“You don’t look sick to me, beauty queen,” my boss says when I show up at the office.
That’s one of the things I wish I had known before another cheerleader convinced me to enter the Beauty Queen of America state pageant with her—or as most folks call it, Queen America. Back then, I’d just thought it would be an interesting way to earn some scholarship money. I had no idea I’d actually win.
But the thing about winning something like that is it comes to define you. So many people at work still call me Princess South Carolina, it’s not even funny. And just because I paraded across the stage in a bikini a couple of times, people think they can say anything they want to me. Because in their eyes, all I am is a title without feelings or a soul.
The memory of Cheslav sneering about how weak I am hits me again.
“Luckily, I’m pretty recovered,” I answer my boss, working hard to keep the resentment out of my voice. “If I was still too sick to work, I wouldn’t have been able to come into the office.”
“Everyone’s making too big a deal of it if you ask me,” a senior associate says later in the meeting. “Hey, Princess South Carolina, you think they’ll cancel the Beauty Queen of America pageant because of this flu bug going around?”
I shrug and sink down further in my seat. It’s crazy to think that just a few hours ago, I was in some rich hockey player’s penthouse having sex so good, it felt a little bit like love.
But it wasn’t. I force the memories of the four days with Cheslav to the back of my mind. Then I vote along with the majority of my co-workers to switch to a remote work model. And after work, I drop the letter I pre-stamped into the post office’s drive-up mailbox on my way home. It feels pretty dang formal.
Bye, Cheslav.
Bye, Illusion.
I’m back in the real world now.
And I’m done with Cheslav Rustanov.
Chapter Twelve
Except I’m not done with Cheslav Rustanov. Almost a month and no period later, I buy a pregnancy test along with all the food items I’ll need for the week on my Sunday grocery run.
I bury the test with frozen ravioli and ice cream I managed to find in the freezer aisle, but the cashier still pauses when she sees it. “Good luck, hon,” she says before scanning it through.
“Thank you,” I mumble even though I’m not sure if she’s rooting for me having a baby or not.
With COVID cases on the rise across the state, there were all sorts of rumors swirling that South Carolina was going to get hit with a stay-at-home order too.
Either way, less than an hour later, I know for a certainty that wishes of good luck don’t affect final outcomes. Two lines stare back at me from my bathroom sink. Two lines that mean I’m definitely pregnant.
All the cuss words go off in my head. What am I going to do? How am I going to handle this?
I stare at the test, totally paralyzed. I’m not weak like Cheslav called me. I’ve gone out of my way to be strong since my mother died.
But life feels very overwhelming right now. And it’s hard not to break down and cry after finding out I’m pregnant with a baby I didn’t plan for—in the middle of a pandemic. And the athlete who blackmailed me into having four days of hardcore sex with him is the father!
For a few moments, panic threatens to overwhelm me, but then I remind myself…strong black woman. I’m not going to freak out. I’m going to think and logic my way through this.
Okay, first question, am I keeping it? The answer to that question comes back a quick yes. I’m twenty-eight and at a point in my life where I can see myself being a good mom. And I have way more resources than my mom did.
The panic starts to recede as I run the numbers on my 2021 with a child in the mix. I can do this. At least I think I can.
I think about calling Cynda. But she has enough drama in her life. Some bitter doctor she used to date became her boss for, like, a whole minute before he fired her. Then he moved in with her—well not with her exactly. He’s living in the back house of the home she grew up in—but the point is, her life is a big old mess, and I feel bad adding my drama to it.
Not for the first time, I wish I could get in contact with Gina. She has a way of being encouraging, even when the odds are stacked against you. And I could use some encouragement right now.
But Gina sent Cynda and me a short email a couple of weeks ago, saying that she was visiting some aunt in Canada. To say we’d been surprised to read this was an understatement. We’d known her mother was Canadian—that had been all over her Queen America package.
But as far as we knew, she’d never actually been to Canada. And she’d never mentioned an aunt. It would be great if we could confirm that she’d made it to her destination okay. But she hadn’t answered any of our emails or texts. And her phone had gone straight to voicemail when we tried to call her.
So not only is Gina not available to talk, I’m worried sick about her.
Okay, I decide, setting the pregnancy test on the counter, no CPA study for me today.
I spend most of the day eating pizza, cookies, and Jeni’s Gooey Butter Cake ice cream and binging Tiger King on Netflix.
I end up falling asleep on the couch, which means I miss the buzzing of my usual radio alarm. So I’m more than a little discombobulated when I wake up to the sound of my Ring device informing me that there’s someone at my front door.
Who could it be? I don’t think I have anything coming from Amazon.
When I check my Ring’s feed from my Amazon Show, all I can see is a badge being held up in front of the camera.
“Ma’am, if you can open the door. I have some questions about the disappearance of Gina Bryant.”
My heart rate spikes. Oh no, Gina had disappeared, just as I suspected, and now the police were here to question me about it. I rush to the door, eager to be of assistance.
But I stop when I get a good look at the man standing on the front step of my condo. I’ve never met him before in real life, but I recognize him immediately from the pictures Gina posted on Instagram since he’s not wearing a mask.
It’s Tommy. Dressed in a short-sleeved black police uniform, he looks way more official and a lot paler than he did in the vacation pictures Gina posted on Instagram last summer. I guess you could call him handsome. He has wavy red hair that sort of puts me in mind of Prince Harry and an affable smile to match. I can see why Gina mistook him for a prince charming when he asked her out after her shift at Magic Peaches. But what’s Gina’s Georgia police sergeant boyfriend doing at my front door?
“Hi, Billie, it’s so nice to finally meet you. Although I wish it had been under better circumstances. Can I come in?”
Chapter Thirteen
Tommy has an accent, but it’s not Southern. I vaguely remember Gina saying something about him having transferred down to Atlanta from somewhere else. She’d thought it was so cute that he was an Irish American cop with a thick Boston accent?
But right now, I don’t find him nearly as charming as Gina did.
“No, you can’t come in,” I answer. “Wait here please, while I go get my mask.”
I leave the door open and turn to the bookcase where I keep all the cloth masks I’ve been using for grocery store runs.
I hear the screen door creak open behind me just as I get the mask on, and when I turn around, there’s Tommy standing inside my townhouse like I invited him in.
“I told you not to come in,” I say, every alarm instinct in my body going off.
“I’ve just got a few questions,” he answers.
His tone is technically reassuring, and the door’s still open, but I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all. “You can ask me anything you want from the other side of my door.”
He continues as if I said nothing at all. “You and Cynda were calling Gina non-stop until all of a sudden you just stopped a few weeks ago. That was only a few days after she disappeared.”
He looks genuinely distressed, but I have to ask, “How do you know we’ve been calling?”
Tommy shakes his head like what I’m talking about is neither here nor there. “She took her car but left her phone behind, which is why I was real scared after she disappeared.”
“Did you file a missing person report?” I ask him.
“Our department is overstretched with all this COVID talk. People are acting crazy. They can’t give a missing person’s case the time it deserves, so I’m handling this one myself. That’s why if you know where she is, you’ve gotta tell me. I’m worried sick about my girl.”
Worried sick…those were the exact words I’d used with Cynda last Saturday during our monthly call. But as worried as I am about my friend, something in my gut is telling me that if Gina didn’t even send him an email like she did Cynda and me, that’s because she doesn’t want Tommy to know where she is.
I think of all the suspicions I’ve had over the years. Cynda had been calling him controlling from the start of his relationship with Gina. And there was something really off about the way he’d made her quit her job. I also didn’t like their couple photos. Instead of awwing over their pics, I often found myself noting how he didn’t put his whole arm around her, but kind of half-hugged her. Gripping her shoulder tight like she was a perp he was afraid would get away.
“I don’t know where she is,” I answer carefully.
But I guess I don’t sound convincing. In a flash, his face goes from concerned to angry. “You’re lying. You know where she’s run off to. You better tell me. Tell me now.”
“Run off to,” I repeat with all the alarm bells going off in my head. “I thought you were afraid she disappeared.”
Tommy glares at me.
And I’m so scared. For both Gina and myself. But I stand my ground, refusing to back down.
Our standoff is interrupted by the loud creak of my screen door once again opening.
Both Tommy and I look up to see Cheslav coming through my front door.
My chest fills with a strange relief at the sight of him, tall and towering in a blazer and jeans. At least he’s a known quantity, and unlike Tommy, he’s wearing a mask.
“What is going on here?” he asks, looking between Tommy and me.
And even though he’s wearing a mask, I can tell he’s not happy. Not happy at all.
“Chess? Chess Rustanov! Whoa, I can’t believe you’re here!”
Tommy recognizes Cheslav immediately, even with the mask.
Cheslav tilts his head at Tommy. “You are hockey fan?”
“Boston born and bred!” Tommy answers with pride in his voice. “I was at Game One of the series when you and Keane won the Stanley Cup.”
Cheslav nods. “That was good series.”
Then he says to me, “I played for the Boston Hawks at beginning of my career.”
“Yeah, shame about Keane losing his leg. Team wasn’t the same after you lost him, huh?”
“No, it wasn’t,” Cheslav agrees, his tone casual. But then his voice hardens as he says, “You will leave now.”
The easy going smile slithers off Tommy’s face. “Wait a minute. I have a few more questions. You see, my girl is missing, and I think Billie here might know something about that.”
Cheslav glances at me then returns his cold green eyes to Tommy. “You have no mask, and I suspect no warrant. You can come back when you have both.”
Now it’s Tommy’s and Cheslav’s stare down.
And Tommy seems a lot more intimidated by Cheslav than he was by me.
After a few tense moments, Tommy reaches for his shirt pocket. “Let me just give you my card,” he starts to say.
“Do you want his card, Billie?” Cheslav asks without looking away from their stare down.
“No,” I answer, my voice a little stronger now than it was when it was just me facing down Tommy.
“She does not want your card,” Cheslav says to Tommy. “My employee is standing right outside. You can hand him your little card if you really must give it to someone.”
Tommy’s hand wilts away from his pocket.
Another tense moment…then he leaves without another word.
I let out a sigh of relief as he goes through the screen door.
But then instead of following him out, Cheslav goes to the door and closes it.
I swallow.
Yes, Tommy is gone.
But now I have to deal with Cheslav.
“What was that about?” Cheslav demands. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” I answer.
Funny, I didn’t notice how messy my front room was until right this moment. I pick up the pizza box and empty cartons of Jeni’s Gooey Butter Cake ice cream. “What—what are you doing here?”
Cheslav isn’t a vampire—I’m almost sure about that. But the intense way he’s looking at me makes me feel like I’ve invited one into my home. “I came to see you, Billie.”
“Okay, hold on for a sec. I’ll be right back,” I say as I take the mess through the swinging door into the kitchen.
At least the door is supposed to swing. Cheslav catches it before it can rotate close and follows me into the kitchen like I didn’t ask him to wait for me in the front room.
Unfortunately, because I’m a hopeless southerner, I have to ask, “Would you like something to drink? Water? Coffee?”
Cheslav looks around my condo’s practical kitchen with a sneer. The kitchen isn’t tiny. It was the main selling point when I bought this place. But he takes up so much space, it suddenly seems small. I suddenly seem small. Everything I have suddenly seems small.
“Coffee,” he eventually answers. “Three sugars. No milk.”
I go over to my Keurig and grab a K-cup of the strongest brew I have in the machine.
“Have you eaten breakfast yet?” he asks behind me. “I can have Vlad—”
“I’m fine with cereal,” I answer before he can offer up his manservant again. “And I’m sure Vlad has better things to do than running around getting me food.”
“I assure you; he does not,” Cheslav answers.
I’m too tired and freaked out by Tommy’s visit to argue with him. So I just push the button on the coffee maker and think about how crazy it is to have him here in my condo.
The coffee is done before I want it to be. I set that cup aside and grab a Starbucks Blonde roast.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Making myself a coffee too.”
“Is it decaf? Caffeine isn’t good for babies.”
I stop suddenly realizing what I was about to do. Cheslav is right. Caffeine isn’t good for babies. Luckily he said something—
That grateful thought trails off when the new penny drops. And I turn to face him, all thoughts of coffee forgotten.
He regards me, eyes blazing. “When?” he asks. “When were you going to tell me you are pregnant?”
Chapter Fourteen
He knows. Cheslav knows I’m pregnant. But how?
A dark thought occurs to me. “Oh my God, did you have me followed?”
“That was not necessary. After slip-up, I set calendar date to come visit. Today is April 6th, exactly thirty days after my seed found its way inside of you.”
I stare at him wide-eyed. “Why would you do that?”
He shrugs, like showing up at my condo unannounced is no big deal. “We Rustanovs have a bad history with secret baby. I wanted to be sure. When I see pizza box and all the ice cream, I am sure.”
