Mother Russia
Vladimir drew a bath in the whirlpool in his bathroom, filled the tub with bubbles, and added a few drops of lavender essential oil to the warm sensual water. I was shell-shocked, but I tried to live in the moment and not be a killjoy over the fact he was leaving—forever—but I couldn’t help question why he had tried so hard to win me over only to dump me as soon as he got a little piece of my puzzle.
“Relax, angel. I’ll wash you.” He turned me around so my back was to him, took off his shirt, and sank us in the tub. He wet my hair and massaged a big glob of shampoo through my waves. Once he worked up a lather, he rinsed it off, ran a silky seaweed-colored conditioner through my hair, and then stacked my locks on top of my head in a freestyle bun.
With my hair up, he had a perfect view of my Christmas Eve Bullshit Boris had imprinted on me after the football game. He drove a bar of soap back and forth over the foot-stomp impression still hanging on between my shoulder blades. It was as if he thought he could magically erase it—or maybe he was rubbing it in.
While the conditioner set in, he scooted my body back and rested my head on his chest. He lifted my left leg, lathered it with soap, and commenced shaving. After both my legs were smooth, he ran a washcloth down my body, starting at my neck and working his way down to my feet, stopping at all ports on the journey south.
After he polished my body, he rinsed my hair and washed my face. Neither one of us said a word. I understood: I was disgusting. In his mind, the game was over. He had won. What use was I to him anymore? Now that the skank was clean enough to sit in one of his fancy cars, he could send me back home to my papa dirtier than I was before I left the house.
Bravo. Well done, Vladimir. It must feel awesome to con a virgin into letting you work your magic down there. Is there a special tattoo for that achievement?
Sophia huffed.
The devil pumped his fist.
I stood up and got out of the tub. Dirty gray suds clung to my body. I covered myself with a towel, collected my rumpled clothes off the floor, and scurried back to my bedroom to shower off the grime. I sent Boris a text and asked him to take me home. He would be giddy knowing he was rid of me once and for all.
I put myself back together, slid on my coat, and braided my wet hair as I waited in the kitchen for my keeper to show up. When Vladimir found me, I wouldn’t look at him.
“What’s wrong?”
“Boris is coming to get me. I asked him to take me home.” I hid my hands in my pockets. They were shaking like rattlesnake tails.
“Why?”
I sucked in a deep breath. “Stop pretending. You got what you wanted. Leave me alone and go back to Russia.”
God, I hate myself. He tried to put his arms around me, but I shoved him off. “Just open the gate. I’ll walk home.” I ran to the kitchen door.
He bear-hugged me from behind, pinning my arms at my side. “I don’t understand. What did I do?” He dragged me away from the door.
“Cut the shit. Let me go.”
“Talk to me. I honestly have no idea why you’re so upset.”
I struggled to get free which only made him squeeze me tighter. “You won, okay? Let me go.” I rocked my body side to side and back and forth to throw him off balance—no luck.
“You think I’m leaving you?”
Resilient and still high on the idea I could out-muscle him, I tried to weasel my way out of his arms. “Duh, genius. You are leaving me.”
He exhaled, and his body lightened like all the air had been let out of his soul. “Moy slomonnyy angel.”
“Don’t call me that. I Googled it, you jerk. I’m not ‘broken,’ and I’m not your ‘angel.’ Get off me. Let me go!”
He loosened his grip, and at the same time, I lunged forward, lost my balance, and crash-landed on the kitchen floor. Vladimir knelt beside me, scooped up my deflated body, and cradled me in his arms. I buried my face in his chest, hating myself for craving the warmth and comfort I felt cocooned in his arms.
“You are my world, Carter.” Vladimir picked up my right hand and kissed my knuckle. “I planned to do this in a more romantic way this evening, but you leave me no choice.” He pulled a gold ring with a huge blue-green stone out of his pocket and slid it on my finger. “This belonged to my mama. She’d want you to have it.”
My face was wet with tears, snot, and sweat. “Why?”
He studied my bewildered expression. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Carter. Marry me.”
I blinked at the exquisite engagement ring on my finger. “You want me to go back to Russia with you?”
Vladimir blotted my face with the sleeve of his starched shirt. “We have fine colleges in Russia—tennis courts, too. I’ll hire the best coaches to train you.”
As I considered Vladimir’s proposal, still curled up on his lap on the floor, the kitchen door opened. Boris towered over us with his arms crossed, stance wide, eyes narrowed. Nothing fazed the big guy.
“What do you say, angel?”
I couldn’t imagine living my life without Vladimir by my side. I needed him. I loved him. “Da,” I answered.
“Da?”
“Da, I’ll marry you.”
Boris exhaled, mentally exhausted by our crazy. Apparently, the pakhan hadn’t consulted with his sovietnik about his marital plans or our future together back home in Mother Russia.
Vladimir and I stood up.
“Surprise.” I held out my hand to show Boris Irina’s ring.
Boris patted Vladimir on the back, clutched his shoulders, and said something encouraging in Russian that made Vladimir smile. It looked like an endearing father-son kind of moment. Boris even called him “Vova,” which must be an affectionate nickname.
Boris turned to me. “Welcome to the family, lapsha.” My future papa-in-law of sorts pulled me in for a hug and kisses on my cheeks. He held out his fist for a celebratory bump. I lifted my hand, made a fist, and squinted in anticipation of the customary way-too-hard knuckle-knock. Boris lightly bumped my hand and gave me a tiny smile. “You’ll make a fine Russian.”