Wager
If Ryan hadn’t come to the house when he did, I may not have been breathing by kickoff. Instead, the boss called up a connection and reserved a private box at the stadium for the four of us. To top it off, Boris arranged for a limo to take us there in style. En route to the game, Boris popped a bottle of champagne. What we were celebrating I did not know, but I was certain it had something to do with Ryan.
The boss must have had one hell of a hangover like I did, but he hid it well. He dressed in a dark blue pinstriped suit with a long, luxurious sable fur coat over top. He was acting cool, but the crazy was shooting out of his eyes like a laser light show. Boris had on his usual all black ensemble with a fat gold chain around his neck and a black leather fur-trimmed winter coat. The deep freeze had officially set in.
Boris always looked like he wanted to kill someone, usually me, but the boss was way beyond his usual frustration level. And when the game was over and we said our goodbyes, I would be back at the mansion with the big bad gun-toting Russians, out in the middle of the woods, surrounded by barbed wire and a pack of wolves. I didn’t stand a chance.
“That’s a nice coat,” Ryan said. He knew I’d never choose to wear a real fur.
“It’s a loaner,” I said.
“Does that belong to your girlfriend, sir?” Ryan asked the boss.
A devilish grin crept up on his face. “Yes, my beautiful girlfriend.”
“I’m sure she looks just as hot in it as my girlfriend does,” Ryan said.
Oh, God.
“Your girlfriend?” The boss was officially on the verge of losing his mind.
Ryan slid his foot across the aisle and tapped my boot. “She made me chase her, but I finally wore her down. Isn’t that right, Cookie?”
Vladimir glared at me like an executioner hovering above his victim, waiting for the right moment to swing the axe. Boris said something in Russian to try to calm him down.
My Game Plan: Keep it light, and maybe they would let me off easy for good behavior? I laughed. “You’re such a joker, Ryan.”
***
When we got to our private box at the stadium, I couldn’t decide where to sit. All three of them wanted a piece of me. I stood by the window to watch the pregame festivities.
“What’s our bet today, Cookie?” Ryan asked. He put his arm around me. “You know, I did you a favor with our last bet by letting you wear my Bearcat jersey. My number on your back upped your street creds a few notches.”
Don’t bring up the jersey. “Ha, ha.” I elbowed him in the side and walked away to pick up a water bottle. “What are the odds on the game, Boris?”
“Ravens by three, Cookie.”
“I hate the Ravens. Can’t pull the trigger on that one. What do you think, Mr. Ivanov?”
He eyed me like a jungle cat that just heard a branch snap. “I don’t gamble.”
“Excuse me?” I put my hand on my hip and wrinkled my nose. He was as competitive as I was—maybe even worse.
“If you gamble, you set yourself up to lose.”
I crossed my arms. “Then you can’t win, either.”
“I’m already a winner. Why would I want to be a loser?”
“Good point,” Ryan said. “I’ll take advice from the rich guy. No bets.”
The men laughed. Ryan raised his Coke and cheered their drinks.
“Want a beer?” Boris was sure acting chummy toward my boyfriend.
“No thank you, sir. I don’t drink.”
“Wait, wait.” I held up my hands. “If you don’t play, you can’t win.”
“You also can’t lose,” Boris said. “That’s why I don’t gamble, either.”
I shook my head, unable to wrap my brain around that one. The real me, as opposed to the trembling nutcase I’d become over the weekend, would have grilled the Russians on their bullshit. “You make bets with me all the time. What about that?”
“I said I don’t gamble, not that I don’t make bets. Gambling is risky business. When I make a bet with you, it’s a sure thing.”
Ryan chuckled at my notoriously bad betting record.
I raised my empty water bottle. “Touché.”
“I’ll make a bet with you, babe, if it will make you feel better.” He picked up my hand, pulled me over to his side, and plopped me down on his lap.
“I’m sure you will. I’m bleeding out over here.” I stood and went to our private bar for another water.
Vladimir followed me. He wrapped his arm around me. “Did you rest well last night?”
I froze.
“I slept very deeply.” He pushed my hair over my shoulder and ran his finger down my neck. “I’ll make a wager with you. What do you want to win?”
I peeked over my shoulder to make sure Ryan didn’t see us. Boris was pointing at the Ravens defense, and Ryan assessed the Bengals o-line.
My body trembled. “Nothing. I do it for fun. It’s no big deal.”
The bartender placed my ice water and a bottle of vodka with a round of shot glasses on the bar.
“I want to have fun, too.”
Out of fear, I played along. “Okay. I’ll try to think of something.” No more mistakes, especially now that Ryan had become the pakhan’s public enemy number one. We walked back to our seats as the Bengals managed an eleven-yard run, which earned them a fresh set of downs. The crowd cheered.
I tried to veer toward Ryan, but the boss caught my hand and set me down next to him. “I thought of a nice bet for you to win, Miss Cook.”
I wiped off my mouth with the back of my hand. “Did you hear that? He has a nice bet for me to win,” I said, trying to ward off the tension.
The guys laughed.
“I don’t need your pity, boss—I mean, Mr. Ivanov. I can take it.” I leaned back in my swivel chair and took a sip of my water, trying my best to act causal. I didn’t want Ryan to pick up on my apprehension; there was room for both of our bodies in the trunk of the Cadillac.
The Bengals ran in a touchdown and tied the game ten to ten in the last seconds of the first half. The stadium roared. Ryan leaned across the table, interlaced his fingers with mine, and smooched me on the lips. I shook my hands free and tucked them under my legs. I hoped he didn’t get a whiff of the boss’s aftershave on my skin.
Vladimir scooted my chair closer to him and farther away from Ryan. “You’ll want to take this bet.”
“Let’s hear it,” Ryan said.
“If Baltimore tries an onside kick, I win. If they don’t, you win. Is it a bet?”
“Take it, babe. Trust me. There’s no way—no way the Ravens will do it.”
Vladimir extended his hand and waited for me to accept the deal.
“Hold on. What’s the wager?” I held my hand back out of his reach.
“A new tennis racquet for you, and if I win you prepare dinner?”
“Hope you like peanut butter,” Ryan said.
“First of all, I would never retire the Silver Bullet, and I already cook dinner for you.”
Ryan wrinkled his brow. I had to be careful, no one knew about our arrangement. “You know, this weekend of course.”
Ryan seemed satisfied with the explanation.
“She drives a hard bargain, boss. Better raise the stakes.” Boris egged him on.
“Let me see. If I win, you must give me a private tennis lesson. How does that sound?”
“I can live with that.”
“What do you want, Carter?” Vladimir asked.
“Really, I don’t want—”
“Boris, help the poor girl.”
Boris stroked his beard. “I got it, boss. Use of the private jet to take her and a friend anywhere in the world.”
Ryan’s brown eyes opened as wide as footballs. “Are you serious?”
“Mr. Ivanov, it’s too much.” I held up my hands. “I can’t accept that.”
Before I could protest further, Vladimir picked up my hand and shook.
Of course the Ravens didn’t try to run a sneaky play. I had won the bet. My gut told me I may have won this round, but somehow the boss had stolen a little piece of me.