Chapter Three

DAISY

He’s not leaving.

My stomach is all nervous flutters. I should be concentrating on the machines, but all I can think about is the tall, gorgeous man standing down here in the laundry room with me.

He kissed my hand. He touched my cheek. It’s like something out of a romance novel. I want to giggle like a schoolgirl, but I suspect he would think I’m silly. So I bite my lip and haul my basket of clothing to the dryer. My fingers tremble as I push quarters into the slot. Regan complains that the landlords charge us for the washer and dryer, but I like clean clothing, so I view it as a necessary evil.

I notice things about him. I notice that he’s wearing nice clothes, or at least, nicer than mine. I notice that he’s got tattoos on his fingers, and that when they touched mine, they were callused. The tattoos are a bit unnerving, but I have seen a lot of tattoos on people on the streets. Perhaps he simply appreciates the artistry of them.

I pick up a pair of wet jeans and shame hits me. They’re old and baggy, and there’s a bleach stain on one cuff. There’s nothing in my basket that could impress a man like him. I sneak a glance over at him, just in case he’s not watching me.

He is, though.

I flush and glance away again, hastily shoving my old, worn second-hand clothing into the dryer. Now I’m just being an idiot. Be bold, Daisy! I tell myself. He kissed your hand!

"So your name is Nick?" Duh, Daisy. He just told you that. Could you come up with a stupider question?

"Da."

"It’s a lovely name. Is it Russian? You sound...foreign." Oh dear. Now I sound really foolish. Regan would laugh at my Pollyanna ways.

"I am from Ukraine."

I glance over at him again, and he’s watching me still, his flicking gaze cataloging my movements. It’s not an unfriendly gaze, even though he’s not smiling. It’s intense, though. All gray eyes and piercing stare. Like he wants to know all my secrets. I smile at him again. "I like your accent," I say shyly. "It’s not one I’ve heard often." Ever. Maybe on the internet in a video once. It sounds like he is caressing his syllables with his tongue, but I don’t say this. I’m not quite that bold yet.

"You are too kind. I know other languages but I am never able to shed my roots," he says, and that accent makes my pulse flutter all over again.

I wish he would talk more. He seems on edge. Is it because I’m trying to flirt with him, and I’m pathetic at it? “Which floor are you on?"

He swiftly answers. "Second."

I light up. "Me too. We’re neighbors." I finish tossing my laundry into the dryer, and then there’s nothing else to do. Should I continue talking to him? I’m suddenly out of answers. I clutch my laundry basket, feeling helpless. He hasn’t moved from his wide-legged stance over in the shadowy corner of the laundry room. "I…guess if we’re on the same floor, I’ll see you around?"

He inclines his head at me. "Da, I will see you." He looks down as if he’s embarrassed by something, and then he adds, "I should like that."

"Me too. It was nice to meet you, Nick." I feel my cheeks heat. "I’m in 224, if you ever need to borrow detergent or anything. Just let me know."

Again, he inclines his head.

I feel a little silly for offering up so much information, but I can’t help myself. "Well, bye now." I turn to the door, feeling as if I’ve just flubbed my first chance at flirting with a man.

His gaze moves to the flip phone I have shoved in my pocket. "Give me your phone," he says and puts a hand out. "I will give you my number. You call me if you need anything."

My cheeks pinken, and I pull out my small flip phone. It is a disposable, the cheapest model. Regan’s made laughing comments about me getting a smart phone so I can use the GPS and not get lost in the “big city," but that’s more money each month than I want to spend on something so frivolous. Not when I don’t have a job yet. But I hand it to him and try not to feel ashamed of how pathetic it is.

He says nothing, simply examines it, and then flips it open and begins to type with one thumb. I watch his tattooed fingers fly and wonder at the markings on each knuckle. It seems impolite to ask what they mean. After a moment, he snaps my phone shut and hands it back. "You call me, da? If you need things. I will call you if I need…detergent."

I nod mutely, give him what I hope is a friendly smile (and not a terrified one) and escape.

It seems I have two friends now. Regan and my Ukrainian neighbor who is so incredibly handsome that I could stare at him all day. I clutch my laundry basket to my hip and leave, feeling his eyes on my back. Once I am safely back in my apartment, I pull my phone out, flipping it open and paging through my tiny list of numbers to see what he has put there. A personal message? Something flirty?

Nick.

Just Nick.

I won’t have the courage to call him, of course, but I’ll think about it day and night. And when I touch myself tonight? It will be Nick’s face I’ll imagine. Tomorrow, I will borrow Regan’s laptop and research all I can about the Ukraine. I want to learn about him.

There’s something about Nick that draws me to him, that makes me stare at his phone number in wonder. I have met a few other men this week, some for longer than the short conversation I just had. But no one has tried to kiss my hand or given me their phone number.

It’s a personal connection, and I don’t have many of those. A personal connection with a tall, mysterious, handsome man? It is the stuff of my wildest dreams.

It’s more than that, though. There’s something about Nick, and I lay down on my bed, considering. After a moment, I realize what it is. He has intensity. There is something so vibrant, so aware, so alive about him that it sings to me. I am drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Is it because my father has always been a shadow of himself and because he did his best to break me? Nick, I think, would never be broken.

I like that about him.

NIKOLAI

Daisy. She reminds me of the paintings by an American painter from a city not so far away. The pictures are full of rolling hills and symmetrically planted wheat. Those images look pure, wholesome, and peaceful. Even her name evokes the same images. Whereas I am like the dark tormenter envisioned by Dante and made grotesque by Hieronymous Bosch.

At fifteen, I was ordered to terminate an art curator who had a predilection for American art and American boys. It was a satisfying job, as I learned much about art from watching the curator. The order to put him down had nothing to do with his pedophilia and everything to do with money. Always about the money.

It was the last hit I made under Aleksandr’s watch. I still didn’t know why he had released me, if it was the way I carried out the hit that made him decide I was too much of a liability or just that I was getting too old to control. It was rather messy. But after watching the curator for two weeks, I couldn’t merely put a bullet in his head. I rub the inscription on my chest again. Death is mercy. And those boys he’d kept had deserved their own revenge. Still the memory of it reminds me of how similar I am to this broken, run-down building with its bricks falling out and its interior filled with trash.

"Can I—can I stand now?"

I turn toward the thief. "Get up." I command.

He struggles to his feet; he is maimed. His fortitude is impressive. He hasn’t pissed himself, and he was quiet for the most part. I decide to let him go with just a warning.

"What is your apartment number?" I ask.

"122," he says. He looks small despite his size. Now that I’ve had a moment to collect myself and look at him, I am surprised to see that he is about my height, but he has no strength.

"I suggest you look for a new place to live. I do not care what you do with other women’s clothing, but you are not to be near her. You are not to touch her or breathe the same air." I’m still looking at the dryer. My lip curls at the thought of the animal’s hands on her clothes. I cannot allow them to touch her body. I spy a bottle of bleach, old and probably forgotten. It will ruin her clothes, but I can buy her new ones. Ones that haven’t been worn before; ones made of material as pure and precious as she.

"B-b-but you didn’t even know her before you came down here!” the thief whines at me.

 I whirl around and pin him back against the machines with one hand to his throat. My earlier feelings of leniency have fled. I squeeze tightly. "I’ve ended lives over a lesser slight. Move and live. Don’t move. Die. Simple." I am puzzled by this man’s lack of comprehension. The deprivation of oxygen is perhaps affecting his thinking, and I ease my grip. "This is not such a hard choice, right? There are so many other dumps you can live in."

"But my security deposit," he coughs out.

Money, always money. Still holding him around the throat, I dip into my pocket and pull out two one-hundred dollar bills from my wallet.

"Enough?" I wave them at him. His eyes widen, and he nods vigorously. He reaches for the money, but I hold it away from him. "Uh uh. Tell me what you will do."

"I’ll move out."

"When?"

"Today."

"When?"

"Now," he gasps.

I nod and let him go. He grabs the money and runs. I will check later to see if 122 is empty. If not, I will make it so.

Now I need to fix Daisy’s clothing problem. One that she isn’t aware she has.

I have no change, so I bypass the coin slots with two thin sticks of plastic from my lock kit. Angling them into the slots, I make the machine believe it is being fed two coins. I’m not stealing, really. I have no clothes to wash. But if Daisy returns to find me here, waiting, I will need a cover story.

I set the machine to a long wash and sit down to wait for her return. Daisy’s dryer dings to signal its completion. My body tenses at the thought of her return. I have had little interaction with a girl like Daisy. Most of the women I’ve known, I’ve paid for. For the money I give to them, they treat me however I want, which is mostly to service me and then go away. I do not care what the whores think of me—but with Daisy…with Daisy, I care.

She stops short when she sees me. Obvious surprise is evident on her fine features. I offer her a small smile, my facial muscles protesting at the unfamiliar use.

"Hi again," she says tentatively.

"Your dryer, it is done," I reply. Her expression is no longer surprise but wariness. Neither emotion is one I want to invoke, although what I want from her is not fully known, even to me. Desire, yes. Want, yes. Tender emotions, yes…or no. I am beset with uncertainty and in unfamiliar territory, so I respond with stoicism, which in turn makes her even more cautious. I can see it.

It is devolving so quickly. Nikolai, do something, I command myself.

I swiftly walk over to her. Taking her hand, I gently guide Daisy to her machine. "I’m sorry, have I frightened you? I just wait for my own things." I gesture toward the machine I manipulated earlier.

"No, I was just surprised to see anyone here." She stands in front of the machine and makes no effort to withdraw her clothes. A light pink stain upon her cheeks gives me a clue. She is embarrassed. I have no idea why, but I turn away and then to go sit in my chair. Her unease is distressing me, and I do not know what to do to make it go away other than to leave her. My throat feels tight. Maybe if I visit a whore again I will pay her to teach me to flirt.

My own cheeks feel hot, and I pretend to read my emails while Daisy empties the contents of her machine into a plastic basket with broken webbing. A cry of dismay has me ricocheting out of my chair, but there is no threat to her. Daisy is staring at her belongings, one item in each hand and the stains from bleach I placed in her dryer are obvious. Guilt strikes me hard, harder than I’d imagined.

"What is it?" I ask, pretending I don’t know that I have likely ruined her only clothes. She bows her head, and I wonder if she will cry. Please, kotehok, please do not cry.

In the end no tears fall, but her fatalism, her resigned acceptance of this loss makes me feel even worse, as if I have physically squeezed a little of her happiness from her.

 Abruptly I stand again, and the chair rattles backward into the machine.

"Kotehok, what is wrong?" My hand hovers over her bowed shoulders. I want to touch her but feel too guilty.

She sighs and then turns to me with a slight shake of her head. "Just my luck, I guess. I must have put the clothes in a machine that had bleach in it." She holds up a pair of jeans that look too big for her, with ragged cuffs. There is a large discoloration on the back. The shirt she holds in the other hand has the same problem. "The jeans I might get away with, but this shirt?"

"It was me," I declare. I fist the shirt in my hands and tug it from her. "You must allow me to fix this for you."

"No. What?" She tries to pull the shirt back, and the frayed fabric rips in our hands.

Now she does look like she is about to cry, and she bites her lips to keep back her tears. I cannot withhold myself from her any longer. My hand drops to her shoulder, and I pull her into me. "It is my fault. I do not know how to run these machines. You must allow me to make it up to you."

She leans into me and I rub her back—just her upper back—in small circles, as I did for a sex worker in Amsterdam who offered to teach me to cuddle. Then, I did not like it. I rubbed her back for a few seconds and then made her leave. But this is...amazing. Daisy’s little body is resting lightly against mine. I can feel muscles in her back, which suggests that Daisy is strong. The blades of her shoulders are sharp against my hand, which suggests Daisy is not eating enough. I want to scoop her into my lap and feed her with one hand and stroke her pussy with my other.

She does not borrow my strength for more than a second before she is pushing away from me and brushing the hair out of her face. "It’s not your fault." She shakes her head at me. "I’m sure it was something I did."

"Nyet." I pull her to her feet. "You come with me. I will not be able to sleep tonight knowing I have ruined your things with my ineptness."

She tries to scramble for her things, but I pull her away. "Wait," she says.

"Daisy," I plead with her. "You must allow me to do this, or I will not be able to live with myself."

She stares in my eyes. While I am tempted to shut them for fear of what she may glimpse if she delves too deeply, the truth rests at the forefront. My steady gaze must have convinced her.

"Seventy dollars," she finally says.

I smile at her and nod. I have no idea what she means, but I take this as acquiescence. I pull her out of the basement and head for the back door.

"Where are we going?"

"To my bike," I say. My hand is still grasping hers. I’m afraid if I let go she will disappear.

My rented Ducati sits untouched in the parking lot between our buildings. I have only one helmet, which I hand to her. "Put it on," I say, and then because I sound like a mudak, an asshole, I add, "Please."

"I can’t take your only helmet." She looks mutinous. I have no car, only this bike and only one helmet.

"Will you wear it to the motorcycle shop? It is only a few kilometers away. I will take side roads and go slow." I offer her a compromise.

She gives me a slow nod in agreement and pulls on the helmet. All the tension built up from fighting the huesos, the cocksucker from earlier, and convincing sweet Daisy to come with me melts away. I swing my leg over the bike and motion for Daisy to climb aboard. Turning, I flip her visor up.

"Hold tight, even though we go slow, okay?"

"Okay," she replies. Her eyes are glittering with excitement, and I smile back. It’s feeling less foreign.

I ride slowly through the streets as Daisy clings to me. Her breasts are pressing against the thin cloth of my t-shirt, and I can feel that she is enjoying the thrill. I want to believe that her arousal is because of me but it is likely the simple vibration of the machine between her legs. At high enough speeds, the vibration might be enough to bring her off. I’d love to try that. I wonder if she is wet between her legs, whether the cloth of her panties is damp, or whether she is so turned on that the denim is soaked. I rock slightly on the seat, and I feel her press against me instinctively. I groan and don’t even try to hide it, confident the wind will carry the sound away. My cock feels enormous at the thought of her wet, the thought of her coming while riding behind me.

When we arrive at the motorcycle shop that rents and sells these bikes, I scoot forward and try to think of something to reduce my erection. Her neighbor pops into my head, and I’m able to stand upright. Not wanting Daisy to be exposed to the men here, I tell her to remain on the bike and to leave the helmet down. "Else someone might try to steal it."

This is a lie, of course, but Daisy simply nods.

Inside, I buy Daisy a helmet and ask, "I need clothes. Where can I buy them?"

The gum-chewing clerk gives me a hungry look. "Honey, I can fit you out. What do you need?" Her gaze drops to my crotch, and I resist the urge to cover my groin with the newly purchased helmet.

"For my girlfriend," I say. She wrinkles her nose as if the idea smells.

"There’s the mall just up the highway, ‘round the bend. Take the Lindau Lane. Can’t miss it." She emphasizes mall as if it has some special significance.

I nod my thanks.

Outside, I stand in front of Daisy, blocking the shop’s view of her, and I offer her the new helmet.

"I’m sorry for making such a big deal out of this. What are you going to do with another helmet?" She shook her head in dismay. "I wasn’t thinking."

I shrug. "I needed one." For her only, but I did not say this out loud.

She looks at me doubtfully, but I give her my best impassive look. It is a good one; she feels discomfited and can no longer look me in the eye. Suddenly I feel like a fuckhead over this, but how to fix it eludes me.

I reach under her chin with my fist and tilt her eyes up to meet mine. "It is for you. Only for you. You can keep it to ride with me or you can throw it away."

An odd light flickers through her eyes, and I can’t catch it. I don’t know how to read her yet. I’ll learn though. The light is fading fast, and I don’t want to be out with Daisy on my bike when it is too late—when the dangerous drivers are out. Alone, I can avoid these people, but with my precious cargo, I would be worried.

I pull her helmet over her head, carefully brush aside her hair, and affix the strap beneath her chin. I repeat the gesture for myself and climb on. This time, Daisy needs no instruction on how to hold me; her arms wrap around me immediately, and she presses her cheek against the middle of my back. Her thin, strong arms are wrapped around my waist. In this position, I would like to drive for hours just to feel her body against mine.

DAISY

Everything I’ve been taught says that I’m being a reckless fool.

I met Nick two hours ago in the laundry room. I let him dazzle me. I let him kiss my hand and hug me, and now I’m on the back of his motorcycle. The after-school specials that my father let me watch would say I’m being stupid. That nice young women don’t run off with strange men on motorcycles.

But…I don’t care.

I am tired of being cautious and being sheltered. I want to be wild and reckless, and I want to spend a bit more time with this man. If that leads me down a bad path, I’m going there with eyes wide open.

I don’t know how one holds properly to a man on a motorcycle; this is my first motorcycle ride. I cling to him, pressing my body against his. My breasts rub against his back and bounce when we hit a bump, and I gasp at the sensation. Am I holding him too close? Do I care? I will just feign ignorance if he asks. I like the feel of his big body pressing against my thighs and my stomach far too much to stop.

It feels wicked. I’ve never, ever been wicked before, and I never realized until now that I wanted to be.

And I never realized how big malls were.

He drives the motorcycle into a large parking lot that has more levels than my apartment complex, and I see a massive building ahead of us. It looks like the mall. My goodness. I had no idea it would be so…enormous. I feel a flutter of excitement in spite of myself. I have never been to a mall, much less been to this one, but I’ve seen it advertised on television. My father wouldn’t let me go, no matter how much I begged. Too open and unsafe, he would tell me.

I feel a flare of anger at my father. How much of my life has he robbed from me? For a moment, I’m viciously glad that I have abandoned him…and then guilt sweeps in and carries any anger away.

Nick parks his bike in one of the front parking spaces and pulls his helmet off, shaking out his hair. He’s gorgeous. I watch him under my helmet. I could drink in his profile forever. He is handsome, his features fine-boned but still masculine, his eyes pale and intense. He puts the helmet down and indicates that I should get off the bike.

I comply, swinging my leg over the bike and feeling clumsy as I do. The jeans I’m wearing are baggy and old, and they slide a little when I stand up. I hitch them surreptitiously as he puts up a kickstand and gets off the bike himself.

Before I can lift my hands, he’s removing the helmet he bought just for me. For some reason, it doesn’t feel like control as much as it feels like…tenderness. He’s achingly sweet, this Nick, despite his hard, intense exterior. I think that is why I trust him.

When he pulls it off, he smiles at me, as if pleased to see my face. "We are at mall."

"So we are," I say breathlessly. “Thank you for driving me."

He tilts his head, as if trying to determine what I mean. "I will shop with you. Is only fair."

His accent seems to get thicker from time to time, as if he forgets to control it. I feel a little flustered at the thought of him shopping with me. The clothes that were ruined were panties and bras, two shirts, and a pair of jeans. "You don’t have to. It’s not necessary."

"Da. Is necessary." And he crooks his arm for me, like a gentleman, to escort me into the mall.

All my protests fade at the sight of that elegant, polite elbow. I slide my hand in and move a bit closer to him, letting him lead me inside.

Once we pass through the glass doors into the mall, I gasp. This place is a wonderland.

"Is that a roller coaster?" I squeak. The mall is at least four stories tall and it is so big that the sounds echo. Even if I squint, I can’t see to the far end of the building. It’s like it goes on forever. Big, potted plants line the median of the enormous walkway, and there are colorful banners hanging high overhead that broadcast sales and specialty stores. There are lit signs and elegant window displays and people everywhere.

It’s overwhelming and incredible all at once. "Oh, wow." I look over at Nick to see if he’s impressed, too, but he’s watching me. Color hits my cheeks, and I glance away, looking around again. I don’t even know where to start, and all the stores look so expensive. “Do you know which store is cheapest?"

He’s silent, and when I look over, he’s frowning at me. "Why cheapest, Daisy?"

I blush at the way he says my name, like his tongue has to caress the syllables before they leave his mouth. “Well, we are only spending seventy dollars. I want to get as much as I can for my money."

And then I flush even brighter, because it’s not my money, it’s his. And all he owes me are some panties and a pair of pants. It feels wrong to try and fleece him out of extra clothing simply because I need it.

"Daisy," he says quietly. "Do not worry about money. Buy clothes you need. I will pay, da? Do not look at prices."

This makes me frown. I don’t want to argue with Nick. I want to kiss him. But I’m not bold enough for that, so I figure that I will simply pick out inexpensive clothes and that this will complete our shopping trip. "All right."

I see a large store that advertises shirts for five dollars and head in that direction, but Nick takes my hand and tugs me down the wide-tiled hallways. I’m sure I’m going to have a sore neck from whipping my head back and forth as I stare in amazement at all the stores. There is a store for everything from magnets to hats. Finally, Nick stops at a store with big, gold letters at the top and black marble trim. Inside, there are several tall, severe people dressed all in black who seem too beautiful to be Minnesotans. No one who lives on a farm looks like these folks. The windows are full of posing mannequins in silks and leathers and skimpy bras and underwear. I suck in a breath as Nick heads in, his hand clasped over mine to keep me at his side.

I don’t know where to start looking. Then, I spy a sale sign at the back of the store and untangle my hands from Nick, heading there.

The items on sale are all way too large or out of season. Or ugly. I pick through them anyhow, flipping tags on anything that might seem like it could fit with a little bit of hand-sewing.

Nick waits patiently nearby, and when I glance over, he’s scanning the room, eyes ever-watchful. I wonder for a moment what he’s looking for.

I can’t find anything I like. The items are so expensive, even on clearance. Fifty dollars for a bra? It’s insane. But I know Nick won’t let me leave here without at least buying something. So I grab one plain bra that is twenty dollars and clutch it under my arm to hide it. For some reason, it feels weird for Nick to see my undergarments. "Let’s just get this one."

He looks at me for a long moment, glancing at the bra I’m trying to hide with my crossed arms. He reaches toward me and grasps the tag. Examines it. Then he looks at me.

"Do you pick out the lowest price item, Daisy?"

His English needs work, but I know what he means. I shrug, feeling silly.

Nick holds his hand out for it. Oh. My face flushes bright red, and I hand it to him, trying not to be too embarrassed—or titillated—at the thought of Nick’s hands touching my bra.

He heads to the counter, and I linger a few steps behind. His voice is low and smooth as he speaks to one of the black-clad sales clerks, and he hands her the bra. A moment later, she comes from behind the counter, a measuring tape in her hands.

"Sweetie," she says as she approaches me. "I was talking to your boyfriend, and he is concerned that the bra you picked out won’t fit. Let’s get you measured, okay?"

I cast a startled look at Nick, but he watches me with a cool gaze, as if daring me to protest. The woman puts a hand to the small of my back and leads me to the dressing rooms, and she measures my breasts while my cheeks flame red with embarrassment. She gives me a size—34C—and we leave the dressing room.

"You were right," the saleswoman sings out to Nick. "That one is much too big. We’ll find her something more suitable."

He merely nods, ignoring my protesting glances as the woman heads to one particular part of the store.

"Now," she says. "These are similar to what you had, but I think we can find something in your size." She pulls out a plain, smooth bra in a nude color. It is boring. It is like what I picked out, but I flip over the tag. It is no cheaper than the fancier items.

And for some reason, I put my foot down. I have worn boring, plain clothing all my life. My father insisted on approving everything I wore, and as a result, I have never had anything pretty or bold in my life. So I think for a moment and shake my head at the nude bra the woman holds out to me. I head instead to a nearby rack and look at the bras there.

They are lacy, frilly things. One is a silky pink and white gingham with a lacy design along the cups. It’s incredibly beautiful, and I touch it longingly.

And then I look to Nick, as if seeking approval.

He nods, and I could swear he looks pleased.

"I think I want this one."

"That’s a great choice," the saleswoman enthuses. "But you’ll need the matching panties."

"Da," Nick says from afar before I can comment. "She needs several sets. Bras and panties. Shirts. Shoes. Dresses."

I shoot him a glance, but he has his phone out and is scrolling through something. He’s not watching.

"Don’t worry about him, honey." The saleswoman pats my arm. "He told me you are to get everything you want."

Everything? I want all the pretty things in the store. I finger a pair of lacy, pink garter belts that match the bra and panties I’ve selected. "I’m not sure it’s appropriate for him to be buying me this stuff."

"Are you kidding?" the saleswoman asks with a laugh. "Guys come in here and do this for their girlfriends all the time."

I’m not Nick’s girlfriend, and I’m still not entirely sure it’s right, but I’m weakening at the sight of all the pretty things around me. As if sensing my hesitation, the woman puts the garter belts in the pile.

And I don’t tell her no.

I move to the next rack. It has a yellow, floral pattern. It’s sweet and pretty, and it makes me happy to see it. When I pause over it, the woman adds the bra and matching panties to my stack. I wonder if Nick told her to be aggressive.

By the time I say “enough," her arms are full of colorful, beautiful undergarments in a rainbow of colors and soft, pleasing fabrics. There is nothing plain or ordinary—or even serviceable-looking—in the stack. They are all soft, sultry things.

And even though I shouldn’t let a man buy them for me, I’m giddy at the thought of owning them.

The saleswoman is having fun dressing me. She takes me to some of the racks at the front of the store after we’ve picked out piles of lingerie, and she adds sweaters and skirts and a few blouses to my overflowing arms. When I protest, she looks over at Nick, who nods approval, and she then takes me to the jeans counter, where we go through the same routine. Protest, look to Nick, pile onto my arms.

When we head to the counter, I hesitate. "It’s too much."

"Nyet, it is not," Nick says. "You deserve beautiful things." And his hand touches my back and rubs my shoulder blades.

I like that touch. I want more, but I don’t ask for more. I glance around as the saleswoman rings us up. There is a couple nearby, and they’re holding hands as the woman browses through a rack. I look at their clasped hands with a bit of envy. Would Nick hold my hand like that if I asked him to?

The total the woman calls out startles me. It is more money than I brought with me during my escape. "No," I protest, but Nick simply pulls out his wallet, and I watch as those tattooed fingers unfold several hundred-dollar bills. I spy more of them tucked into the billfold.

I’m shocked. He’s not poor.

I don’t know why I feel so momentarily betrayed by this information, but I am. I feel like Nick has lied to me. Our building is old, run down. Why is he living there if he casually carries around so much money? I want to ask him, but it seems rude.

Instead of feeling scandalous that I let this exciting, strange man buy me panties, I feel…like a charity case. It’s no longer fun and a daring whim. Now I’m just sad.

Does he do this for everyone? Find women in need and purchase them things? He might. He has a hard exterior, but I sense a kind, lonely heart underneath. I thought he and I had our poverty in common.

Seeing all that money makes me realize he is nothing like me, and I feel smaller.

The woman stuffs the receipt in the bag, and I take the handles before Nick can. I’ll keep that receipt and return all the pretty things, and then I’ll give the money back to Nick. Based on Nick’s behavior in the store, it’s either throw a big argument now or simply allow him to think that he’s getting his way and come back another time. I’ve decided.

It’s silly because now that I know he’s not poor like me, I feel alone all over again.

I bend my head as we leave the store, staring at the shiny marble flooring of the mall. Nick’s hand is on my shoulders, guiding me. A friendly hand.

Nothing more.

I’m so stupid. Here I am, caught up in fantasies and daydreams, thinking this man might like me when he is simply a rich man who is being polite.

We walk a few steps outside of the store, and Nick halts. I barely notice until his hands are on my shoulders, and he’s suddenly standing in front of me.

"Daisy," he murmurs, and his fingers touch my chin to make me look up at him. Those intense eyes are devouring me. "What is wrong?"

For some reason, my lip trembles. "I…you shouldn’t have bought me these things."

His eyes narrow. "Why?" His accent is so thick it sounds more like "vyyy."

"That woman…she thought you were my boyfriend."

He stills and when he speaks, his voice is hard. "You have a boyfriend already? He will be jealous?"

"What? No." I shake my head. "No boyfriend. I just—she doesn’t realize you were just being kind."

A harsh laugh escapes him. "Daisy, there are many things you can call me, but ‘kind’ is not one of them."

It is an odd thing to say. He has been nothing but kind to me.

"It’s too much money."

He considers this for a moment, and then he puts his hand out for the bag. I hand it to him, feeling crushing disappointment. Why am I so hung up on lovely, silky panties? Perhaps it’s not the items themselves, but what they represent.

Old, timid Daisy would never wear such flimsy, sweet, colorful things. And new Daisy wants them more than anything. I want to see that gleam of approval in Nick’s eyes as he sees them on me.

I want to feel special to him. I wonder if he realizes how messed up I am. I’m already clinging to him. I’m a strange, needy little package.

Nick reaches into the bag. He pulls out the receipt, and to my surprise, he crumples it in his hand and tosses it into a nearby trash bin. Then, he holds the bag out to me. "Now you have no choice but to accept my gift, da?"

I look at him with wide eyes. “But, Nick. The money…”

He leans in. His pale eyes seem to caress my face, his stare almost too direct. "Which part bothers you," he asks after a moment. "The money or the fact that she thinks you belong to me?"

I feel trapped under Nick’s gaze. He’s staring down at me as if the world hinges on my answer. I feel the same way. I need to find a way to admit how I feel without embarrassing myself. Regan would have something smooth and funny to say in this moment, but all I feel is stupid. Like I’m reading way too much into things and making both of us incredibly uncomfortable.

"Just the money," I whisper. The thought of belonging to him makes me feel hot and breathless. For some reason, I think belonging to Nick would be nothing like my father’s oppressive control. Nick would let me run free, I think. Give me just enough to let me do what I want, but he would always be there to protect me if I needed him.

His hand reaches up and touches my face. Ever so softly, his thumb grazes across my skin. Prickles of awareness shoot through me, and I feel goosebumps rise. I should push his hand away. I should.

I don’t.

Instead, I meet his gaze, incredibly drawn to him. That small, simple touch is mesmerizing me. He leans in, as if he wants to tell me a secret—or kiss me—if I lean in to meet him. The thought makes my pulse flutter all over again.

As he does, I notice his open collar has shifted, and I can see a hint of black on his neck. I’m fascinated. “Is that a tattoo?"

It is the wrong thing to ask. He stiffens, his eyes going cold. He pulls back and shrugs his shoulders, and the enticing glimpse of tattooed skin is gone. He drops his hand, and I’m left cold and alone all over again.

"So," he says. "The clothing is a gift."

I’ve offended him. How awful. I should apologize. But he’s not looking at me anymore, and I can’t find the way to form the words. Instead, I clutch the bag closer. "Thank you."

We walk toward the next store in silence, and I see another couple holding hands. Suddenly, I want that, too. If I brush my hand against his, will he take it? Or will he ignore me?

This, I think, will tell me how he feels about me. If he’s as messed up over me as I already am over him. A normal girl would not be so attached so quickly…but I’m not normal.

I switch the bag to my other hand, leaving one free. Very carefully, I brush it against his as we walk.

He glances over, and I think he realizes what I’m doing. I’m more obvious than I think. I should be embarrassed.

Nick’s fingers lace with mine, and we walk, hand in hand, to the next store. My heart thrums in my chest like it is dancing.

Today is the best day of my life.

Three stores and three large bags of clothing later, I glance at the clock on the wall. "I should get going. I don’t want to be out too late." That, and if I spend any more time with him, he will continue to throw money my way.

This makes him unhappy. He frowns fiercely, and his hand clutches mine tighter. He glances at his watch. "It is barely night."

"Yes it is," I tell him. "Regan told me it’s not safe to hang out outside of the building after dark, though, so I should head in before it gets too late." Regan knows the apartment and knows more about the world outside than I possibly can, so when she warns me, I listen.

"I will go with you to your door."

"I—you don’t have to."

"I do." And he frowns in my direction. "I will keep you safe."

"Of course." I swallow hard, reluctant to leave. I like being here with him. Like talking to him softly about things. While we’ve shopped, I have told him about Regan and my life. Well, as much as I tell anyone. I tell him I’m from a farm, just like I told Regan. I tell him I’m an orphan. I tell him I’m here to find a job and go to college, which is the truth.

Tomorrow I planned on going to the nearby stores and looking for a job that would support me. I need a job desperately. But…I want to see Nick again. And I clutch his hand a little harder. After today, am I going to see him again? I can’t wash my clothes every day in the hopes he will show up. "Do…do you want to go out for coffee tomorrow?"

His cold demeanor melts a little. “Is this—?" He gropes for a word. "A date?" The word sounds foreign on his tongue, like he’s never been on date, let alone used the word before.

"My treat this time," I tell him. “A thank you for the clothing." Even with my meager savings, I can afford a couple of coffees and some sandwiches. And I want to see him again. "I’m not sure what time because my day is pretty busy…but I’d like to get together."

Nick nods. "We will meet. You text me." We walk out to his bike and arrange my bags to ensure they don’t fly away, anchoring them with straps. Then he is putting the helmet back on me, and we’re ready to go home.

I never want to go home ever again. I want to stay here with him, feel the flutter in my stomach when his fingers brush mine. I want that forever.

We drive home in the twilight, down the streets of the nearby neighborhoods. When he pulls up to the crowded apartment building, he coasts up into the parking garage and then stops in front of the elevator.

He’s silent as we head into our building. I’m silent, too. We go up the elevator to the second floor, and I head immediately toward Regan’s apartment. If he asks me to go into his, I don’t know that I have the sense to tell him no.

Not with the memory of his hand on mine, driving me wild and turning my thoughts toward sexual things. We get to the second floor, and I glance around. "Which door is yours?" How close has he been all this time? I can’t believe I’ve lived here for almost two weeks and haven’t seen him before now.

He’s silent for so long that I worry I’ve offended him…or worse, that he doesn’t want to tell me. "It’s okay," I say in a soft voice and turn away. "It’s not a big deal. I was just curious."

His hand grasps mine before I can retreat. "Nyet, Daisy. I…I apologize. I do not live in your building."

"You don’t?" I think back to him downstairs and frown.

"My washing machines were broken. Some mudak puts bleach in the dryers, so I come borrow yours."

I laugh, relieved. So he doesn’t live in this building and didn’t want to confess? I feel better. "I’m just down the hall," I say shyly, and I gesture toward the doorstep of my apartment. I put my hands out for the bags that he has insisted on carrying for me. "That’s me."

 “Da." He holds the bags for a moment longer, and then he hands them to me. His fingers caress mine as we switch the handles from his fingers to my smaller ones, and I can’t help but gasp at the sensation that moves through me at the gentle caress. My nipples won’t stop hardening while I think about it.

He’s my first flirtation with arousal. I’m twenty-one, and I’ve never been touched so intimately. I think of how scandalized my father would be at the thought of me riding on some man’s motorcycle, of me asking him for a coffee date tomorrow. I can’t help it. He’s forbidden fruit, and I’m Eve standing in front of the apple.

Nick gives me a stiff bow and waits. I realize he won’t leave until I’m safely in, so I give him a trembling, distracted smile and race inside, breathless.

Regan and Mike are making out on the futon sofa. His hands are in her shirt, and I’m pretty sure her jeans are unbuttoned, judging by the way they sag against her bottom. She’s sprawled over Mike, her hips are nestled between his legs, and her tongue snakes across his lips. She glances up at me, gives me a dopey, passion-glazed smile, wiggles her fingers, and then returns her attention back to Mike.

"I’m just going to my room," I breathe, and I leave them behind. Normally I’d be scandalized by Regan’s behavior, but right now I could care less. I want to go to my room so I can think privately about my Ukrainian.

My Ukrainian. Just the thought makes me ache and throb between my legs, which is delicious and terrible all at once.

I head to my room and sling my bags onto the floor. I shut the door and flop down on my bed. I lay there for a long time, thinking. My window is wide open—but I don’t even glance at it. Tonight I’m not missing the stars. Tonight I’m thinking about my Ukrainian.

My Ukrainian. As if he belongs to me. As if he is harboring the same silly crush I have. He held my hand. Bought me panties because he ruined mine. This doesn’t make attraction. I tell myself this even as I pull open my phone and text him.

With my cheap, terrible phone, it’s difficult to text complete sentences, but I manage to type Let’s meet @ coffee shop dwn street nite aftr tmrw. If I agree to meet him tomorrow, he will think me too eager. I’ll add a day in there, just so it seems like I’m busier than I really am. I think for a moment more and then send, 6pm k? Then I lay back on the bed and wait, unable to do anything but lose track of the world and daydream.

My phone buzzes sooner than I anticipate. I snatch it up, flip it open, and read the message.

This is not good neighborhood. My apartment is safer. You come to me?

The thrill of excitement fades away under a pang of alarm. Go to his apartment? Now that I have been able to catch my breath away from him, I realize that it would be too forward of me to go to meet him mere feet from his bed. Have I made a bad move, then? Was asking him for coffee akin to me saying "I want to sleep with you?"

I’m naïve, but I’m not stupid. For some reason, this invitation makes me angry. I snap back a text. Nvrmnd.

Never mind?

I’m not meeting u, however nice, at yr apt.

So you think I am nice, Daisy? I am pleased.

I am flustered at his flirty response. Im afraid I hav 2 dcline. It’s hard to text on my stupid phone. I have to constantly click the number key until it scrolls to the right letter, but I do it anyhow, because texting is safer than talking.

He answers immediately. Apologies. Coffee is fine?

He knows he’s offended me. For some reason, that deflates all of my anger, and I’m left feeling a bit foolish. Maybe in the Ukraine it’s not a big deal for guys to invite girls to their apartments. Maybe it’s not a big deal if you’re dating. But we’re not, and I know I’m a ninny. A Pollyanna, as Regan likes to call me. But this Pollyanna is cautious.

So I reply after thinking it over carefully. K, I send back. The coffeehouse is a nice, well lit, central location for us to meet. And I will tell Regan where I am and have her pick me up. If anything weird should arise, I’ll have her come and get me. The coffeehouse is safe enough.

I will see you in two days, he sends back.

I have a date. No, not a date, I tell my fevered mind. It’s simply a thank you. He bought me clothes and gave me a ride on his motorcycle. It’s nothing more than that.

The next day is frustrating. I’ve worn a modest sweater over a white, high collared blouse. My hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and I am wearing makeup and pressed slacks. I look ready to go to church as I pass out my resume to every business I can find near our building and fill out applications. Most are not hiring. The economy is bad, it’s the wrong time of year for jobs, and I have no work experience at all. The only thing I have going for me is a willingness to work any hours for bad pay.

In the end, the only leads I have are a nearby gas station that needs someone for the overnight shift and another restaurant that also needs someone for a late shift. They promise they will call me.

Job hunting complete, I return home and mope for the entire evening. I wish I’d told Nick that we’d meet tonight, but I had to pretend to be a strong, independent woman. I hate that.

The next day follows much the same—I job hunt until the afternoon winds down, and when I can stand it no longer, I head to the coffeehouse a bit early and get a booth. I bought lip gloss at the corner store and put it on in the bathroom so I can look my best when my Ukrainian arrives. Then, I return to the private booth in the back of the coffee house and open the newspaper I’ve bought, scanning for jobs as I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

It isn’t until six thirty that I realize I have been stood up.