Broken Toy
Back at the house, Boris guarded me in the kitchen as I worked. He questioned me relentlessly, trying to catch me off-point as I prepared dinner. “You have kept your mouth shut?”
I nodded.
“Eating good?”
I nodded.
“No one has seen your bruises?”
I shook my head.
“The football player doesn’t suspect anything?”
“I broke up with him, remember? I haven’t spoken to him outside of a few texts.”
He held out his hand. “Let me have your phone.”
I gave it to him.
He slid on a pair of reading glasses and ran his finger down my screen. “Your little friend is boy crazy.”
I sucked in my bottom lip. Kiki had been texting me pics from Florida of hot guys sunbathing on the beach, which prompted us to play a game we had made up a few years ago. Why didn’t I delete our last conversation?
Kiki: Dirty blond surfer or stubbly lifeguard?
Carter: Beard burn.
Kiki: Fo sho.
“What does it mean?”
I stirred the sauce on the stove. “Um—” I felt my face flush. Boris knew he had me on something, but he hadn’t figured it out yet. He studied my body language, and then went back to reading our conversation.
Kiki: Six-pack speedo or tattooed parolee?
Carter: Three-way.
“Explain.”
My face was hotter than the tomato sauce simmering in the pan. The last thing I needed was to piss him off on an otherwise uneventful day. “It means what you think it means.” I lifted my eyebrows. “The pics of the guys on the beach? Who would you rather?” I winced with my hand up waiting for him to finish the sentence.
The answer registered on his face. “Naughty game. Want to play with me?”
I couldn’t say no. I wouldn’t let him rattle me. Over the last two days, I had time to regroup my game plan. I had come to the realization their goal was to not hurt me, instead of the other way around. What they wanted was for me to do what they said. When I resisted, I got hurt. If I could stay in their good graces until my newly renegotiated Indentured Servant Contract expired, I could come out of this ordeal with a pulse.
“Sure. It’s fun. I’ll teach you how to play the original version instead of the abbreviated text version. We need some paper, a pencil, and a bottle of vodka.”
Boris rounded up the supplies while I explained the rules. “Okay, so each of us calls out the names of two famous people. They can be sports figures, movie stars, politicians, etc. Past or present works, too. Like you could say Elvis Presley or Kurt Cobain and that’s all good, da?”
“Da.” He was radiant knowing he had officially broken my will to fight him.
“After I say two names, you can either write one down on the paper, or you can put down ‘priest,’ or in my case ‘nun’ if you would rather become celibate than have sex with either of them.”
“Humph.”
“Oh, and you have one more choice. You can write down a ‘three,’ as in you would have a three-way with the two aforementioned hotties.” I had officially lost my freaking mind. “Can you handle it, or is too much for you?”
“What’s the vodka for?”
“This is a drinking game. If I correctly guess more of your answers, you have to drink. If you get more right than I do, I drink. Or, if you’re the loser, you can pick truth or dare instead if you don’t want to imbibe.”
He tapped his pencil on the paper. “This is what college girls do for fun?” I had never seen him in such a good mood.
Aha! Suddenly I understood. Boris liked the feisty me much better than the scaredy-cat version. Everyone feared him. He commanded respect and submission from his underlings, but from day one I gave it back to him in a way no one else dared. I was his little plaything, too. I batted my eyelashes. “Only the sad, lonely ones who can’t go out and play.”
He chuckled and tipped the bottle to fill my glass.
I held my hand up in a stop motion. “Nyet, spasibo. I’ll take my chances with truth or dare. My body is still recovering from the long weekend.”
Without a glint of remorse, he generously filled my glass anyway.
I slumped my shoulders and sighed. “Maria Sharapova or Anna Kournikova?”
He wrote down his answer and then asked, “Rafael Nadal or Roger Federer?”
Duh, remember my affinity for Spaniards? We went back and forth until we each had five answers on our papers.
“I’ll go first. Nadal, Wilson, three, DeNiro-in-his-twenties, nun.”
He showed me his paper. “Four out of five.”
“Bravo. Nice job.” Jeez. He was good at guessing my sexual preferences. “Your turn.”
“Three, three, three, three, three.”
“Um, you win.” I crumbled up my sheet of paper and downed my vodka.
“Let me see,” he said.
I got the angry eyes when I hesitated a split second before I tossed it to him. He uncrumpled my paper and smirked when he saw five consecutive threes written on my paper.
“Lucky guess.”
“You won. Why lie? Are you not capable of telling the truth?” He downed his shot.
I lied because I was afraid you’d be angry. “Okay, I won. You drank your vodka. I need to finish dinner.” I went to the stove.
He stood up. “Not yet, weasel.”
I wrapped my fingers around the handle of the bubbling pasta sauce. If he came at me, I was ready to defend myself. I wouldn’t go down without a fight. I was crazy to have willingly walked back into that death trap, but better to leave broken than in a body bag.
Don’t challenge him, Sophia said.
I took her advice and changed up my losing game plan. “Sorry, I lied. I was embarrassed about the whole thing. I can’t believe I let you talk me into that.” I snorted. “Can you teach me how to play poker instead?”
I kept my focus on the simmering sauce. I couldn’t handle seeing his angry black eyes that were surely bearing down on me like the Christmas Eve incident. But then I realized he was walking away, over to the drawer where Vladimir kept his gun.
I held my breath.
He pulled out a deck of cards.
Thank heavens.
***
When Vladimir came home from work, his lips curled into a smile when he found Boris and me with a big pot of cash between us, heavily invested in a Texas Hold ’Em poker game. He had probably expected to find me rocking on the floor in the fetal position instead of partying down with my abusers. If I wanted The New Deal to work, I had to entertain them. The boss didn’t want to play with a broken toy either.
I had my tennis visor down low, covering my eyes, while Boris sucked on an unlit stogie. I had synced my music to the sound system and was blasting my Dance Party playlist throughout the house—Boris’s idea.
“You might have to toss in the Ferrari keys, boss. The stakes are high,” Boris said over the music.
We were in the final round of our game. There were five community cards on the table: two eights, a king, a three, and a nine. Boris had given me a quick rundown on what the hand rankings were, but I didn’t remember what beat what. I just knew it was good to have high numbers and cards that matched.
Vladimir rubbed his hands together and laughed. We needed a distraction. Sophia was more powerful than the devil after all. She didn’t leave me in my time of need; she just had to readjust her strategy. Brute strength-wise, she couldn’t overpower him, but she did have the wits to outsmart the son-of-a-bitch.
The boss poured himself a drink and refilled our shot glasses. He put his arm around me. “What are you getting yourself into, angel?” He rubbed my back and played with my ponytail as I rocked my shoulders to the beat of the music. His eyes were soft and loving—not angry like they were on Christmas Eve. I knew I could steal Vladimir away from the pakhan.
He checked out the pile. Among the bills was one piece of lined notebook paper with a handwritten wager on it. I had burned through the bank Boris had given me to start off with. In order to stay in the game, I had had to add something to the pot.
“Oh, no. Our little gambler is out of control again.” He picked up the paper and read it aloud. ‘Truth or dare.’
“That’s what he wanted. You know I can’t back down.”
Boris turned over his two cards. With the community cards, he had two pairs.
I glanced at my hand, then at his. “Does this beat?” I turned over two nines. That made three of a kind when added to the one already on the table.
“Double or nothing.” Boris retrieved the cards.
“Wait. Did I win?”
Boris downed his drink.
Vladimir kissed me on the top of my head. “Yes, you little fox.” He handed me a shot glass. We toasted, clinked, and downed.
“So I should quit while I’m ahead, right?”
“Unless boss wants to take my place,” Boris said.
He had to be the best wingman in the history of mankind.