She’s in her early thirties or so. Curly blonde hair, deep green eyes. A few weeks ago, I would have flirted, asked for her name, perhaps invited her to dinner. But right now, I have no desire to do any of those things.
I tell myself it’s because I have a pill to purchase and I’ve already left it too late.
I tell myself it has nothing to do with Alyssa.
“Plan B pill, please.”
“Oh. Er, of course.”
She scrambles to the back wall and hikes up a little stepladder to grab me a Plan B box. My eyes pass over her ass. She’s fit and attractive. And yet… I feel nothing.
No interest. No attraction. Not the slightest bit of craving.
“Here you go, sir.”
I pay and head back to my car. I can see the woman craning her head towards the windows as I drive away.
I don’t look back.
When I arrive at the estate, my first instinct is to go check on Alyssa and then Lev. But with Nikolai’s words still ringing in my ears, I go to Lev first.
He’s in the basement, playing his games. He doesn’t stop when I open the door. “Hey, buddy, how was physical therapy?”
“Good.”
“What did you do after?”
“Nothing.”
“Did you run into Alyssa after George left?”
“Yeah.”
Fucking hell, it’s like pulling teeth today.
“Did you have dinner with her?”
“Yeah.”
I grit my teeth. “What did you guys talk about?”
“Lots.”
“Lev, can you pause that game while I’m talking to you?”
Lev’s eyes veer to me for a moment and his jaw tightens. “No.”
His body has started rocking slightly, so I sigh and leave. “Fine. I’ll leave you then. Go to bed soon, okay?”
He doesn’t acknowledge that apart from a grunt. I shut the door and head to my office. I’m craving something strong again. The last time I had this feeling, I ended up in the basement fucking the life out of Alyssa.
Not happening again. The fact that I’ve fucked her twice already is enough of a black mark on my record. Should have just fucked the green-eyed pharmacist instead.
But even the thought of it—no matter how hard I try forcing myself to linger on the fantasy—doesn’t get my blood pumping. Which is pissing me the hell off.
So I grab myself a drink. Vodka, the best I have available, because it’s one of those days. I take a huge sip that burns my throat as it goes down.
Okay, so maybe Alyssa has caught my interest a little more than most other women, but it’s just an inflated sense of lust. There’s no way it’s anything other than desire. Sure, I can relate to the woman on some things, but that doesn’t mean shit. I can throw her back into the wild the moment she doesn’t need to be here anymore. Life will get easier. I’ll fall back into my routines again. I can restart my—what did she call it?—my “revolving door of women.”
But instead of pivoting into those future possibilities, I end up thinking about Alyssa.
And not just her naked body spread out across the bed. Well, not only that.
I think about the way her eyes filled up with tears when I told her about how my parents died. I think about the way she looks at Lev. I think about the anguish twisting her face when she opened up to me about her sister.
It’s just sex. Lust. Desire. That’s all.
But even with the vodka to smooth things over, it’s not so easy to believe.
29
ALYSSA
The picnic blanket under the big tree in the south garden has become my regular haunt. I’m out here so often that I even manage to convince Lev to join me from time to time. Today, he’s got another physical therapy appointment, so I’m soaking up the sun all by my lonesome with a book in hand.
To be fair, I’m mostly ignoring the book. Well, not ignoring it; it’s just that I’ve read the same sentence about a thousand times in a row. I keep thinking about how it’s been almost forty-eight hours since I last saw or spoke to Uri.
After his abrupt departure during our picnic the other day, he became a ghost. Lev mentioned that Uri said this and Uri did that. That he checked on him in the mornings, the evenings, every night before he fell asleep.
But I never saw him.
It’s enough to make me roll my eyes. He thinks he’s so damn mysterious. Mr. No One Can Figure Me Out. The big, scary mobster who’s an enigma to all he meets.
Severed fingers, he can handle.
But a vulnerable conversation? No siree. That’s where he draws a line.