Chapter 6

Needless to say, The Date was on her mind all night long and all the morning after. Her unsatisfied lust, she had taken care of on her own. It hadn't been hard. And it hadn't taken long. No, what had kept her moving and turning in her bed, unable to sleep was a simple question.

Why?

Why had he left her there, hot and bothered, when he had had a perfectly good opportunity to get laid? She had battered away the old insecurities about her looks. She knew he had wanted her; she had felt his erection against her.

But then why? She couldn't fathom any reason.

That was why, as the sun went up, she did the only thing any girl could do in this situation. She called her best friend, her childhood friend, the only one in France she had kept in touch with. Quickly, the "How are you?" And "You met a boy? Really? How does he look?" were out of the way. She was fine, her friend Juliette was too. Yes, she met a boy. Well, a man. Yes, he was older. 34. Yes, she knew her grandma would make a fuss if she knew. He was handsome. Yes, really.

Then, she went on about the real problem. He had left her after their first kiss. A fiery hot first kiss.

They spent an hour telling and retelling the events in details. In conclusion, for Juliette, there could be several reasons. Maybe he got cold feet. Maybe it was too much and he got shy. Camille doubted it, knowing the guy. But then again, she hadn't told her friend he was a Russian mobster, obviously, and maybe it was a good thing. This way, Juliette wasn't biased. She didn't have any prejudice against him that way and could come up with reasons why a normal guy would act like that.

At some point, she became hesitant and Camille knew she wasn't going to like what she was about to say.

"Does he know about you?" She meant her past. The reason she had left her birth country.

"No." Was her simple answer.

"Camille," she hesitated again. "You told me you felt something block inside of you. Maybe he felt it too."

She felt the need to say, once again, that she had jump his bones, like a bitch in heat. How could he have felt her doubts?

"Then maybe, you know, now that girls got more liberated with their sexuality, some guy try to take it slow, to make sure the girls do not see them as simple meat sacks. Maybe he just wants to wait until you want more than to just jump his bones, as you say."

She was skeptical. Very skeptical. She couldn't picture Vladimir like this. But then again, all of her suggestions could be true. It was better than what she had managed to come up with anyway. Which was nothing.

At least, they both agreed on something. She had made a big step forward. Now was his turn, or she would appear clingy and needy. She would not text him, or call him. It was up to him to decide where they would go from there. Well, it was up to him to offer a way to go. After that, she would decide if she agreed with it.

At some point, they hung up. Each had a life to get back to, no matter how much they wished they could spend hours on the phone as they used to when they were teenagers. Camille had to get to work, and she wanted to go running before that. Maybe it would help clear her head.

Several days went by uneventfully. Almost. Jess was a right mess. Her husband was sick. Cancer. Sometimes, in the middle of her shift, she would go to the bathroom and cry. Camille and Alex would look at each other, not knowing what to do. Alex offered to give her a few days off. She refused; she needed the money. He offered to give her an advance on her salary, Camille offered to give her part of her tips for a while. She refused that too. She wasn't a charity case.

The money she would manage, somehow. Being the strong one with her daughter while the love of her life wasted away, that, she didn't know how to manage. Obviously, she needed time to process it all, to realize that her husband wasn't dead yet. The doctor actually said he had good chances to get better after the treatment. But before, he would get worse, and Jess didn't know how she would be able to live with that, his suffering being worst for her to live through than her own.

They tried to cheer her up, as much as they could.

After a week, she started to get slightly better, deciding that nothing would beat her into depression. She tried, not as successfully as she hoped, to be the joyful women she usually was. Camille and Alex pretended it was working, pretending not to see the dark circles under her eyes, getting darker and darker every day.

Finally, it was the next Russian soccer game that cheered her up. Summer was definitely here now and the night was too warm. Alex had allowed them to wear white tees underneath the Russian soccer jersey instead of their usual shirts, which was very much appreciated by their customers. Once again, people went crazy that night. Russians were screaming and swearing, both in their native tong and in English, as they stacked up in front of the TV, drinking more than they should.

Camille was doing her best to serve everyone as quickly as possible with a smile plastered on her face despite the exhaustion. Her back was starting to hurt from being on her feet for so long, slaloming between patrons, a tray precariously set on her hand. Even Alexei was no use, focused as he was on the game.

However, he grabbed her by the elbow around ten o'clock.

"Cami, be a good girl and get the private space ready. The Ranskahovs called, they are coming in about an hour. And they seem to have quite the party with them."

Her heart stopped, just for a second, and Alex – blessed his soul – pretended not to notice. Camille wasn't the kind of girl who let her heart interfere with her job. He knew that. She nodded.

"I'm on it, boss." She said, as cheerfully as she could.

He graced her with a proud smile, messing the hair on top of her head in a gentle stroke.

"Good girl."

She didn't know how but he knew. He knew she had been on a date with Vladimir. He knew she hadn't heard from him since, and that she tried very hard to not let it bother her. She knew. He didn't talk to her about it, and neither did she, but she was sure he knew. His eyes, loving and sorrowful, said that much.

Bracing herself, she headed for the private space, picking several glasses from under the counter and grabbing a bottle of vodka from the fridge as she went. Once in there, she checked that the ashtray was clean, slid a towel on the table's surface to rid it of any dust. She set the glasses around it, put the bottle in the middle, get the air conditioning going, and closed the door.

"All set!" she informed Alex once she was back behind the counter. Her hands were shaking. She took a deep breathe. Jessica saw.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

Camille nodded, neither wanting nor having the time to talk about it. The game had just paused and every man in the damned bar wanted a refill.

An hour later, as promised, the Ranskahov brothers made their entrance. Camille, who was wiping glasses, blanched. Whores. They were with whores. Two platinum blonds with fake boobs and fake lips were on each of a smiling Anatoly's arms. He was whispering something in the ear of one while stroking the hip of the other. Another one, looking like her colleagues, and just as scantily dressed, was on a scowling Vladimir's arm. He shook her off roughly before pushing men out of his way. She watched them advance toward the private space. As they passed in front of the counter, Camille cast her eyes down on the sink, her teeth clenched. She was livid.

How dare he?

Leaving her on her porch was one thing. Not calling her for two weeks was another. But this… This! This was humiliating. Plain and simple. Well, if he wanted to play it that way…

She saw the "I told you so" in Jessica's face, victory of being right melting with empathy for her colleague's troubles. She saw the hard look on Alex's face too. She didn't care for any. She simply took a deep breath and steeled herself, remnants of the old Camille, proud and strong, shimmering under the surface.

"Do you want me to handle them?" Jessica offered, never the petty one. Yes, she had been right. No, she didn't want to rub it in.

"Nah" Camille answered with a shrug. "I've got it."

She must have sounded a little too much on the path of war. Jessica was worried. However, she didn't know her younger coworker. The latter had never been the kind to let a man, any man, impact her work or the way she acted. Her feeling would wait until she was alone to be analyzed.

As she arrived at the private space, the door was closed. She knocked and, not waiting for a reply, opened it, a little to widely, a little too hard, maybe. Who cared?

The first thing she saw was Anatoly, lounging on the couch on her left, the two girls giggling in his face, their hands on his thighs. He was grinning like a king lying in his gold. The air stank of cheap perfume.

Asshole.

Camille kept her smile firmly in place, clasping her hands on her back. On her right, Vladimir was sitting next to the last whore, she had a surprised expression on her face, the man's eyes shooting daggers at her. When the barmaid had entered, he had been in the middle of saying something in Russian, harshly. Camille kept her eyes fixed on the vague direction above Anatoly's head, intent on not meeting the eyes of anyone.

"Hello everyone!" She greeted brightly. A little too brightly, maybe. "Is there anything you need?"

"Hi, sweetheart." Anatoly answered, his nose on one of the girl's neck. She giggled. "We've got everything we need, thank you."

She nodded in return.

"Call me if there's anything."

She smiled one last time before leaving the room without looking back. Vladimir hadn't said a word. She didn't care. Sons of bitches. The both of them. Resolute not to let it affect her, Camille kept on serving men, laughing, joking with them, as if no one special was inside the private space.

She didn't even flinch when Anatoly signaled for her to bring them another bottle of Zyr.

However, after the game ended, when patrons began to fill out dejectedly as Russia had lost and Jessica left at the end of her shift, she couldn't wait for more than five minutes before calling for Alex.

"I need a smoke." Or two. "You mind?"

He didn't. Of course, he didn't. He never did but she had an inkling that tonight, he especially didn't. Thanking him quickly, she wasted no time to grab her pack and a lighter in her purse, heading straight for the patio. She held back a shiver of rage when she heard women giggling behind the private space door as she walked by.

She leaned on her favorite wall, back to the door, and lit a cigarette before taking a deep breath. The nicotine always helped to calm her nerves, despite her doctor's insistence that, actually, it was the addiction that made her believe it. She took another one. And then another one.

Russian fuckers. Bringing whores here. Bastards.

Never mind. She didn't need that kind of mess in her life right now anyway. It was for the best.

Yeah.

She lit a second cigarette right after she had finished the first. As she was looking at the clear night sky, trying to calm down enough to go back to work, she heard footsteps behind her back. Someone was coming her way.

Please, if there is a fucking God in this fucked up world, let it not be..

"Camille."

Fuck.

Of course, it had to be him… Wanker.

"Vladimir." She managed to say with an even voice. Cold, but even. She didn't turn around. He could talk to her ass for all she cared. She took another whiff of smoke.

Despite her best wishes, his footsteps got closer, up until he was standing next to her, smoking too.

"Are you willing to let me explain?" he asked, still calm and composed as usual. She wanted to slap him.

At least, he didn't pretend nothing was amiss like some sons of bitches might have. One point for him. Still a hundred to go.

"Sure." She shrugged, acting as if she didn't care one way or another.

"I was not planning on doing this." He started, his accent getting thicker. She had noticed that, every time he focused on something else, his accent got worse.

"Doing what?" she asked, her tone innocent. Faking innocence, more like. He sighed.

"I was supposed to have what Anatoly calls a brothers' night out with him. I did not know he was planning on having whores and I guess he knew I wouldn't want them. That is why he didn't tell me. When I got into the car, the hookers were there and the driver had already been told to come here. I'm sorry."

"Sorry that he drove you here?" she bit. "This is a free bar, Vladimir. Anyone can come with anyone."

He sighed again. Probably tired of her false cheery tone and of her eyes staring straight in front of her. He put a hand on her upper arm, making her turn around. Now that she faced him, looking up at the sky would be childish. She sighed. Tears were harder to control when you didn't look up…

Still, once again, she steeled herself and met his stare.

"I'm sorry that I was with whores. I didn't want them. I didn't ask for them. I was planning to spend the night with my brother and yes, he often ends up with them, but he shouldn't have booked one for me. He knows I never want them, no matter where we go. Especially not now. I think that is why he did it anyway."

She took a deep breath. He looked sincere. And what he hadn't say, she heard anyway in his "especially not now". Camille wasn't won over though. She had always been stingy when it came to forgiveness. He was a grown man, he could have said no. He could have gotten out of the car. He could have called her…

"Then, if I understand this right, Anatoly is the one owing you an apology. What are you sorry for?"

Yes, she was going to make him spit it out. She stood in front of him, back straight and eyes indifferent, nastiness oozing from her skin. She was ready to fight dirty. They stared back at each other for a while, their wills battling once more. He was a proud man. She was a proud woman. And she wouldn't back down. Even if that means losing him. It was up to him to see if his pride meant that much to him too. Finally, he took a deep breath, his blue eyes, almost black in the night, still on her.

"I'm sorry I didn't call you. I thought I would wait until I had the time to have another date but I shouldn't have waited that long. And I'm sorry I hurt you tonight. Should have told Anatoly to fuck off."

"Hurt me?" She huffed, freeing herself from his hand still around her arm in a sharp move to crush her cigarette in the ashtray. "Don't flatter yourself."

He had. God, he had. More than he should have. More than he should have been able to. She was only this bitchy when hurt. She couldn't help it, no matter the cost. Proof in this case? She was about to leave. Leave him and his fucking apology, ready to not back down until he had groveled at her feet.

But Vladimir wasn't a boy. He wasn't someone to mess with. And he had his pride too. He grabbed her by her elbow again, pulling her roughly with him to a dark corner of the patio, away from any prying eyes from the bar. He kept her arm locked in his hand, despite her trying to shake it free, and used his second one to take hold of her chin, forcing her to look him in the eye as he stood, his face inches from hers.

"I'm sorry." He repeated. "I like you, Camille. I shouldn't have left you in the dark for so long. I'll make it up to you, if you let me. And I'll tell Anatoly to fuck off."

He watched her, waiting for a reply, and not just some sarcasms. When his touch became gentler, she nodded, calming in the face of his anger.

"You better." She whispered.

Then, he kissed her. Softly. First, on her forehead. Then, on the corner of her lips. Finally, when he was sure she wasn't about to slap him for it, on her lips. At first, she refused him, staying frozen in his arms. Eventually, she relented. Kind of.

"Asshole." She whispered against his lips, pulling none too gently at his hair. She felt him smirk.

"I'm sorry." He said again.

"Motherfucker."

He had to settle back, as he burst out laughing and took her in his arms. She hesitated before resting her head in the crook of his neck, smelling him, her nose scrunching up in distate at the whore's smell still lingering on him, balling her hands on the back of his black shirt. She could feel he wasn't used to this kind of hug and wasn't sure where exactly to put his hands. Served him right.

"I'm sorry I hurt your feelings." He insisted above her head. They stayed silent for a while, simply enjoying each other's body. Finally, he whispered; so low she almost didn't hear: "Maybe I didn't send Anatoly to fuck himself because I wanted to see how you will react."

"My reaction is that you're a wanker." She grumbled, the sound muffled by his shirt. She was mad. She was still very mad. Well, she was mostly hurt, he was right. They had not set any lines about this, so he hadn't technically crossed any but this, coming on her territory, in front of everyone she knew, with whores. Her pride had been hurt. She had a feeling she would hold that against him for a long time.

In ten years, when she would be married with a boring, normal man, she would turn the radio on and hear: "FBI struck organized crime hard yesterday night, dismantling the infamous Ranskahov Brothers' gang." She would then mutter to her husband: "I knew this asshole, he brought whores to my bar right after going on a date with me."

Yep, that was how unforgiving she was.

"I'll go write that on your grave: "Beloved brother and famous wanker"."

He snorted, his chest vibrating against her cheek before kissing the top of her head.

"If I promise you to never touch another woman while whatever this is goes on, would you agree to go on another date? I can't promise you to never be seen with whores, they are common place for us. But they won't be mine."

She thought about it. That was quite the commitment for a mobster. She had enough as patrons to know their way with women. Use them and get rid of them. No matter if they had a wife waiting for them at home or not. But she didn't doubt he was sincere. There was something about Vladimir… She felt like his word really meant something to him. Besides, she began to know him enough to see that this promise cost him, pride wise, that he hadn't planned to make it so fast, or maybe at all. But he didn't want to lose her, not so soon at least. She could see that in his eyes too, underneath the pride and the roughness.

At last, she nodded against his neck.

"The date better be the best I've ever had."

She didn't feel the need to tell him her best for now was the last one they'd had. He held her harder, less gently. What now?

"You have to promise me the same."

"I promise I won't fuck Anatoly behind your back." She muttered. He chuckled.

"I'm serious." He untangled himself from her to look in her eyes, hunching a little to be at her level.

She was kind of surprised he was so adamant about this. Not for the first time, she wondered where the hell this thing was going.

"Yes," she answered anyway. "I promise you I won't see other men."

At that, he nodded in agreement. Matter settled, she supposed. They went back inside, he to the private space, her to the counter where Alex was waiting for her.

"Don't." She warned. His face was alight with mischief, her glare only worsening it.

"I didn't say anything." By now, most of the customers had left. Russia had lost and none were in the mood to party anymore. Well, except for Anatoly and his whores. "I just never thought I'd see the day when Volodya would be wrapped around a girl's little finger."

She blushed, trying to focus on reassorting glasses.

"He's not."

"Yeah?" was Alex's only answer.

As usual, when one talked about the devil, one would end up seeing his tail. Said devil walked out of the private room, a grumpy frown on his scarred face. She thought she had heard some heated Russian talk through the private space's door.

"I'll call you tomorrow." He simply muttered as he walked by.

" 'Kay."

"Bye, Alex."

With that, he was out the door. She supposed she could be miffed by his coldness in public but she got it. Even better, she was glad for it. Alex's warning about his enemies was still fresh in her mind. The fewer people knew or guessed about them, the better.

"I told you before, girl," Alex said when there were only the two of them nearby, "be careful. If you can't stay away from him, at least be discreet about it."

"I was thinking along the same line." She agreed.

"Good."