Tasha beckons me into a room that turns out to be some kind of office. She spares me a glance, then turns her attention back to the progress of the page currently being spat out of the printer. So I take the opportunity to look around.
Grey walls lend the room a muted cozy feeling, in direct contrast to the monster gaming computer sitting on the desk. Judging by the glowing lights and the curve of the monitor, a single glimpse of it would have Redditors drooling. LEDs pulse from the case, shining intense blue light directly onto about eight different speakers that I can see. I spot a five channel mixer connected to the PC as well, and a microphone arm mount currently moved off to one side. But recording isn't the only thing this setup is for. A nearby shelf boasts an impressive array of games and controllers, and another shelf over by the couch against the opposite wall seems to mostly be filled with Western novels. The sight of them makes me smile.
"All right," Tasha's voice sounds behind me, and I reluctantly turn back towards the desk.
She taps together the small sheath of paper on the surface, and fastens a paperclip to the corner when it's all settled. A similar stack of pages is on the desk already, but she ignores it as she grabs a pen and gestures for me to join her.
"It's a pretty standard NDA," she's saying as I approach, "and once you sign, I'll sign as witness. You can read it though in the meantime."
I nod, and take the proffered document. I'm hardly a stranger to NDAs, considering some of the things I've worked on in the past. It's pretty standard practice any time anything even approaches proprietary knowledge. Or in similar cases to this, when they want to prevent the crew from reporting the varying proclivities of some small time actor or musician.
And yeah, flicking through the pages it all looks blandly familiar, apart from the presence of Dimitri's name and that of the record label of course. I flip to the last page and set the it back on the desk, reaching for the pen.
If Tasha's surprised at how quickly I'm ready to sign she doesn't show it. Something tells me that she knows as well as I do how notoriously difficult these are to enforce anyway. And then there's the fact that if I did end up going public with anything, suing me isn't going to remove damaging information from the minds of the public.
Less than a minute later, I've handed the pen back to Tasha and she's scratching her name on the line next to mine.
"I keep this," she says straightening up, "and this one is your copy." She hands me the other set of pages that was on the desk.
"Okay," I reply. "Thanks."
I turn towards the door.
"I know I haven't done anything to endear myself to you," Tasha says suddenly. It's such an obvious statement that I almost laugh. But hey, I'll listen to what she has to say. So I wait with a raised eyebrow that she observes without comment.
"I don't care," she continues bluntly. "I don't need you to like me."
"Good to know," I sigh. I really don't know what I was expecting.
God it's been a long day. It's hard to believe that this morning I woke up next to Dimitri. Dealing with all of this, suddenly I feel exhausted. It seems Tasha isn't done though, and she takes a step towards me.
"You don't need to like me, but it would be... easier...if you and I could understand each other better."
I can think of plenty of things that would be easier; if she wasn't so intent on believing the worst of me for one. But she is right, if in fact there's anything more to her words than her speaking them. My eyes sweep over her face, as though I know her well enough to gauge her honesty. She does look earnest enough to convince me that either she's telling the truth or she's missed her true calling as an actress.
I take a breath. "All right. I'll try to understand."
A flash of relief crosses her face, then it's back to business.
"I'm really good at my job," she says, "and I've had to work fucking hard to get here."
"Maybe we have that in common," I say carefully.
No smile; she's not trying to make friends. Just a nod of acknowledgement.
I narrow my eyes. "But for you that means putting Dimitri's career above his happiness."
She shrugs. "I'm paid to make him make money."
"And he's done that," I reply. "He's successful. Congratulations."
"For now," Tasha smiles tightly, then sighs. "Look, I can see how it must seem to you. But...I know how desperately he wants out."
The pieces suddenly snap into place. "So you need to make as much money as you can, while he's still your client."
She frowns. "Not just me. The more work he can produce now, the more he can rely on royalties when he's no longer doing this."
Hesitantly, I nod. She really does seem to care about him in her own weird way. And I guess in a vacuum I can't fault her, since she can't depend on finding another client as successful. But I wonder just how far she'll go, how much she'll push, in order to achieve her goals. And for that reason, I feel slightly nauseated at how all of this is already affecting Dimitri.
"I don't agree with you," I tell Tasha outright. "But I do understand some things a little better now."
"That's all I was hoping for," she responds with a nod, then gives an almost conspiratory smile. "And besides, this is just about you and me. You've only had a taste of what a diva he can be. Maybe you'll find it's not worth getting caught up in after all."
I almost roll my eyes. I guess I can't stop her from holding out that hope. Hell, Dimitri and I still need to talk about his response to her asking us if we're together, so maybe she's not entirely off the mark. Maybe I should be grateful Tasha brought up the paperwork since Dimitri clearly wasn't going to.
And yeah...all in all it's been a very long day. As much as I'd like to stay and spend time with Dimitri, it's probably best if I head back home for now. For my headspace as well as his work.
Tasha doesn't follow as I walk back down the hallway to find Dimitri intently poring over a spreadsheet on the laptop. He looks up with a smile that tugs at my chest as I walk over.
"Signed your soul away?" he asks lightly.
I can't help but smile in response. "I'm legally obligated not to publicly talk about the size of your dick."
"Well that's a relief." His smile widens into a grin. "Maybe you want to conduct a more thorough study on just how big you're not allowed to say it is?"
I hover near the couch, hesitating in spite of the enticing way he raises an eyebrow.
"You have work to do," I say eventually.
His face falls a little at the seriousness of my tone. And while it sucks to disappoint him, I'm reminded that I'm kind of irritated at him too. So I move closer, positioning myself so I'm standing between his knees looking down at him. I reach down to move the laptop to the side, capturing his undivided attention, and then I brace my hands on his knees and lean towards him.
Dimitri's pupils dilate, filling that gorgeous brown with the pure black of attraction.
"I'm going to leave you to work," I say, "but I want to make a few things clear. Firstly, thank you. On the whole, I had one of the better days of my life. Secondly," I continue, interrupting whatever flirty quip he opens his mouth to make, "we will talk about your response and reaction to the question of whether we're together or not." He hesitates, then gives me a nod.
"And finally," I say, leaning closer and lowering my voice, "the next time we're alone together, I don't want to hear any more excuses. If you'd listened to me, we'd have already been well onto our third time instead of worrying about making the first time perfect."
I move to stand up, but he grabs my wrist and pulls me back to him.
"Why do I get the feeling that last one is the biggest point of contention?" he purrs into my ear. For all my irritation at him, and my attempt to be in control for a change, his words almost have me melting into his lap. And I need to go before I make a complete fool of myself.
As Dimitri watches me pull away, the fire in his eyes softens.
"Let me walk you to the door," he offers.
After making sure I have all my stuff with me, he rests his hand on my waist while we move together.
"Just enter the code again to get out," he's busy telling me. "You remember what it is?"
I nod.
"Okay then," he smiles. We've come to a stop outside the door.
"Call me later?" I try not to let my voice show how sad I am to be leaving him.
"Absolutely, Roza. We'll talk tonight."
And then, after one final kiss that warms my blood and sets my heart racing, I'm heading down to my car and back to the real world.
It feels like months since I left my apartment worried about working with Mason again. I walk through the familiar rooms feeling oddly put of touch with my surroundings.
I want to laugh at myself. Sure, a lot has happened since...was it only yesterday? But I've never been one to lose my mind over some guy. Even if he is pretty much my definition of heaven.
I force myself to take a breath and clear my brain.
Maybe a little space from Dimitri today is a good thing. I need to be grounded in my own space.
The ever present siren call of adult life awaits me as I head into my room and notice that my hamper is full. Well, I did want to be grounded. Laundry is about as far removed from my time with Dimitri as I can possibly get.
My thoughts drift pleasantly as I lose myself in the monotony of sorting the lights from the majority of darks. With an armful, I load up my machine and measure detergent with my heart. And before I forget, I grab my dirty clothes from the kit bag I genrrally leave in my car. Then, after starting the cycle, I grab a change of gear to stuff back onto my backup bag.
The wash cycle will take a while, so I start making myself some lunch. My sandwich of leftover chicken tava toasts in the pan, and I pick idly at a bag of potato chips in an attempt to keep my stomach from growling. It always seems to be that the second I realise I'm hungry, I suddenly become ravenous.
I frown, needing to distract myself from the mouthwatering smell of garlic and cumin. So naturally I find myself on my phone, scrolling through Instagram.
Lissa's promoting her upcoming campaign, tagging some incredibly talented photographers and models from underrepresented groups. I smile as I tap through her stories, and remember I need to ask her how things went with Christian.
Some random people I knew in high school also seem to be alive and well, which is good, and my father posted a picture of him and my mother all dressed up at some horse racing thing. I really don't know how I feel about them dating again.
Sparing a second of screen time, I carefully flip my sandwich over to toast on the other side. Then I continue scrolling through my feed.
Fitness influencers, baby compilations (because obviously the algorithm thinks I should be at that point in my life), random memes and text posts. And then I'm brought up short by a video of a very familiar stage.
dimitribelikov reposted the moment the sparklers went off at the show. Even though I'm supposed to not be thinking of him, my eyes scan through the caption thanking his fans for being a safe space to share his new material.
After a moment's deliberation, I tap through to view his profile. Or, I guess, the profile that's run for him. My finger hovers over the profile picture, where that coloured ring informs me that the account has shared a story sometime in the last 24 hours.
I've been with him that entire time, and I didn't notice him on his phone much. It's probably one of his marketing people, maybe an announcement on the upcoming tour. But my burning curiosity won't be sated until I know for sure.
And speaking of burning...
Shit!
I toss my slightly singed sandwich onto a plate before more damage can be done. It's not ideal, but it is still edible. Plus I used my dad's recipe for the chicken, and there's not much on the face of the planet that could make it anything less than delectable.
From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of the story I accidentally clicked on in my scramble to save my lunch. And for the moment I've lost all interest in my food. Because the picture on my screen shows some very familiar long brown hair fanned out across a pillowcase. There's no explanation, no context, and no part of a visible face.
But there's a tugging sensation in my heart as I screenshot it and send it to Dimitri.
To my surprise, he reads it almost immediately.
I thought you didn't want to distract me, he replies.
Figured this was worth the risk, I type back.
I'll take any chance to talk to you Roza, comes his response. Then: I hope you don't mind. I made sure not to get your face in frame.
I bite my lip as my mind starts churning. The way he avoided telling Tasha we're together has left me a bit shaken, and I'm not entirely sure how to feel.
I guess it depends on why you did it, I type carefully, and hit send.
It takes him a moment to start typing, and it's enough to tie my stomach in knots as I wait for his response. Nervously I take a bite from my sandwich, as though the food will set my oesophagus straight.
I didn't sound great earlier, I'm sorry. When I'm done here, I'll focus all my attention on groveling at your feet
Thank you, I reply. But the picture?
Dimitri takes another agonising minute to respond.
It was a perfect moment. You were next to me, asleep, and entirely mesmerizing. I wanted to save it, to share the way you made me feel. Without giving them a way to poison it
I read his message twice, and find my eyes misting up. Blinking back my tears, I tap a glib reply to cut the tension.
Smooth talker
Does that mean I'm forgiven?
I huff a laugh through my nose. Hell no! I was promised groveling
Another moment before his reply turns my legs to jelly.
Of course, Roza. But I grovel better on my knees
Author's Note
Thank you so much for reading! If you liked the chapter (or if you didn't) and want to let me know, please leave a review. Hearing your thoughts is always the best part of posting, and I'm always so grateful for your input. I always post sporadically, and with my wedding in less than a month, I'm really not sure when the next update will be. So please favorite and follow if you'd like to keep in the loop.
The VA universe and the characters therein are the sole intellectual property of Richelle Mead