Russian Tattoos Obsession by Kat Shehata Read Free Book Online

bar in the kitchen. With the new, less intimidating plan, I was busy with prep and assembly, and I could relax enough to hold a conversation without having an anxiety attack.
    When Boris and I got back to the house after practice, I went to my room, the guest room, showered, and got ready Friday Night Style—jeans, bling, hair, and makeup. During the week I donned my sporty girl attire, but I made an effort to raise my stats at social events. I just had to get through dinner, a few cocktails, some chitchat, and in a few hours I would be free from the Russians for an entire glorious weekend.
    Once I was ready, Boris kept me company at the bar while he listened to a radio commentator jawing about college bowl games. UC was out of contention and finished for the season. He had his reading glasses on, a stack of papers fanned out around him, and was jotting down notes in a little black book.
    “What are you, a bookie?” I joked.
    He didn’t respond.
    Crap. Was he a bookie? I tied on an apron I’d found in a drawer and then opened and a can of cannelloni beans and dumped them into a glass bowl. I added salt, a dash of pepper, diced tomatoes, and a big bunch of finely chopped parsley. I folded the ingredients together, squeezed a lemon over top, and scooped spoonfuls of the mix onto bite-size tortilla chips.
    “You know, I’m capable of doing more than making dinner. I can do business things.”
    “You call that dinner ?”
    I placed a couple of them on an appetizer plate and set it next to Boris. “They’re delicious.” I stuffed one in my mouth.
    He glared at me. “You’re in good mood.”
    “It’s officially the weekend. T.G.I.F.F.F.”
    His expression didn’t change. “Is code for?” He tipped his hand.
    “Thank God It’s Finally Fucking Friday?” I grinned and popped another bean thing in my mouth.
    “You have big plans tonight?”
    I guess he’d observed the obvious up-tick in my weekend style. “Oh, the usual.”
    “Which is?”
    “Hanging out with my friends.”
    “Where?”
    “Hockey game.”
    He stared at me.
    “What?”
    “I am waiting to hear the rest of your plans.” He leaned forward. “You and your college friends don’t go home to bed after the game, right?”
    Yikes. I busied myself at the chopping block and diced an eggplant for a dip. “Um, we just hang out and, you know, talk. What are your plans? Married? Got a girlfriend?”
    “Who is driving you home?” Both his hands lay flat, palms down on the bar like an overweight panther ready to pounce.
    Using the knife, I slid the eggplant into a clear bowl and put it in the microwave to soften before I pureed it. “I don’t have to answer your questions, you know. I can do whatever I want in my free time.”
    “The big boy or the basketball player?”
    I snorted at his shallow depiction of my friends. “Um, it’s none of your business, but if it makes you feel better, a girl is driving me home.”
    “You’re lying.”
    I tossed him a mischievous grin. “Why do you say that?”
    “You always say ‘um’ before you tell a lie.”
    “Really? Thanks for the tip.”
    “And you suck in your bottom lip when men stare at your body, cross your arms when you’re nervous, and pull your hair forward when you’re paid a compliment.”
    “Jeez, stalker.”
    He kept staring at me like he was mentally downloading my quirks for his F.U.C.F.—Fucked-Up Carter File. The garage door opened. I went to the bar to prepare the drinks and to escape Boris’s unnerving assessment. All I had to do was carry two small glasses and a bottle of vodka to the kitchen counter and set out some pickles, caviar, and black rye bread.
    Instead of downing pure alcohol like a proper Russian, I paced myself and sipped on less potent mixed drinks throughout our evenings together. There was no way I could keep pace with these bad boys.
    As I poured a shot of vodka into my glass, a knowing smile crept up on Boris’s face. “Are you sure you should drink before