“I will,” he says, and my stomach drops even as a weird relief hits. “After you repay me.”
I swallow. He watches the movement like it’s interesting. “Repay you how?”
He slips the phone away, as if that part is finished. “You’re going to be my girlfriend.”
The laugh that leaves me is ugly and real. “Absolutely not.”
“Don’t get so prissy. I’m not asking you out for real,” he adds, generous, like he’s offering a discount. “You’ll be my fake girlfriend.”
I step back. He doesn’t pursue; he doesn’t have to. His attention follows like heat.
“And why,” I ask, crisp, “would Dmitry Antonov need a fake girlfriend?”
He considers me, the calculation back like a mask. “I need access. To the places you go, the people you meet, and the people you have influence over. You are everywhere, and you know everyone worth knowing. People trust you; they want to be around you. You are a key that opens everything on this campus.”
I should be flattered, but I feel like I don’t deserve these compliments.
“So this is a business arrangement. I guess you want to be popular, too.”
A tiny lift of one shoulder. “If that helps you sleep.”
He doesn’t look like he’s doing this for social clout. What could he want by using my connections? Is he also trying to get himself acquainted with rich people because he wants to use them to start his own business? I mean, that makes sense, given how ambitious and driven he is. He’s good at accounting. Being an accountant to the rich and famous would be highly lucrative.
But deep in my gut, I wonder if the reason is far more sinister. If he’s really a part of the mafia, and he just wants to sell drugs to unsuspecting college kids.
“And if I say no?”
He glances at the door. The private smile is back, the one that never reaches his eyes. “Then I suppose I will be very upset. And very talkative.”
I breathe in, slow. Then I breathe out and compose myself.
Terms. I need terms. I was raised on contracts and consequences. If I’m going to survive him, I will not do it on my knees in the dark.
“I have my rules,” I say.
“Spit them out,” he allows. “I’ll decide if they’re worth following.”
“You don’t touch me.” I square my shoulders, trying to show that I’m not someone who backs down easily. “You don’t humiliate me in front of people.”
“You do that well enough yourself,” he says, and when I bristle, he adds, quietly, “And I don’t want to touch you any more than you want to touch me. But if we’re going to convince people that you’re my girlfriend, I’ll have to show some affection.”
It shouldn’t steady me. It does. I crave his next touch like I crave oxygen. Even here in this small space where I should feel claustrophobic, his presence is like a rock that I’m clinging to. I feel cocooned by his dark energy, as if he’s secretly protecting me even as he threatens to ruin my social life and future plans.
“We keep it clean at official events.” I swallow.
“Define clean.”
I heat. “You know what I mean.”
A rasp. “I do. Which is why I’m going to enjoy reminding you that what you mean and what you want are not always the same thing.”
“Dmitry.”
He looks at my mouth when I say his name, as if I’ve given him something. “Callista.”
I lift my chin. “And you delete the photo.”
“When you show up for me Friday night and introduce me to all the people in your circle that I’m interested in,” he says. “Wear the black dress on your third hanger. The one with the low back. Hair down.”
