CHAPTER 1
NIKA
Igot fired because my boss is a pervert.
Which doesn’t seem fair. I’m not the one who kept pinching my ass and making creepy comments and I’m definitely not the one who tried to put a camera up my skirt one time when I was super drunk and tried to play it off like I was tying my shoes but it was incredibly obvious what he was trying to do.
He was a total asshole, but I’ve been around assholes for most of my life and it was easy to ignore.
Besides, it was the first job I ever really liked. I wasn’t exactly an important member of the West End Art Gallery, but I still loved it. Mostly I helped rearrange, swept up, answered phones, straightened after parties, that sort of thing, but I got to spend all day long surrounded by some of the best art in all of L.A.
I only had to put up with some relatively mild sexual harassment.
It came to a head last night. My boss Jason was throwing another party for an up-and-coming young painter. I swear, weheld identical gatherings like twice a week and every time he told the artist they werethe best talent on the West coast I swear itand usually I never heard from them again. I think the parties were his way of networking and trying to convince the artists to gift him some work to sell. It was sleazy, but it seemed to work.
But Jason liked to drink. And when he got drunk, he liked to touch me in really weird ways. Most nights I can either avoid him or ignore it, but he crossed the line when he reached up my blouse and straight grabbed my right boob. I didn’t even realize I was punching him until my knuckles hurt and he was sitting on the ground gaping at me with shocked rage.
Anyway, I got fired.
I punched my bossone timeand I’m the problem?
I don’t even know what came over me. I’ve been very good at ignoring bad behavior and giving lots of leeway to creeps since I was very young. Aunt Yelena taught me it’s better to go along to get along. That was her favorite saying, though she’d say it in Russian:S volkami zhit’ — po-volch’i vyt’, if you live with wolves, you must howl like a wolf. I like her version better than mine.
But I took Aunt Yelena’s advice to heart. Every month, the men would show up, and I’d keep my head down and smile a lot. I’d never speak unless asked a direct question, and only then when it was clear they expected an answer. Mostly though, I was ignored or treated like an idiot, which suited me fine. I’d sign papers and that would be that. Aunt Yelena would say afterward,good job girl, now go clean your room, it’s disgusting, and off I’d scurry. Happy days.
Now though, I’ve got nothing. No job, no friends, no degree, no prospects. Just an apartment in a dingbat on the edge of Koreatown, some second-hand furniture, a mish-mash of thrifted dishes, and tons of stolen art supplies (another gallery perk). My neighbors play loud music in the middle of the night and I’m too meek to say anything about it. I have a bedroom, a living room, and a teeny-tiny little balcony, which is the entire reason I took this place to begin with, but now that miniscule outdoor space is covered by all my potted plants and isn't even usable anyway.
Although I do have money.
Not a lot. I’m nowhere near rich. I’m hardly comfortable. But the deposits keep coming, month after month, sometimes big and sometimes not so much, but always there. Ever since I was sixteen and Aunt Yelena set me up with an account. She showed me how to log in one afternoon and gave me a firm pat on the back.There you go, now you’re as screwed as the rest of us.
It’s around ten at night and the neighbors are getting started. I sit in front of a blank canvas and study the fibers. In my head, there’s all this noise: happy noise, colors and big shapes, vast fields of twisting strands like it were knit from magic yarn, except whenever I try to translate head-space to paint-space, I lose something. It never comes out right, and I’m at the point where I want to stop trying. Half a dozen failed works are stacked against the wall. I’m paint-stained and feeling miserable. Not even a glass of wine’s doing much to take the edge off. I’m thinking, maybe I’ll smash what’s left of this canvas, sell off all my remaining paints, and try to become a banker. Aren’t bankers happy? They have stability at least, health insurance, HR ladies who probably don’t like it when the CEO grabs random boobs, that sort of thing. I could keep onfloating, like I’ve always floated. Drift on through the days. Get by to get by. Howl like a wolf.
Until there’s a bang at my door.
“It’s not me,” I yell down the short hall. “The music’s coming from the next unit.”
This happens every few months. Someone gets annoyed about my neighbors and thinks the music is coming from my unit. I go back to daydreaming about stock trades and 401ks and drowning myself in comfortable beige sedans when there’s another, more insistent knock.
I get up, my brush clattering to the floor.
“The music’s not mine,” I say loudly, but the knock happens again. “Seriously, I’m getting tired of this.” But I trudge to answer anyway, resigned to my fate.
I leave the chain connected but flip open the bolt. “Sorry, I think you’re looking for—“ And stop mid-sentence.
The man standing on my threshold is wildly attractive. Square jaw, wavy dark hair, straight nose. He’s got a handsome, disarming smile, and the brownest eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re almost black. His lips are full and I fixate on them, heart racing. He’s in a dark suit, fitted against his athletic frame.
And he’s carrying a wedding dress.
What the heck!?
“Veronika Kiselyov?” His voice is low and calm. His grin widens, and I have to admit, my heart’s pattering wildly. He seems very charming. There are certain people that have a strange,magnetic quality to them, and this man’s oozing it. “Are you Nika?”
“Uh, yes, that’s me. Sorry, who are you?” I assume he’s here to sell me something, or maybe Jason sent him. God, wouldn’t that be horrible? I’d probably go crawling back to the gallery if they’d have me. Jason would end up grabbing my other boob and I’m not even sure I’d punch him a second time.
“My name’s Gabriel Russo, but call me Gabe. We really need to talk.”
I frown, already leaning against the door, ready to slam it shut. “Sorry, do I know you?” I wrack my brain, trying to remember. “Are you one of Jason’s artists?” But I’m positive he’s not. There’s no way I’d forget a man like Gabe. He’s much too beautiful, too big, too terrifying.
