Annika
Iam not in the mood for grumpy old men this evening. In my opinion, I have cornered the market on being in a foul mood. After all, I’m the one being forced to marry a stranger to help my father. The one kissing goodbye to sculpting career. And all in all becoming the type of woman I’d always attempted to avoid becoming: another miserable wife to a member of the Russian mob.
Tonight was supposed to be my self-proclaimed solo bachelorette party to say goodbye to my freedom. Only unlike other such parties, I did not invite my friends or my sister, Valya, or any of my cousins. Instead, I slid my curves into this corseted black dress, curled my long, dark blonde hair, added a little heavy makeup to my baby blue eyes, and went out alone, and I had a mission.
I told myself to be bold, to put myself out there and find one last guy I could actually choose before I gave up my free and single life. Yet every time one of the young, muscular guys approached me and offered to buy me a drink, I found myselfrefusing. I’m twenty-four, yes, but that didn’t mean I wanted to go home with another twenty-four year old. I had wanted to find an experienced stud. A man that could give me a memory that would last a lifetime. One that I could reminisce fondly over every time I’m forced to be with my future husband.
I don’t know much about the man my father signed me over to. Just that he was my father’s boss and apparently very important and dangerous. I wasn’t allowed to have any more information than that, so once he’d told me the news I imagined that my future husband was fat, balding on top, hairy on the bottom, and though I didn’t exactly know why, I also imagined him to have an unpleasant odor. It was this image of my future husband that had me buying shot after shot of vodka for myself until the bartender cut me off. To be fair, that was after I cussed out the last muscle head that had attempted to ask me to dance.
So, with my drinking cut off, and my rage over my forced marriage stopping me from actual seduction, I leave the club, spot the only taxi on the street, and let myself in. Thus, leading me to this jackass.
“Well?” I ask, when the startlingly attractive cab driver only continued to stare at her.
My blue eyes roam over him again. He’s dressed pretty well for a cab driver, but who was I to judge? All I care about is getting back to my suite at the Four Seasons- another indulgence I’d granted myself for the night.
“Why are we not moving?”
Since the cabby only glares menacingly at me, I decide to switch to Russian. After all it was the language he’d used to curse at me.
“Ty medlitel'nyy ili prosto lenivyy?”
Are you slow or just lazy?
“Great,” the cabby growls, his dark brows furrowing deeper, “A spoiled brat that speaks Russian. Just what I need.”
“Hey, you’re not my first choice for drivers either, buddy. But you have money to make and I have money to spend, so why don’t you just turn your little light and your meter back on and take me where you want to go, hmm?”
The cabby opens his mouth, looking as if he is ready to throw another string of bilingual curses my way, when his piercing blues eyes suddenly shift to the back window, and narrow. Another Russian curse growls from his throat as he suddenly whips his head forward and slams his foot into the gas pedal.
I let out a shriek as my back hits the seat hard, and I cling to the door and cushion as the cab begins to weave into the heavy New York traffic.
“Jesus!” I shriek, my long nails desperately digging into any surface that could keep me still. One minute the guy is refusing to move and the next he is nearing light speed.
“Is there some sort of medication you might have missed taking?” I ask, finally getting situated, “Or some you should at least consider getting prescribed?”
To my surprise, the handsome cabby laughs. It was low, throaty. More animal than man. And it sends a shot of desire through the depressing numbness I've been drowning in for days.
“Maybe you’re right. Any suggestions?” he replies, glancing at her through the rearview mirror. It was a dangerous move, taking his eyes off the road while going so fast, but for some reason it thrills me.
I lean forward, hugging the headrest of the passenger seat so I can get a better look at the side of his face. My mind is still spinning from all the vodka, but I’m still able to register the man’s strong cheekbones, his sculpted jaw with a dark five-o-clock shadow, a sharply angled black brow and surprisingly long dark lashes framing his blue eyes.
“You’re pretty,” I state, grinning.
Again the man lets out that deep. animalistic sound I can only assume is a laugh.
“Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about you,angel,”he replies, his Russian accent coming out smooth and natural on the last word.
Maybe this night wasn’t such a waste after all, I muse, feeling smile growing bigger.
I’m just about to ask him where he learned his Russian when I feel the car start to slow, and frown as notice that he is pulling to the side of the street. I shift my eyes away from his handsome face to look out the window, and my frown deepens when I see no familiar landmarks.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my mood quickly souring again.
The cabby puts the car in park and turns to face me fully. It was only then that I notice that he isn’t as young as I had originally thought. He has faint lines around his eyes, some on his forehead; somehow making him more attractive than I originally thought.
“You got to get out,” he tells me. His tone is far less gruff than before. In fact he almost sounds apologetic. Except there’s an undertone of command I can’t help but pick up. After all, I’m used to men like this. I know what every tone means. Even the nicest sounding one is usually a warning.
Still I raise a challenging brow and refuse to move.
