Knocked Up By the Russian Boss by Bella King
Chapter 2
IVORY
This skirt has been giving me anxiety all day. My friend Courtney always says I hide my sex appeal behind my clothes, so I bought this outfit in the hopes that it would help boost my confidence. All it’s done is make me cold and self-conscious.
The walk home from school is uneventful; I encounter a group of children on bikes and one or two crackheads harassing the owner of a bodega.
When I reach my apartment building, I’m so relieved to be home from classes that I practically sprint to the elevator, my self-awareness suffering as my skirt flutters with the movement of my legs. The elevator will take me directly to my penthouse; my parents refused anything less when we were picking out places in the city for me. Both of them grew up wealthy and sheltered, so their understanding of the realistic dangers of day-to-day life is even more hysterical and exaggerated than mine.
When the elevator doors open, I’m greeted by the scent of a vanilla and vetiver air freshener that I keep plugged into the far wall in the living room. The late afternoon light pours in through the gigantic westward windows, illuminating the whole city as I gaze out over it. It’s almost romantic how beautiful each detail of this view is, like I could spend an entire day studying it and never seeing the whole thing. I could get lost in it.
I take off my shoes right away and feel the thick, plush carpet below my feet, listening to the absolute silence of my apartment: no walls to share, no traffic noise, no roommates to tolerate. As I step towards my bedroom, my phone starts to vibrate erratically as five or six messages and notifications pour in.
I glance at the lock screen and see all sorts of names: Courtney, Tiffany, Peyton, Tommy, Kyle ...
If I had more of a backbone, I would tell them all that I have three papers due early next week and that I need the weekend to complete and perfect them.
I do not, however, own a backbone. It’s the only thing in the world that daddy dearest cannot buy for me, and I certainly did not inherit one from my mother. Their marriage is as one-sided as the sleek marble floor that sprawls through my kitchen.
Courtney’s messages always carry a tone of embellished importance, and if she paid any attention in our psychology class, she would realize that she manipulates people by doing this. Ironically, she spends the whole class period texting Tommy, her meathead boyfriend who wears too many pastels and thinks hard seltzer is a food group.
“Hey, we’re going to that Italian guy’s penthouse on 9th street in an hour!!!! You need to be there. I have to talk to you!!”reads her text.
If I were to tell Courtney that I “needed to talk to her” about anything, she would damn near drop to the floor convulsing from anxiety. For her, it is perfectly acceptable to inflict this unease on others, which is why I’ve chosen to completely disregard the second part of the message. I’ll go out with them, but I refuse to be Courtney’s emotional support animal for the night.
When I walk into my bedroom, I examine the contents of my oversized walk-in closet, trying to determine what sort of atmosphere I should be dressing for. My friends tend to avoid any scene with one speck of character or grit, so I should probably stick with something a little bit pretentious. I reach for a barely-there cream bandage dress that I paid $600 for on an impulse after my ex broke up with me. I wore it to a party that I knew he’d be at, but he didn’t even look in my direction for the whole night. I haven’t worn it since out of pure embarrassment. It’s a testament to my desperation.
Some delicate diamond earrings and red lipstick bring the outfit together, and I practice my reactions for when I hear about Courtney’s crisis of the week. Wide eyes and a slack jaw seem to get the most mileage out of her.
“Be there in 10!!!!”texts Courtney.
She had been talking about Tommy’s new Maserati Ghibli, allegedly the nicest of the ten luxury cars he’s owned since high school. He’s itching to show it off, so everybody in the group will be piled into it by the time they get to me, even people he barely knows.
Tommy and Courtney are the worst, but they’re perfect for each other, even if it’s just because they’re both cripplingly shallow and attention-seeking.
As I wait for the group to pick me up on the sidewalk, I can hear the car approaching before I see it. I take a deep breath, preparing myself for a night of tensing my body against the inside of the car and grasping at nothing as Tommy whips through the streets of the city.
Seeing the car appear in the distance does nothing to calm this fear. The custom paint job is beautiful, a duo-chrome shift of green and blue, but I know how Tommy drives, especially when he wants to show off his new toys.
Tommy speeds down the road and brakes hard when he sees me waiting. The rear left door swings open, and I can see Kyle and Peyton waiting in the back. My heels tap the pavement in an annoyingly rhythmic cadence as I try not to hesitate.
“Ivory, you look like Taylor Swift,” Courtney chimes from the front seat, clearly already intoxicated as she takes a long hit off a dab pen. The compliment is genuine, and I smile at the comparison. “You want any of this?” she asks as she hands the pen back to me.
“Oh, no, I’ll just sleep for ten hours later if I do a dab,” I reply. If I’m being honest, weed always makes me extremely tired or uncomfortable in my own skin.
“Okay, want a shot then?” Peyton asks, reaching under his seat and pulling out a bottle of Grey Goose.
“Oh my god, put that away,” I exclaim.
Always the good girl, I’d never be caught drinking in a moving car.
Peyton laughs. “Dude, my dad’s the chief of police. Nobody’s gonna do shit to us,” he replies with an impish grin as he takes a pull off the bottle. Kyle grabs it from him immediately, taking an even bigger drink. Tonight is going to be a big pissing contest between these two, and I’m not looking forward to it.
“Come on, Ivory!” Kyle begs as he places the bottle in my lap.
Everybody is looking at me now except for Tommy.
“Okay, fine,” I respond, relenting to peer pressure once again as I unscrew the bottle and take a drink.
