Knocked Up By the Russian Boss by Bella King
Chapter 25
MAXIM
Ivory nervously flicks through her closet as I watch, partially interested in her while the rest of my attention goes to examining her bedroom to gather more information about her. Being here of Ivory’s own free will is a lot less nerve-wracking, and I’m able to absorb more of what’s around me without the threat of being caught looming above me.
If I had no prior intentions with Ivory, I have to admit that seeing her bedroom would turn me off a bit from her. She’s clearly led a very bright, sheltered life surrounded by loving family, loads of money, and endless activities and friends.
The blind, naïve optimism of a young rich woman is a stark contrast to my negative outlook on life. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had ever been to a South American country she can’t pronounce to “help out” for a week while she spends the rest of the time ziplining and getting her hair braided.
I kind of envy it.
“Okay, how’s this look?” she asks, slipping out of her wet clothes and into a short, red velvet dress with long sleeves and a deep neckline. This is the first time I’ve seen her completely naked, if even for a few moments, and I have to hold myself back from grabbing her by the hips and throwing her into her bed.
“Looks nice,” I reply. If I told her how I really felt about how she looked, about how much she fucking turns me on, she’d be traumatized forever. Playing the indifference game has always kept the chase alive, anyway.
She begins to fuss with her hair, and even though there’s no real rush, I’d like to get moving. I’m not a man who second-guesses himself. I do something once and move on.
No matter, I’m sure I’ll appreciate all the doing and redoing after she has our baby and snaps right back into her perfect figure. She strikes me as the type of person never to be completely satisfied with herself, no matter how perfect she is.
The rain has let up a bit when we walk back outside, but not by much. Ivory covers her head with her hands as we approach the SUV, and she climbs in eagerly, visibly trying to hide her excitement.
“So, where are you taking us?” she asks, her tone curious and maybe a little bit hesitant. In my periphery, I can see her picking at one of her fingernails.
“You’ll see, it’s somewhere that I’m well-known, so we’ll be able to have whatever we want,” I reply. I know that money isn’t an object for Ivory, which admittedly makes it a little more difficult for me to impress her. I’m hoping that my influence alone will be enough to keep her interested, aside from the incredible sex, obviously.
I decide to take her to an Italian restaurant in the upper-class district of the city, even more wealthy and bloated with power than the part of town that Ivory lives in.
I try to keep my conversation limited. There’s not a whole lot I could say about myself without giving away my work or my lifestyle, and I don’t need to scare her off just yet. Besides, she’ll likely read into every second of silence, giving me the upper hand when we do end up speaking more.
When we arrive at the restaurant, I decide to try and show Ivory that I’m ready and willing to do anything she could possibly want when we’re together. We’re seated at a table that I have specifically requested, and I don’t even let her look at the drink menu. She’ll just tell me what she wants, and I’ll take care of the rest.
She doesn’t seem particularly amused, and I guess I shouldn’t have expected her to, given the fact that she grew up eating at places like this on a regular basis. She’s grateful, of course, but the restaurant seems to give her a kind of pretentious impression.
For starters, the couple two tables down from us clearly can’t afford to be there, but they are both pretending that they can for the other person. The man brags endlessly to his date about his single sports car and the fact that he’s taking the bar exam again in a few months. His suit is cheaply made and ill-fitted.
The girl, on the other hand, is playing the part much better but still falls short of the effortless class that one could expect from two comfortably wealthy people. She glances nervously around the room at the women with $2,000 handbags and $250 eyeshadow, fussing with her necklace and taking calculated breaths to avoid freaking out completely.
I feel for her. I really do. People think they need to keep up with the people around them, but the opposite is true. The second you concern yourself with others, your life falls apart, and you sink down lower.
“Are we still going to be hungry after we’re done eating here?” Ivory asks, skimming the menu with skepticism.
“It’s possible, the plates are pretty small, but it’s worth it. I promise,” I reply.
A woman as refined as Ivory should know that rich people don’t go to expensive restaurants because they’re hungry. They go because they can.
“It’s just… I’m fucking starving, really,” she replies, tucking into herself as if she expects me to get upset with her. “I haven’t eaten anything really substantial all day. Can we come back here at a different time and go somewhere else? I don’t mean to be a pain, I promise.”
This intrigues me a little, even knowing that Ivory isn’t interested in seeing me show off my money. What does she want? I can’t say I wouldn’t love to watch her slam down an entire pizza by herself. Never seen a girl do that before.
“Yeah, that’s fine. I know of a place we can go.”
The district of the city where mobsters hang out isn’t the most glamorous, I can admit. We all know to keep a low profile; nobody comes here wearing their most expensive suit or watch, and they absolutely don’t make a show of buying the most expensive bottle of vodka off the top shelf.
While entry into most of these bars and restaurants is secretive for people like me, it’s exactly the kind of place that someone like Ivory has been told her whole life not to go to.
One of my oldest friends, Ryan, watches over his father’s bar and keeps the mafia presence in check. His own father is a notorious member of the Irish mafia in the city, which should terrify me, but he knows I’m not here to fuck him over. If I were anyone else, though, I’d be shitting my pants.
The bar, called Misfits, is located on the far end of the district that the locals so lovingly call Skid Row.
I doubt Ivory has ever been anywhere near a place like this, and I have to suppress my excitement to see what kinds of insane criminal shit she’ll be introduced to tonight. As much as I enjoy feeding into, and sometimes starting, fights, I can’t let Ivory see me be involved directly. She gets a little bit of the mafia life at a time until she acclimates.
When we arrive inside, we’re met with a man and woman at a booth in the corner, taking bumps of heroin out of tiny spoons. Ivory’s eyes widen immediately, and she glances at me expectantly, waiting for an equally appalled expression back.
“Maxim! Where the fuck have you been?” Ryan shouts obnoxiously from across the room behind the bar. Even when he’s in a good mood, his demeanor is abrasive and intense.
Ivory and I sit at the bar near a window, watching the rain begin to pour again. “I’ve been busy with work stuff,” I reply, knowing full well that Ryan is aware of my “work” and my whereabouts.
He glances at Ivory once or twice, uncertain if she’s actually here with me on purpose or has just gotten lost on her way to an expensive music festival.
“You here with this asshole, sweetheart?” he says to her.
She blushes, looking to me for the proper response. “Um, yes, I am,” she replies, pulling her seat in closer to the bar.
“Alright, well, just promise me you won’t let him put a baby in you. He’s a dirty bastard,” Ryan says, smiling directly at me as I glare at him.
Ivory giggles a little in her seat, the tension dissipating.
That’s good, at least. Even if Ryan decides to be a funny guy to show off to my girl, at least she’s having a good time.
“What can I get for you two?” he asks.
“Can I just get, like, a ton of fries?” Ivory asks. To think I was about to drop $500 on dinner for this girl, and here she is asking for fries. Just fries.
“Yes, that’s fine. Just the usual for you, Max?” he asks, looking to me for an answer to both his question and to why, exactly, I have a 21-year-old girl here with me who doesn’t want actual food for dinner.
Before Ryan is able to make any more snide comments at my expense, we all hear a muted crash coming from the booth where the cokehead couple had been sitting. Ivory jumps and snaps her neck in their direction, watching as the woman at the table slumps onto the floor and begins convulsing.
“Aw, Jesus Christ. Ronnie, get your girl out of here, man. That’s the second time this month,” Ryan shouts to the man, who is frantically attempting to scoop up his girlfriend as she seizes.
