Page 4 of Escaping the Bratva

12 Years Ago

Sasha

“Who was the twenty-sixth president?” I write on my five by eight index card in a bright green highlighter. An empty bag of skittles sits on the table next to me. My eyelids are getting heavy. I grab the paper coffee cup off the large library table and take a swig. I cringe at the cold liquid. Gross. I should have seen that coming. Laura and Becca left hours ago to spend the rest of their night watching TV. God, that sounded nice, but my first test in political history is tomorrow, and ‌I can’t get these meaningless facts to stick.

Maybe part of the problem is that I find history meaningless. I know what I want to do with my life, and it doesn’t involve knowing the twenty-sixth president. The chair across from me scraps against the wooden floors, and my head snaps up. I try to keep the drool in my mouth as I stare at the guy who is now sitting on the other side of the table. He has dark brown hair that looks like it needs a haircut, but somehow, he makes it work. Warm gray-blue eyes stare back at me as a ghost of a smile pulls at the sides of his plump lips.

I blink twice. “Can I help you?”

His smile widens, and he leans on the table. The sleeve of his gray zip-up jacket kisses the old wooden table.

“You’ve been here all day.” His thick Russian accent takes me by surprise, but I like the way his deep voice makes each word sound sharp and demanding.

“You’ve been watching me?”

“Not really. It's kind of my job to monitor anything suspicious.”

That’s when I notice the badge clipped to the front pocket of his jacket. All the students who work on campus have that badge. It allows them access to certain rooms that they might find necessary to do their job. I imagine his badge probably opens the private study and conference rooms on the second floor of the library. I only know this because they explained it to the entire freshman class during orientation week.

“So…” he says when I don’t respond to his teasing.

“I have to study,” I say, hoping he gets the hint. I just need one more hour.

“The library is closed.”

I flip my phone over to see that he’s right. The library closed twenty minutes ago. Shit. The only place I have to study is the dorm room, and Becca is already asleep. I guess I could use the flashlight on my phone to go through the index cards.

“Look, how much longer do you need?” he asks, seeing my panicked expression.

“Just an hour. I promise. It's just that I need to pass this test tomorrow.”

He shifts his jaw as if thinking about it. “Okay, I’ll stay and wait for you to finish… on one condition.”

“I’m not sleeping with you,” I snap. I might have been at the university less than a year, but I already got a sense that most of the guys on campus were complete pigs.

“Whoa, whoa, I’m not trying to exchange sex for library time.”

I scrunch up my nose, waiting for him to continue.

“Go to Spotty’s with me this weekend,” he says, flashing me a grin that makes my stomach flutter.

“Like a date?” I ask.

He shrugs. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

“V, like the letter.”

“Sasha,” I say.

I look down at the paper and index cards surrounding me.

“Come on. I’m not that bad, am I?”

I looked up at his gray-blue eyes and sharp jawline. He’s athletically built as if he might play a sport. No, he wasn’t bad at all.

“Fine,” I say.

He smirks and leans back in the chair. “Nine o’clock on Friday.”

I nod. “Alright, nine o’clock on Friday.”

---