Page 39 of Endless Obsession

Maybe she won’t be able to walk away from me, either.

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Friday, all I can think about is the fact that I have a date with Charlotte this evening, one that I’ve planned meticulously all week. I have a meeting with a distributor for my father first, but once that’s done, all I have to do is go back home and get ready, and then pick her up.

It’s difficult to focus on anything else. She hasn’t logged back onto the site all week, and I feel like I’m starving for her. I went as far as to follow her twice in the morning, to see her walking to work, but that’s all I managed, with the other responsibilities that I have. I didn’t dare interrupt her lunch again. I didn’t think I could make up a good enough excuse for that twice.

She texted me on Wednesday, to confirm the date. Ironically, I got the text as I stood across the street watching her go into her building, my phone pinging with her name as I leaned against a brick wall at the corner of one of the alleys and watched her dark hair fluttering in the breeze around her face, wishing I could wrap a piece of it around my finger.

Charlotte: Sorry it took so long for me to text back. I just needed some time to make sure this is what I wanted to do. Just out of a relationship and all of that.

Ivan: No, of course. Take all the time you need. I wouldn’t want to pressure you. I know it might have seemed like that, the way I introduced myself, but I just couldn’t bear the thought of letting you go and possibly never seeing you again.

Of course, I know that I would have seen her again, if that day didn’t work. I don’t like the way the text budges up to a lie, but I tell myself that it’s the truth. What if she had never come back there? I couldn’t have stood losing my shot with her. And I couldn’t stop myself from trying.

It’s only a lie in the most technical sense.

Charlotte: So, how does Friday night look for you? I’m free. For ‘just dinner’ on an ‘actual date.’ ;)

Ivan: You remembered. I have an idea for ‘just dinner.’ You’ll love it. Friday it is. I’ll pick you up if you send me your address? How does eight-thirty sound?

Charlotte: Perfect. I’ll send it over on Friday morning.

Cautious. Good girl. It’s the first thing I think when she says she won’t send me her address until Friday morning, because it’s the smart thing to do. Of course, I already know her address, and a lot of other things about her. That guilt pings in the back of my mind again, telling me that all of this is not the way to begin, if I want to keep her. That every one of these lies and secrets and omissions will build on one another until I’m caught under the weight of them, with no chance of having Charlotte in my life.

But there’s no possibility that she would have me any other way.

I keep playing that conversation over and over in my head, along with the night at Masquerade and the online chat, as I’m driven to the bar to meet my father’s distributor. She hasn’t texted me since then, other than to send me a pin of her address this morning, and that’s contributed to the feeling that I’m starved for contact with her. That I need her, in a way that defies logic.

The bar is a dive near the South side, one that my father owns. There’s a black Buick with darkened windows parked in the back, visible when the car I’m riding in pulls into the back as well. I would have preferred to drive myself, but my father insisted on sending his driver for me this morning. I know it had nothing to do with my comfort, and everything to do with him wanting control over my movements. Possibly also someone to report on where I go after I leave and if I stopped anywhere beforehand—the driver isn’t someone I recognize. A new hire, maybe, and potentially also a spy.

Either way, I don’t make a fuss. That’s more suspicious than just going along with it.

It’s five o’clock, but the bar is still dark and quiet. This place is more of a front for business than anything else; shabby enough on the outside—it fits right in with everything else, drab enough that it gets only a handful of customers. The ones that are here are sitting at the cracked wooden bar top, on worn green leather stools, talking to the worn-looking woman pouring them shots. I spare her a glance as I walk in through the back door—she looks like she was pretty once, but her blonde hair is greying now, put up in a pile atop her head, and what was once probably a pretty damn good figure has softened in a way that doesn’t flatter the frayed low-rise jeans and black tank top she’s wearing.

I see the shadow of the man I’m supposed to meet in the back. He’s folded into the furthest booth, a sweating glass of water and another of beer in front of him, both mostly untouched. In the shadows, I can’t make out any of his features, but I see the ring on his forefinger that I was told to look out for—a heavy gold ring with a star in the center.

The bartender gives me one glance and then straightens up, pushing the shots over to the waiting customers before starting to look busy polishing glasses. I’m dressed casually in black jeans and a thin black hoodie, military boots finishing off the look, but I suppose there’s no mistaking one of the boss’s sons. There are probably pictures of us all in the back for reference—or to use as a dartboard.

God knows I’ve used my father’s picture that way often enough.

I slide into the booth, over the cracked green leather. The man lifts his head, and I see a smooth, almost boyish face, two days’ stubble, dark eyes that are nearly black. “Karyiev,” he says flatly, and I nod.

The ironic thing about meeting my father’s distributor in this place is what it is that he’ll be moving. Party drugs, high octane coke, molly, and LSD, all of which will be sold at top dollar in my father’s establishments by other dealers who will take their own cut. This man is probably worth as much as I am, but we’re sitting here in this dingy bar. The musty, sour smell barely covered by the sharp scent of lemon cleaner and new alcohol, while the jukebox plays whatever the bartender or one of the patrons chose at a muted volume. Right now it’s something by Linkin Park, which I’m not fond of. The sound is grating.

“My father wants the shipment done by this weekend,” I tell him quietly, my voice pitched low. “Delivered and parceled out to the other dealers to move. We’re running low on product, so he wants a higher volume this time. The Black Cat and Fantasy clubs especially moved twice as much as we expected.”

The man picks up his water glass, taking a sip. “I have as much allocated as last time. He wants it this weekend, but wants a higher volume? Then he’ll have to pay more.”

I know he’s right to ask it. My father sprang this on me, too, and I’m well aware that it’s a big ask. I also know he put me in this position to see what I’d do about it. “He’ll pay the usual rate for the product. No additional fees.”

The man snickers. “You ask for anything in a hurry, you pay a premium. The Kariyev pakhan should know this.”

He does know it. I let out a slow breath between thinned lips, frustrated that I’m here at all, frustrated that I’m dealing with a situation that I know my father has made purposefully difficult. “I’m the messenger,” I say flatly. “I’m telling you what Dima wants, and what he will give. All I need is for you to nod and say yes.”

“You’re not the messenger.” The man leans back, giving me another look at those near-black, unsettling eyes. He crosses his arms over his chest, and the sudden pull of the material of his shirt gives me a glimpse at where his gun is hidden—at least one, anyway. I never go into a situation assuming that I know all of the weapons someone has on them, and so far, I’ve always walked away alive. That’s probably one of the reasons.

“You’re Kariyev’s son,” he continues. “So don’t bother telling me that you’re not in a place to bargain or make concessions, because you are.”

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