Page 23 of The Lottery

The man smiles. “Family recipe. Very good.”

“Stupid good!” I’m not sure my compliment will translate well, but he can read my body language and definitely sees that I’ve inhaled the whole thing in under ten seconds. “This is the best thing I’ve tasted in my life.”

“I am Ivan,” he says again. “Brought on as chef.” He beams with well-earned pride.

“I’m Zae,” I say with a smile. “A botanist.” When he frowns at the word, I explain. “I work with plants, with the soil. I help things grow.”

He nods. “Ah, da! Botanik!”

“Yes, botanik sounds right.”

His eyes light up with recognition. “Paired with Robert, da?”

I raise my eyebrows in surprise. “Yes, how did you know?”

Ivan grins, delighted to have made the connection. “He too loves my piroshki. We talk about food and life. I ask him why no woman. He says you hurt.”

“Ah, yes. I was, but I’m doing a lot better now. Just starving,” I admit with a smile.

“I get you more! Wait here.” I grab a napkin while he ducks back into his kitchen and wipe the crumbs from my mouth. As I turn to throw it in the garbage can I’m startled to find myself face to face with a large man, his dark blue eyes running over my body. He reminds me of a 40-something version of a football lineman I knew in high school. Bulky muscles that are more soft than hard. Dirty blond hair spiked fashionably. Handsome face full of confidence. I catch a whiff of expensive cologne. “No company?” he asks with a grin. “Haven’t seen you around before and I’ve been getting to know everyone. Buddy Fischer.”

He extends his hand to shake, but in that way where he keeps his elbow bent and his hand close. To accept the gesture, I’ve got to step about two feet closer. Instead, I ignore his offer, clutching my crutch in one hand and glancing down at my tourniquet on the other.

“Zae Clarke. Yeah, I was laying low last night.”

“Zae? Edgy name. I like it.”

Holy Hell, this guy.

“It’s short for Azalea,” I say, willing my eyes not to roll. “Not much edge to it.”

My second piroshki arrives and I gladly turn away to accept it. Unfortunately, before I can thank Ivan, Buddy Fischer loops his arm over my shoulder and tries to lead me away. I flinch from a jolt of pain in my shoulder.

“How about I buy you a drink, Zae?”

“No thanks. I--”

He brutishly guides me towards an open bar tended by a man in crew uniform.

“Bartender. Two whiskies. On the rocks.”

“Like I said. No thanks.” I try to gently pull away, and he tightens his grip on my shoulder, sending another spike of pain through my arm.

I want to scream and kick this guy in the balls, but I’m also keenly aware of the fact that there are fewer than 200 of us. I probably shouldn’t be making enemies the first week of our new life.

The man serving drinks looks between us, then shrugs and serves Buddy a whisky but respects my request for no drink.

Buddy scowls at the man, then empties his tumbler in one long swig. He smacks the glass back down on the counter then pulls me closer to him.

“I got a table at the back. There’s some people you should meet.”

I’m about to shove him away--social consequences be damned--when a woman strides up to us, a welcoming smile on her movie star face. “There you are. Didn’t I tell you this was the best place to eat? Come, let’s get that drink you promised me.” She has a thick French accent and looks like she just stepped off the cover of a magazine. Photoshop smooth skin. Platinum blond hair in perfect curls down her back. Big blue anime eyes. A figure to die for.

I have never seen this woman before in my life, but I smile gratefully and play along because I instantly recognize this as a girlfriend rescue. She saw me in distress and stepped in.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I say to Buddy as I clumsily slip out of his arm and shuffle over to my new BFF.

“Thought you didn’t want a drink,” Buddy says with a scowl.

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