Page 12 of Destined for the Devil
Roman crouched in front of me, his smile shy. It was cute. The brute weight of his frame only deepened the charm of his boyish smile. He was so damn handsome; did he realize that?
"So? Tell me something else about Roman." I didn't know how I had the courage to ask that. He hesitated, clearly not sure how to approach the question, but sat down on the floor in front of me, hanging his tattooed hands off his knees.
He had letters tattooed on his fingers and hands, but it wasn't English, I didn’t think. There were a few other symbols, a weird cross, and a skull, but when he saw me inspecting his large fingers, he slowly pulled away and leaned back on his hands.
"Okay," he began uncertainly. "I've lived in this place for three years. I hate cooking. Um…pfft...what else?" I saw right through his efforts to not reveal any details.
"You drink your coffee black," I added just as his beautiful, surprised eyes stared into mine.
"Creepy. How did you know that?" That smile never faded. Damn. His smile was so disarming.
"Pretty elementary, Watson. You have no milk or cream in your fridge. By the way, your coffee machine brews absolutely awful coffee." I had no idea why I felt so free talking to him. Either I inhaled too much smoke last night and had smoke poisoning, or I just stopped caring about everything. "Moka pot is the only way to go. And you obviously need to add milk.” I returned his smile, unable to hold back.
"Duly noted,” he added in contemplation. But suddenly, neither he nor I knew how to continue the conversation, both of us immobile, just staring at each other. “You should get some sleep. It's late,” he murmured, but didn't move.
I really didn't want him to go. I hadn’t had a conversation like this with anyone for a long time. I had no more phone and couldn't even call any of my girlfriends back home. But mostly, I just wanted to talk to him.
"Okay, tell me one more thing, though. Anything."
I probably sounded like a complete lunatic, begging him to stay with me and asking him random shit, but his facial expression was kind, and he smiled again. Oh goddamn it, his smile was literally making my pussy ache, what the fuck.
"You tell me one thing first, and then I will." He reversed it, but I didn'tknow what to tell him about my depressing and sad circumstances. After a minute of self-doubt, I just came back to what we spoke about earlier.
"I don't actually have any friends to go to here. I just moved to L.A. this past weekend. Thanks for letting me stay here,” I whispered, afraid he didn't hear me, but he nodded without hesitation.
"You're welcome. Don't feel like you have to leave anytime soon. There are already enough homeless people on the streets." He chuckled lightly, and it made me smile too. "I don't know what to tell you about myself. Ask me something."
I looked him over and made a mental list of what I wanted to know. Everything, duh. I wanted to know everything about him. He had a barely discernible accent when he spoke English; I wondered where he was from. But also, how old he was. And what he did for a living. And what he liked to do for fun. And if he was the kind of guy who moaned in bed. And what he looked like naked. And if he loved his parents. And if he ever had pets when he was a kid.
On and on it went in my head, and I caught myself thinking that I had known him for less than twenty-four hours.
"What's your last name?" I finally asked something random. He was silent for a few seconds.
"Agapov,” he finally responded. That didn't sound like an American last name at all, maybe Eastern European?
"Mm. Where is that from?"
"Russian." He didn't hesitate this time, locking his gaze with mine once more. Damn. I would have never guessed he was Russian. Although, I wasn’t sure I had met any Russians before in my life.
"You're Russian?" I felt the need to clarify for some reason.
"Yes. I'm Russian,” he responded with a small smile that, at this point, was the only thing I wanted to see. "You can't believe it because I don't have a thick Russian accent?" he added in a thick Russian accent, andmy giggles spilled out of me unrestrained. Actually, yeah. I imagined all Russians to speak English with a thick Russian accent.
"Yeah, kinda. You have a bit of an accent, though. I guess you've been here a long time?" I continued with my interrogation, now propping myself up on my elbow, my messy hair overtaking my shoulders and upper body.
"Yeah."
"Uh huh. Like you were born here?" I probed again. Jesus, trying to get information out of him was like pulling teeth. "Don't worry, I won't use it against you. I won’t quiz you on the Bill of Rights or anything." My little joke relaxed him, and he gifted me another one of his heart-stopping smiles.
"I was born in Russia. I came here when I was eight. I have an American passport as well. But I may be a little rusty on the Constitution." So he had been here a long time.
“And how old are you now?” I pressed, trying to pull another detail out of him. He hesitated, guarded as ever. These were simple questions—just me being cautious about whose house I’d ended up in. After a beat of silence, he finally shared.
"I'm thirty-five. How old are you?" Damn. He was ten years older than me. In a way, that made sense. He had a fucking monstrosity of a condo, and he looked mature.
"Twenty-five." My own voice sounded so squeaky and unsure in my ears.
"Still so young. Lots of time to get your ID back." His smile never faded. It was weird. He looked menacing, violent, and tough, but his kind smile was making me short-circuit. "But also, it was supposed to be one question, and you've asked like a million now. Go to sleep."
