Page 3 of Room Nine: For Their Eyes Only

“Oh, my Lord, you’re on time. Hell has frozen.” Elsa smirks and spreads her arms for a hug. I roll my eyes and petulantly stomp into her embrace, tugging her hair to demonstrate my displeasure with her judgment.

“I’m three minutes early. You have no idea how fast I dressed to make it here on time.” I point to my poorly tied Converse sneakers and the dark waves falling from my messy bun. Usually, I’d take more pride in my appearance, but I couldn’t bear another of Elsa’s lectures on my lack of accountability and poor organizational skills. She’s such a stickler for rules.

“Yes, I can tell.” Elsa pinches her nose with distaste, unimpressed with my choice of denim overalls over a tight red tank top. “Fortunately, this dive doesn’t have a dress code. Let’s eat.” She swings the door open and allows me to pass through first, gesturing to the hostess that the rest of her party has arrived.

Sunny’s Diner is a local gem I discovered days after moving to New Orleans in the spring. It’s cozy, nostalgic interior reminds me of the diners I frequented with my dad when I was younger. Despite his busy life and obnoxious wealth, he tried to give us a sense of normalcy. He wanted us to know that prosperity was fleeting and the best memories were made spending time with the ones you love—not gathering possessions.

Once a week, he took the time to buy groceries on his own, rather than sending the housekeeper, and tried cooking a home-cooked meal for his children. The operative word istried. My poor dad failed miserably, nearly burning down the kitchen on more than one occasion.

After he ruined dinner, he’d drive us to one of the many diners near our home in Brooklyn and we’d spend the evening talking about school and friends. Some of my best memories are of time spent in diners. They’ve always felt like my home away from home.

We stride across the near-empty place, my sneakers squeaking as I walk along the freshly mopped checkerboard tile floor and crawl onto the opposite side of our booth. I’m so short my legs dangle off the red leather banquette seat, causing my feet to hover two inches above the floor. I feel childish next to Elsa’s tall frame and regal stature, but instead of complaining about her seat choice, I embrace my deficiencies, lift my legs, and tuck each ankle beneath my thigh.

“How’s tricks?” I ask while I peruse the thick menu, my eyes ping-ponging off each page as I try to find something I’ve never eaten before. I abhor monotony. Every day is an opportunity to chip away at the boredom and drudgery of life. Even if it’s nothing more dazzling than eating something new.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking that question?” Elsa peeks over the top of her menu, her blue eyes narrowed with misplaced judgment. Two months ago, she ditched her sweet CamLife persona, PlayingFootsies, because her controlling boyfriend considered it disrespectful. And suddenly, she’s turned into the morality police.

“No, you shouldn’t,foot girl. It’s a simple question meant to ask how’s the job coming along. Keep all your condemnation on that side of the table, or I’ll remind you how you were the one who encouraged me to join the platform,” I huff, annoyed but too hungry to argue. I’m not ashamed of what I do. It’s an honest living that pays the bills with enough cushion to build a nest egg.

“I’m not saying it’s bad. But you’ve made enough money to cut back and rejoin the real world. It was a temporary solution, not a long-term fix.” Elsa changes gears, stirring her coffee as she spews bitter words.Real world?I adore her, but she’s a walking advertisement for how much misery loves company. She hates her new job, despises working in an office, and makes less than a third of her previous income.

I take a deep breath and try to rein in my emotions before I fly off the handle. Just because we’re good friends doesn’t mean I’ll play the part of her punching bag. She’s royally pissed that she gave up doing something she loved for a boyfriend who doesn’t pull his weight. I understand her frustration, but no one held a gun to her head.

This isn’t the first time she’s tried to shame me for something she used to do, but it will be the last.

I lift my hand to stop her from saying another word. “Hold it right there,Saint Elsa. Don’t you dare look down your nose at me when you know you’d kill to go back to live-streaming. It’s not my fault you listened to Mack and now have to work a regular nine-to-five. I love what I do and make more money than any other twenty-two-year-old I know. It satisfies my need for attention and keeps a roof over my head. If you dislike it, we don’t need to be friends.” My words emerge in a rush, like bullets from a machine gun aimed at Elsa's stunned face.

Elsa takes a moment to recover, taking shallow breaths as she holds back tears. Her face turn bright red as a tiny yelp escapes her lips. “I’m sorry, Vivi! You’re right. I’m so pissed I shuttered my site when I was at the top of my game. I worked so hard for so long, and things were getting better.And for what?Mack? Now that he’s more secure in our relationship, he thinks he can do whatever he wants. We hardly ever see one another. He’s always out with his friends, bleeding our joint account dry.” She covers her face with her hands, whimpering as she tries to shield her tears from prying eyes. It’s no use. She’s a mess.

“Joint account? Why on earth would you combine finances with a man who isn’t your husband? Is he that good in the sack?” Now it’s my turn to judge. That’s a stupid move if I’ve ever heard one.

Elsa swipes the napkin beneath my glass and uses it to wipe her smudged mascara. “Because I’m an idiot. Because I allowed a halfway decent fuck to manipulate me into supporting him. I don’t even remember the last time he made me come.”

I cringe when the volume of her voice reaches the booth across the aisle, and everyone turns in our direction. Elsa doesn’t seem to care. She prattles on about Mack’s limp dick, lousy breath, and poor oral skills.

“I had better sex in high school, and that’s saying a lot,” she confesses loudly. “How the hell do I get rid of him when he won't move out?”

I slump in my seat and tell the waitress we’re ready to order. This was supposed to be a casual Saturday lunch, not a political summit to discuss the state of her relationship. I’ll need fuel if she wants me to contribute more than one-word replies.

“So why have you been disguising your heartache and misdirecting your anger at me?” I ask, then whisper my selection to our curious server, idling by with perked ears.

Elsa bows her head and leans forward on her elbows, her shoulders sagging with the weight of her shame. “I’m sorry. I should have listened to you. I miss my life, my platform, and, goddamn, all that money. This is my first relationship in years, and I thought he was the one. At least, I wanted him to be the one. But Mack sees me as his sugar mommy. I’m a cash cow whose milk has run dry. Every time I kick him out, he comes back and talks me into giving him another chance.” She sniffles and sips her iced tea.

I’m not a Southerner. I’ve spent most of my life in New York and New Jersey among people who don’t understand the meaning of subtle. Unlike Elsa, I don’t mince words, offer passive-aggressive comments, or sugarcoat the truth. “Pack his shit, change your locks, and tell that hot policeman that lives next door, the one who’s crushed on you for weeks, to spend the night.”

Elsa sits back, straightening her posture as she considers my words. Her eyes grow wide as naughty thoughts of retribution float through her brain. “That’s not a bad idea. He terrifies Mack.”

“Bingo. Kill two birds with one stone.” I nod, lean back and make room for my turkey burger and fries. “Now shut up and let me tell you about last night’s fan. He was a doozy.”

Chapter3

“Idon’t like this, Andrei. Our legitimate clients won’t appreciate having their names entangled with someone like Volkov. It took us years and every penny we had to break away from that bastard. Once he reels us back in, he’ll sink his claws deeper than before.” Viktor, my middle brother and the most logical of the three of us pivots in his chair and points to his computer screen, displaying a series of encrypted emails I forwarded early this morning. He rubs his tired eyes, then adjusts his collar, fussing over a piece of lint as he complains, “I thought we agreed not to work for gangsters anymore.”

“I don’t think we have a choice,” Vadim, my baby brother, interjects, well familiar with Boris’ tactics of intimidation.

Viktor chimes in from his desk on the opposite side of the room. “We spent too many years struggling to free ourselves to get sucked in by a twenty-two-year-old bratva princess who wants to prove a point to her neglectful daddy. She isn’t our problem.”

“That’s not fair. She’s not asking to be hunted down and Andrei is right. We still owe Volkov a favor for letting us leave.” In true form, Viktor thinks only of himself and Vadim defends a woman’s honor.

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