30. KAVI

30

KAVI

A tear rolls down my cheek as I say a last goodbye to my apartment.

Beside me, Lokhov's assistant shuffles away.

Yes. He sent me his assistant.

Pat is a fifty-something woman with blunt salt and pepper bangs, and the kind of efficient orderliness that makes a person feel lazy, no matter how much they're also working. She's quiet, but has a too-expressive face that tells me her inner thoughts are out-of-control. Her fingers are glued to a rotating set of devices. Phone, second phone, tablet, and second tablet. Dressed in navy monotones, I find her stylishly intimidating.

I think she finds me… nothing. I'm on a to-do list for her boss.

Normally, I would have gotten really upset over Lokhov's overbearing gesture of help, but Pat is visibly enjoying herself. She gives me half a day, and the rest of the weekend is a vacation for her, paid for by Lokhov.

And in one afternoon, so much gets done that I'm forcibly grateful instead of annoyed. The storage unit is arranged, movers come and take everything, and now I'm down to a single suitcase…

No, actually like four suitcases of stuff.

Landing in Vancouver, I have to order a van-taxi to fit everything.

The driver grunts at my comments about rain. I've been babbling the whole time, but his answers have become monosyllabic. To stop annoying him, I quietly tap my boots against each other instead. My skin has goosebumps.

You're really doing this, Kavi.

When I see the ocean, the roof of my mouth dries.

This IS happening.

My parents know I'm here. This morning my mother texted me, asking me out for lunch. Whatever icing strategy was happening, she rebelled, tapping out. We had never gone that long without talking to each other.

Over text, I told her I was flying to Vancouver to stay with a friend, strongly implying it was a woman to fend off questions.

Not that my parents deserve an explanation.

Okay, they might. Mom is pushing me toward Tyler only because—on paper—it's a great life to lead. Money. Security. Status. For me, a woman who didn't go to college and has no credible job experience, it's winning the lottery of a lifetime. Only if I accept men make mistakes, of the cheating variety.

Pasting on a frozen smile, I pay the driver when we arrive and get escorted into a French chateaux type building. It's a place where staff get miffed when you roll your own trolly loaded with overstuffed suitcases up the elevator. Private access again, of course.

It rises to the top floor.

There's only one door at the end of the hallway that waits unlocked for me.

The penthouse.

The moment I step through the door, it's immediately obvious this is one of the best views in the city. You get gray-blue mountains spreading their backs across the sky and the glittering ocean. We're high up enough that the city below feels flush and naked. You see everything all at once, as if looking through the lens of a low-operating airplane hovering above, capturing it all. Not to say the penthouse itself isn't staggering. I know little about furniture, but I'd gamble the appliances are all high-end… and Italian? The living and dining room is massive, with twenty-foot ceilings. I spot a wine locker. There's also a fire pit on the terrace, perfect for people to sit around, although Lokhov doesn't strike me as a social entertainer.

Taking it all in, I have to remind myself this isn't mine. It's not earned or because of anything I deserve. I can't feel comfortable or safe, thinking it won't be taken away at any second. Just hope this place gives you a second to breathe so you can plan what to do next.

I also decide Lokhov was right, not that I'll ever repeat those words to him. His place is big enough that we won't see each other if we don't want to.

It's also decorated with no soul.

"Everything is so white," I say out loud to a couch I could probably stain just by staring too hard.

My voice echoes. There's no answer.

Lokhov is not here. He's traveling for an away game.

That shouldn't mean it's an invitation to snoop.

I should be respectful, I think to myself, as I open and close every drawer I can see.

This is completely unnecessary and not coming from a need to control and see everything as if afraid it will disappear like my apartment did.

It's rude to head into the bathroom to sniff towels (very clean), to see what products he uses (mostly unmarked soap), and read medicine labels (something for muscle flare-ups).

If I'm going through a hallway and opening doors, it's to see what room is mine. Unfortunately, I hit it quickly as it's one of the first doors to my right, but just to make sure it's the one, I root around the study with the mahogany desk, the home gym with loads of machines, and finally, on the other side of double-doors, his primary bedroom.

My feet stall as I gasp.

The bed.

Is. Huge.

Indulgent.

It could fit four people.

There are black sheets. Who has black sheets? They aren't even gray or linty, but perfectly obsidian. There's no mess anywhere. No clothes littered on the floor, loose charger wires, or empty water glasses. At the foot of the bed is a dark brown leather sitting bench, and beside that is an even darker armoire. It's massive and closed, but presumably where he keeps most of his things.

Although, there's also a side table by the bed. I inch closer to it and see. Reading glasses, thick-framed and black.

No. I refuse to picture it. He already has a chiseled jaw and an even more chiseled body. Pronounced shoulders. Narrow waist. Big hands. Then there's those dark facial features easily described as grumpily sexy, but come on.

The man wears glasses in bed?

Naked. Tattooed. Glasses. Big dick. (Presumably, evidence would suggest.)

The visual is an obscenity. I've had enough.

Like I'm about to be murdered in a horror movie, I edge away from the scene of the crime, swearing to myself. Never again will I stand in this room, I vow. There's no reason for me to be there. None at all.

Escaping to the kitchen, I gulp down a glass of water.

Focus, Kavi.

I've got maybe two or three weeks to figure out what to do next and how to take control of my life. There's no place to be this flushed, thinking of glasses, a sinfully tattooed defenseman, and however many inches he may or may not have. Not when so much is at stake.

It sucks because before this, I thought my life was alright, even if sometimes there was this deeply buried pit in my stomach. I ignored any underlying restlessness, pushing forward. I didn't challenge what I was doing.

But pretend, for example, that I hadn't taken a backseat to Tyler's vision of our life; pretend that I'd spoken up for myself before getting this old, almost thirty; and that I'd invested in not being so reliant. And I don't know why it wasn't a screaming necessity for me before, but there's a scream inside me now.

I don't have a fiancé. There's no subsidized apartment waiting for me in Seattle.

My dad will not be paying me to be his assistant right now.

Photography gigs also pay very little.

I'm actually lost.

And it's up to me to figure out how to save myself.

Dmitri may have given me this apartment for a few weeks, but at some point, he'll kick me out.

It's up to me to be ready when that happens.

So with what I think shows maximum restraint, I unpack all my belongings in his extra bedroom. Everything is folded and neatly put away. Then I shower and touch myself.

A healthy way to expel horniness out of the system. Fantasies shouldn't be persecuted or scrutinized. They don't count.

Even when they feature thoughts of an amorphous man who coincidentally has tattoos, a glorious bum and many inches…

It's the closest I'll ever get to someone like him, I rationalize further to myself later.

For I might be living here, but the plan is to never run into Lokhov.