Naomi & Bradley, It All Comes Down… (Vodka & Vice, the Series Book 1) (8 page)

BRADLEY

Monday, February 8th

I’m at the rink early, freezing my nuts off.  One of Manny’s many sisters is married to the Zamboni driver and he gets me in at five in the morning so I can practice.  I used to skateboard, back in the day, and I have done some blading, so I’m not too worried.  It’s just a different surface, right?  Wrong.  The Great Zamboni, as I’ve come to think of him over this last half hour of me falling and him helping me up has a suggestion.  I’ve got two days till my shoot and there’s a guy who gives lessons every afternoon.  So, I pack up my skates and head back to Manny’s for a hot shower.  I undress and see constellations of black bruises dotting my body.  Good thing this is a winter shoot and I’ll be mostly covered. 

After the shower I sit down with a huge mug of Bustelo coffee, and scroll through my phone.  Ronnie, Ronnie, number I don’t know, Ronnie.  No Naomi.  I’m not surprised.  It’s as if she fell off the face of the earth.  I went by her work and they said she quit, just like that.  Wouldn’t say where she went either.  I keep finding excuses to be in her neighborhood, but she never makes an appearance.  Sometimes I catch sight of the creepy guy from the gym, Chase?  I think that’s what she called him.  He seems to have moved on from watching Naomi to watching this crazy hot black-haired chick.  Man has good taste, at least.  I just don’t trust him.  Why does he keep showing up in weird places?  Our building, I mean Naomi’s building, my gym, Molly’s house.  If he’s moved on to this other girl, at least I don’t have to worry about him stalking Naomi.

I don’t know why I still care.  It seems like she had no trouble moving on without me.  Probably screwing around with that vampire she was with as, like the pathetic idiot I am, I waited for her to come home.  Maybe if I had more money, she would have stayed.  Isn’t that what Mother and Sabina taught me?  It takes money to make sex with me attractive.  I shake my head; try to clear away the negativity.  Make a protein shake.  My body is in top shape these days and I intend on staying there.  My career is all I have.

Wednesday, February 10

I show up for hair and makeup fifteen minutes early.  Don’t want to feel like the new kid walking into school on the first day.  I chat up the makeup girl first and she takes a long time on me, makes me look like I just came back from hiking in the Alps; rosy cheeks and bright eyes.  The hair stylist nabs me next.  The other models are beginning to show up and he needs to get moving.  The hair and makeup tent is heated, but not well and when he sprays my hair with water, I break out in goose bumps.  The hot blow dryer feels awesome and I come out with my thick wavy hair perfectly mussed in that sexy way photographers like.  I’m ready for wardrobe.

“Dobrov!”  I hear my last name in its proper accent.  Turning around, I see my old friend, Viktor Slotzky.  He’s dressed identically to me:  Sable coat, matching hat, black skates with silver rivets.  We could be twins. 

“Slotzky?  I didn’t know you were still in the business?  What are you now?  Fifty?”  I punch his shoulder and he laughs.

“Thirty-nine and holding,” he says.  It’s not as bad for the male models, but we do age out at some point, too. 

“You don’t look a day over thirty-eight,” I assure him.  “How long are you here for?”  Last time I heard from him, he was living in LA, working on something for Netflix. 

“I’m moving back.  Got a gig on a reality show this summer about bachelor models sharing an apartment.”

“That sounds…terrible.”  I know he agrees with me.  Male models overall are pretty egotistical and highly competitive.  We don’t get paid much so the only way to do well is volume.  Plus all that spray tanning.

“Yeah,” he says, “at least I have a pretty sweet arrangement right now.  I met this total bohemian goddess at hot yoga and I mentioned I needed temporary digs and she was looking for a roomie, so…”

“You banged her.”  I finish his sentence.

He smiled.  “Not yet, but you know how it is, bro, only a matter of time.  You should see her, man.  Black hair, really nice skin, rocking body.  And she’s got these crazy light gray eyes.  She wears all these silky flowy things and she’s so bendy.  Driving me crazy.”

He catches me up with the gray eyes.  I’ve only ever known one girl with eyes like that but this is a huge city and Naomi has blond hair and would never be caught dead in gypsy clothes doing yoga.  They call us onto set, and we step out into the frigid rink, wait for instructions.  On the way there, I throw my arm around his furry shoulders.  “Dude, you should totally hit that.  Make the team proud.”

As it turns out, there isn’t much skating at all, so my two days of being battered by the ice and cold were a total waste of time.  There was lots of standing around a bonfire, toasting each other with crystal shot glasses of water.  In the afternoon, the female models showed up and who was I partnered with but the infamous, insatiable Luba/Lesnya. 

“Dahling, pour that vile water on ground, Luba is here to rescue,” she purrs into my ear.  “Here, give me glass.”  I obey and Luba—finally I know her name—pours clear liquid from a metal and wood flask:  vodka, the good stuff.  “We missed you at our little party with Manny, dahling.  Maybe after this, you and me have our own party?”  She bats her eyelashes at me and smiles like the Cheshire cat.  When we break and she hands me her lighter, I take a cigarette too.  Maybe it’s time for Bradley Dobrov to get back to his Russian roots.

NAOMI

Thursday, February 11th

I found a roomie; his name is Viktor Slotzky.  Right, another damn Russian, but what can I say, he gives me three months’ rent in advance, moves into the spare bedroom without making a mess, and he grooves on my new vibe.

He’s older; probably forty, but I like that too.  He’s been around, traveled the world, speaks plenty of languages, and knows his wines, vodkas…, gins…, and brandies…and arrived with a boxful of vermouths, bitters, and assorted whiskey bottles, enough to restock my bar.  He mixes me a Black Russian the minute I come in from my new job at Broderick Enterprises.  Viktor has a heavy hand with the vodka and flavored brandy, and light on the cubes.

My Viktor is a master at many things, from sending me into a lustful ambiance with his heavy accent, to making my skin tingle from his constant stares, to inflating my bruised ego high into the Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore dome with his complements.

My new Russian man is hot and heavy on my trail.

And if he reminds me of Bradley, having the same sable hair and beautiful blue eyestha
t
glitter and shine like a pair of well-cut topaz
, what does that matter.  Viktor is my roomie and my new friend.  Bradley is a guy who planned to ditch me by springing his new girlfriend on stage during a play, then shouting, “Naomi Swanson, if you’re in the audience, please stand up and take a bow.  You are the prize sucker of the year, and surprise!  Here’s your replacement, eighteen-year-old sex kitten, Molly!”

My text conversation with Bradley was so bizarre; I still couldn’t believe he would rave on about how hot Molly’s sexual ideas were.  How happy he was without me, and then, to have the gall to suggest a threesome as my goodbye finale, the man was obviously crazy.  And mean.  And finished with me forever.

I flounce my new, beautiful self on my bed and smile at Viktor.  He’s taken to lounging in my room, watching me dress, suggesting new outfits. For such a manly man, Viktor shows a serious love of fashion. When I explain to him that I’m in the midst of changing myself over completely, he jumps onboard with suggestions, like a wedding planner at a new venue, his eyes sparkle with both humor and lust.

In my quest to reform myself into someone worthy of life and love, I make two important deals with two very different men.

First, I gushed and flirted through a three-hour lunch with Darren Broderick on Monday, where it took surprisingly little convincing to gain a new position in his company as his personal assistant.  The pay is far superior to tightfisted McMaster Swartz.  The dress code is nonexistent, and the perks are first rate.  When I walked in his office those dark green eyes flashed with interest, but he didn’t know me.  It was fun to watch the recognition grow, those tempting lips pull into a wide grin, and hear the tone of his voice as he whispered, “Hell, Naomi as if you weren’t gorgeous enough before, what have you done?”

We have an excellent working relationship.  Darren is no Carl Swartz.  There is nothing tentative or suggestive about Darren.  He knows what he wants and he takes it.  I like the change of pace, the sexy context of our day.  We laugh, we joke, and when he leans over me and breathes into my hair and growls, I giggle like a child.  By Wednesday he’s pulling me onto his lap and kissing me hard and heavy for the least little thing I do.  I love all the affection, the constant touching of our hands, so alien from my childhood and my relationship with Bradley.  With each focused move, Darren makes my confidence grow. 

Bradley may not want me, but I am beginning to see that other men do.  More so since my transformation into Slumdog Chic.  With Viktor’s help, I’m becoming a mixture of vagabond gypsy and voguish posh.

The second new man in my life is Victor Slotzky.  Our meeting must have been fate, each of us out of our element, and ready to form a new bond.  I signed up for a beginner’s yoga class, and who was on the next mat, equally lost? Viktor Slotzky.  We hit it off immediately.  He held my leg, when I couldn’t extend it far enough, I helped him bend down and hold his balance.  We were like children, giggling and annoying the instruction who ended our first session by frowning heavily and telling us both to never come back.  We could have cared less. 

We went out for coffee together and exchanged basic facts.  He’s newly arrived from LA, hired and waiting for some acting gig to start in the summer.  He tells me he’s looking for a temporary place to stay until the show starts shooting.  An actor.  I swore no more models, but when he said actor, I quickly decided I could respect them.  He won’t tell me anything about the part.  I assume it’s some Broadway play.  It’s all very hush hush with contracts promising secrecy and legal mumbo jumbo.  I could care less about his job, but when he asks me if I know anyone with a room to rent in Tribeca, I clap my heavily ringed fingers together with glee.

At first glance, I suspect Viktor might be gay.  He’s so very attractive and immaculately groomed, so funny and sharp, I just love his manner of speaking, and his boisterous laugh.  He confesses to being a smoker and at first I frown.  I’d never allowed Bradley to smoke in my loft. Then it hits me, Viktor isn’t my man, he’s my roomie, and I have a large roof deck.  I agree.  Viktor’s possible health issues are not my problem.  I’m not in love with the man.  And anyway, this is the new Naomi, not the uptight, insecure fool of last week.

We step outside and Viktor removes from his pocket, a classy black case trimmed in gold, filled with foreign cigarettes he calls Black Russians.  They have black paper with a gold foil filter at the end.  They are emblazoned with what Viktor says is the Imperial Eagle.  I hate cigarettes, but Viktor’s
look very luxurious and expensive.  He claims they are delicious and have a strong taste with a hint of licorice. 
Viktor laughs, and says that after two black Russians, you feel like you just blazed some Sativ
a
.
When he smokes them, his blue eyes smolder in the lamplight, like the same mysterious swirling smoke.  He smokes sensually, taking long, deliberate puffs... allowing the smoke to escape slowly through his ample lips as his eyes stare straight through me.

After our first evening together, Viktor proves himself, by just getting better and better. He’s got a wonderful disposition, upbeat and carefree.  Viktor is what I need now, he’s a replica for who I want to become.

He loves to dress me up like a doll.  He fusses with my long, black hair.  He’ll try using clips, vintage pins, scarves, and beaded necklaces, until he’s made the most amazing styles.  He lays out shirts and slacks, short skirts, and low-cut tops, and has me model them in various combinations.

Sometimes I’ll roll on the floor with tears filling my eyes from his crazy remarks and silly suggestions.  His recommendations run the gambit of crazy hot attractive, to a peasant woman at milking time.  All his ideas pour out of him like cream from the bucket. 

By Wednesday night I know Viktor Slotzky is certainly not gay. He grabs me tightly against him the minute I walk through the door, and lays the deepest kiss on me that I’ve had in years.  I swear the man’s all hot tongue and moving hands.  He won’t let up and soon I don’t want him to.  He picks me up and sits my ass on the cold countertop, pushes my legs wide open and moves in close.

He pulls back and grins.

“What’s gotten into you?” I ask, breathing hard.

“I was inspired today.  I was telling my buddy at work about my super-hot roommate that I adore and he told me, ‘you should totally hit that.  Make the team proud,’ so I am.”

The slang hit me.  Bradley used to talk like that.  Damn him!  Bradley was not going to ruin my life by appearing in my head at every awkward moment.  I stop thinking about Bradley when Viktor begins slipping his hands up my bare legs and whispering in my ear.

“Relax, sweetheart.  Let Viktor take care of you, yes?”