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Her dad asks me to watch her…from a distance.
She doesn’t even know I exist, until I can’t stay away any longer. I should tell her the truth about what’s really going on, hidden in plain sight. Her future is bright, and she deserves to know everything, including the darkness in my life…and hers. But all she really needs to know is that she will be mine, no matter who, or what, tries to get in my way.
*Aggressive Russian is an insta-everything standalone instalove romance with an HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.
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I step out of the Master Theater and onto Brighton Beach Avenue in Brooklyn.
Being new to New York I wanted to take in my first theater performance, and Off-Broadway seemed like a much kinder option for my perpetual three-figure checking account.
And the prices were kinder, but the language was not.
The entire performance was in Russian, a harsh, lacerating language even for a story like Romeo and Juliet.
I would have gotten up and walked out if it wasn’t for the fact this was my only entertainment option for the month, and that I knew the story well enough to at least follow along, despite not knowing what was being said.
I chalk it up as a loss and realize there’s no point in crying over spilled milk. Thinking about it will only cause me to lose time and at this hour I need to catch the B1 bus at Brighton Beach Avenue and Brighton 12th Street and get back to the hipster enclave that is Williamsburg, or Billyburg to the people around my age of twenty-two.
Moving quickly I arrive at the bus stop which is literally less than one hundred feet down the street from the theater. It should be a perfect escape route back home but instead there’s an out of order sign with directions to turn around and backtrack a couple blocks to Brighton Beach Avenue and Coney Island Avenue.
I pull out my phone and hit the Google Maps app to check the subway schedule there.
Another wait, but not too bad.
“Where you going?” a booming baritone voice calls out, startling me and my whole body tenses, snapping back a bit and I almost trip over my own two feet.
My eyes dart from my phone to the man in the driver’s seat of the taxi in front of me.
His deep set eyes, dark hair, and black leather jacket have me wondering if this guy belongs driving a taxi or as an extra in the movie Taken, which is the last thing I want to be thinking about right now.
“It is not safe here now for womans.”
Okay, so English isn’t his first language, and normally that wouldn’t be a big deal. New York is so incredible in large part because of all the cultures you can find here. I know cab drivers are often foreigners, again nothing to worry about, but something about the way this guy is leaning back in his seat, yet giving the steering wheel a white knuckle grip while his expression is as empty and cold as a Siberian winter, tells me that something is off.
“I’m just calling my boyfriend to pick me up,” I lie. “He’s almost here. His MMA fighting practice just ran long tonight. Thanks.”
“He is Russian?”
“No. I mean what does that matter? I’m fine. Thank you,” I say, plastering my chin to my chest as I look back at my phone, but keep my peripheral vision on this guy.
There’s something about him that’s scary, yet thrilling at the same time. It’s the complete opposite of what I feel on a daily basis in Williamsburg. Has a woman ever gotten wet over a guy in “lightweight pink Turkish denim,” as I overheard one guy at the coffee shop this morning describing his pants to the awe of his jealous friends.
Finding a real man amongst guys my age is so impossible I’ve forgotten what one even looks like…until now.
This guy has woken up the woman inside me from a slumber that was so deep I didn’t even know how bad my femininity’s permanent hibernation had become.
I feel my nipples pebble underneath my clothes, including my thick jacket, and know it has nothing to do with the cool breeze coming off the Atlantic just a couple blocks away straight in front of me, and everything to do with him.
“Tell him to turn around. I am telling you. It is not safe for you here now.”
I don’t look up, just tapping my phone pretending like I’m doing something but in reality my mind isn’t even on my phone…it’s focused on that deep, smoky voice of his and how I can’t control the tingle that runs up my spine each time he opens his mouth.
I hear the car door open and I take a step back on the sidewalk.
The man steps out and stands up, his body seemingly straightening forever.
Oh my god, how tall and big is this guy? I’m terrible with numbers but he must be, what…six five? Maybe six six?
And those shoulders. Good lord. Where he found a leather jacket like that that tapers from those shoulders to his trim waist is beyond me. He must have had it made…maybe in whatever country he came from.
“Get in, before there is problem,” he says, opening the back door.
Problem? And how about an article in front of your nouns, buddy?