Nikolai
I text Chelle when I’m outside her apartment, and she comes jogging out in another pencil skirt and knee-high boots. She climbs in the front seat smelling of some honey-warm scent that makes me want to lick every inch of her.
“I like the boots.”
“I like the jacket,” she says, noting the black suit jacket I wore over my lavender button down. When you have as many tats as I do, you have to dress up a little to be taken seriously. I learned that art from Ravil and Maxim who always look like they’re stepping off the cover of a men’s magazine.
Electricity zings between us—a low-level excitement like we’re on a real date and not some strange work-related favor.
“Thank you for doing this.” She sounds a little breathless.
“There will be a price,” I tell her, letting my lips kick up,
