Page 58 of A Vegas Crush Collection #3

my friend. with benefits.

Reagan

Somehow, Mikhail’s appearance really did make me feel better.

Not totally better, but somewhat better.

It was sweet that he tried to calm me by telling me about his relationship with his dad.

Mikhail is a quiet guy, so I’m guessing he isn’t chatty with others about his feelings.

For him to admit he feels like he can’t live up to his dad’s expectations is probably significant. I hate that for him.

I’ll admit, I don’t know if I’m worthy of his trust or his friendship. Sex I can handle. It’s basic and instinctual, and it doesn’t have to mean anything apart from mutual pleasure. Sex is the easy part. And the sex with him was spectacularly easy and outstanding.

But I left for a reason. Mikhail doesn’t need Sodorov in his business.

He’s a good man with a good heart, and he has nothing to do with the mess I’m in.

Somehow, though, I don’t think Mikhail will be all that easy to shake.

I think he’s developed some sense of responsibility for me, and while I’m thrilled to know someone cares enough to look out for me, I also don’t want him getting hurt because of me.

Still, the fact that he showed up, that he didn’t just let me disappear, energizes me enough that I push myself up and into the kitchen to make some coffee.

Caffeine in hand, I survey my apartment, which I still haven’t really re-organized after the break-in, and I decide it’s time to focus on my living space.

I have to start somewhere, and this will take my mind away from the litany of fears plaguing me for a little while.

I spend the day organizing papers, cleaning cabinets, and dusting floorboards.

I organize my closet and panic a bit—I have no idea what to wear to dinner tonight.

Like, are we going somewhere fancy? Do I need a dress?

Am I paying for my own meal, and if so, how do I afford it?

I mean, this isn’t a date, right? He said he just wanted to be a friend to me.

Ugh. Anxiety sucks.

Adding to the despair, my phone rings, and it’s my mom. She’s already texted once, and since I didn’t respond, here is the resulting call. I almost don’t answer. It’s likely to be some new crisis or drama with her, and I simply can’t take any more right now.

I love my mom. I’d do anything for her, but sometimes she can be a lot. I weigh the risk versus the reward and decide that, in my current state, I would like to hear my mom’s voice.

“Hey, Mamma.” I try to sound as light and unbothered as possible.

“Hey, Bug.” She sounds good. I breathe a small sigh of relief. “Just checking in. I haven’t heard from you in a few weeks.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry, Mamma, I’ve been working a lot lately.”

“Well, I miss you when you don’t call,” she says in a mild scolding. “Any luck on the job hunt?”

“No, not yet.” I sigh. “It’s been pretty frustrating, actually. I could get a job in event planning, but those entry-level jobs pay less than my job running casino games. I can’t see taking a pay cut right now, so I feel kinda stuck.”

“Those are hard decisions to make, I agree. On some levels, it might be worth it to start fresh in the area you want to be in. Take the step back just so you can get your foot in the door.”

She doesn’t understand my debt load—she doesn’t understand a lot of things—so I just grunt an agreement in order to get off the subject. “How are you?”

“I’m doing fine. I’ve been working part time at a used bookshop,” she says cheerfully. “It’s been fun. I’m learning how to repair old books. Something different. I sure wish you’d come home for a visit. Or…more? Maybe you could find an event planning job here in Columbus?”

There are a thousand reasons I don’t want to go back to Columbus, and the first is that I cannot live with my mother again. I just can’t. I love her so much, but we cannot be roommates. It just won’t work.

“Maybe someday,” is all I say. “I’m not ready to move yet.”

I can’t move yet. Not with this Sodorov stuff hanging over my head. If I left, it would be like an admission of guilt. And since I’m not guilty, I can’t leave. An unending circle of hell.

“Is there a reason you’re not ready to move? Maybe you’re seeing someone new these days?”

I can’t help grinning at her tone. It’s so mom-like, nosy, interested in my love life. Or whatever she’s feeling about me. “I actually do have a friend-date tonight. With a hockey player. He plays here in Vegas for the Crush.”

“Oooh,” she says. “Tell me about him. What’s his name?”

“Mikhail.”

“What position does he play?”

“Uh, I don’t know the title of his position; I’d have to look it up. I know next to nothing about hockey, but I know he wears number nineteen.”

She tsks at me. “Reagan. Seriously?”

“I don’t know, I’m just not that into sports stuff.

He’s a big deal, though, and I’m taking an interest now.

I’m trying to watch his games and learning about the rules.

He said he went pro right out of high school, and that he’s been starting on the Crush for five seasons.

He’s a few years older than me. Women always want to take their picture with him, and men, too.

They’ll talk to him about his play in the most recent game and such, so he’s recognizable. ”

My mom laughs. “Well, I’d say you better do some homework, then. Up your game, so to speak. He must be really handsome, then?”

“Yeah,” I say, a breathless laugh escaping. “Very. He is a certifiable hottie.”

“Well, that’s exciting. I hope it all works out.”

I get a little teary, my throat constricting as I try to shove back the waterworks. This is such a normal conversation, more normal than I usually get with my mom. Discussing my future. Asking about my love life. She seems so happy for me. She misses me.

So normal.

But it’s not…not really.

At ten minutes to six, I finally decide on a pair of skinny jeans and a flowy blouse in a bright floral print paired with some nude peep-toe heels I bought for job interviews.

It seems casual and chic, and since I’ve never seen Mikhail in anything other than sports gear or jeans, I feel safe in assuming he won’t be too dressed up tonight.

He's knocking on my door at six on the dot.

I open the door, ready to make a joke about being stupidly punctual, but he looks so good that my mouth goes dry, and I think I forget how to make words for a few seconds.

He just looks ultra-sexy, in a turquoise plaid flannel, dark jeans, and unlaced combat boots.

He wears a leather bracelet on one wrist and his hair is on point, all coiffed into a messy pompadour.

Lord, help me.

I’ve seen this man really, really naked and that is a sight to behold, but he looks just as mouthwatering with his clothes on.

“You look really beautiful tonight,” he says, his eyes roaming from head to toe in a way that makes wetness pool between my legs. Which are about to fail me. I feel like I need to sit. Mikhail Zelenka is going to be my undoing; I can feel it down to the tips of my red-painted toes.

I fan myself with my hand. “You probably make all kinds of panties drop with that look, sir.”

He chuckles, a dimple appearing in one cheek. “It isn’t like that, but I‘m glad I’m making you feel some kind of way.”

“Oh, I’m feeling some kind of way, all right,” I say lightly. “I might need to sit down to recover.”

“Well, if you sit, then I’ll be on my knees, and we’ll never get out of here,” he half-growls. It turns my insides gooey. Holy hell, I guess he’s feeling some kind of way, too.

“We should go,” I say quickly.

“Agreed.” But he’s still smirking.

We head out into the early evening, Mikhail holding my hand as we walk. It feels so natural I almost forget that we’re not together. We’re not a couple. He is my friend. With benefits.

Truly.

And that will have to be enough because I am not good for a man like this.

Not for any reason related to vanity. I think I’m pretty enough, and I have a brain in my head—but I’m not good for him.

I have too much baggage. There’s too much drama, too much noise.

He doesn’t need that in his life, nor should he entangle himself out of some misplaced feelings he’s having “to save me.”

I’ll just enjoy whatever this is while it lasts. I’ll cut him loose before things go too far, and I’ll make sure he knows it’s only because I want to protect him from the shitshow that is my life. He’ll understand. I know he will.

He takes me into a little hole-in-the-wall, Amadio’s Italiano Eatery, I’ve never been to before. It’s only got maybe ten tables, all placed far enough away from one another to feel private. There are lit candles dancing on each table.

“This place is so cute,” I comment as we’re led to our table.

“I asked the guys for recommendations,” he says, blushing a little in the dim light.

We order some wine and an appetizer, focusing on the menu. Once he closes his and sets it aside, I say, “Thanks a lot for this morning. It’s been a while since I’ve really had someone to talk to.”

“Well, you didn’t do much of the talking,” he says, busying himself with rolling and unrolling the straw wrapper that came with the glass of water.

“True,” I admit. “But I appreciated that you talked to me. It really helped. When you came over, I…well, I wasn’t in the best mental space.”

“Do you want to talk now?”

The waitress comes to take our order just as I’m about to tell my story. The way she looks at Mikhail makes me want to jump across the table and throttle her, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

After she leaves, I venture to ask, “Does that happen everywhere you go?”

“Does what happen?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed.

“Women ogling you, looking at you like you’re the meal?”

He rolls his eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t think so? And I didn’t notice her doing any of that.”

“Humpf.”

He grins. “Come on. Have I given any indication that I’m the type of guy who goes around looking for that kind of attention?”

“No,” I say begrudgingly.

“So, back to your story. You came to UNLV for school from Columbus, Ohio. I know that much. What’s next?”

“Well, I think I’ve told you I meant to be a wedding and event planner, right?”

“Right. What made you interested in that?”

I take a big inhale. “Well, I used to plan events for my dolls all the time. They got married, and I planned out the whole venue and decorating scheme and I made all their clothes for them—it was a whole industry in my bedroom.”

Mikhail chuckles at this, twisting his wineglass by the stem.

“I was always the kid in class who wanted to help the teacher get the room ready for class parties, too. I ended up getting an internship in high school with a local wedding planner. She paid me a few dollars an hour under the table, but I loved it. And I love weddings, frankly. I love the aesthetic of them, the flowers and the dresses. They make me so happy.”

Mikhail looks up and meets my gaze, his face frozen and looking kind of horrified.

“Relax,” I tease, “I’m not looking to get married myself or anything.”

He laughs. “The only marriage I have for a frame of reference is my parents’.

They’re still together, but my dad’s such a disagreeable asshole all the time, I can’t imagine my mom would describe it as marital bliss.

Frankly, I don’t know what she sees in him, and the dysfunction of it sure as hell doesn’t make me want to race to the altar. ”

“Yeah, I get it.” I take a sip of my wine.

“My dad left when I was young, and I haven’t had contact with him in nearly a decade.

He’s not even in the states anymore. Costa Rica was the last place I knew of.

My mom pretty much raised me alone and always told me I didn’t need a man to be whole.

Which was good advice, you know? It made me independent.

But at heart—not gonna lie—I’ve always been a bit of a romantic.

Sorry.” I shrug a shoulder and give him a rueful look.

He lifts a shoulder in response. “Nothing wrong with hoping we can do better with our own choices.”

I lift my wineglass. “I’ll toast to that.”

He tips his glass to mine. “To making better romantic decisions than our parents did.”

“Here, here.”

“So you lived with your mom?”

I nod. “I lived with my mom, who has…bipolar disorder. She’s been dealing with some serious mental health challenges throughout my whole life.

Persistent and pervasive, her doctor always says.

There can be calm times when she’s fairly normal”—I make finger quotes—“but there can also be times where she’s…

fairly difficult.” Difficult. That word is an understatement.

When was the last time I told anyone about my mom? I feel both ashamed and sad.

Mikhail reaches over and takes my hand when he see me blinking back the fucking annoying tears starting to pool in my eyes. “You love your mom.”

“I do.” I nod emphatically. “She’s caring and loving and creative.

But she has struggled for most of her adult life.

She can’t really hold down a job. It’s just—it’s been…

so difficult for a really long time. And it always felt like a dirty little secret.

It wasn’t something I wanted to talk to friends about, and I couldn’t have friends over for fear something crazy would happen. So, I just, you know, stuck to myself.”

And I think he does know, based on what he told me this morning about his own childhood.

Loners.

Both of us.