Luckily this was a lower-level econ course. I'd done all the heavy lifting for my degree in my first two years; all that remained was this last straggler class.
I took out my notebook and pen, determined to focus on this--and not on the Russian. For the past two days, I'd tried to put him from my mind, as he'd so easily done with me.
Ms. Gillespie started writing on the board, and I dutifully scribbled my definitions.
Final goods: products that end up in the hands of consumers. (Like my breasts. If I continued as an escort.)
I stifled a chuckle, earning a look from a few of my classmates, among them two guys who'd asked me out. Unfortunately, I'd had to turn them down, but their interest had puzzled me; I always showed up to class in to-the-knee cutoffs, old 5K T-shirts, no makeup, and my hair plaited into two braids. I wore clunky running shoes and usually reeked of Pine-Sol. A far cry from a glamorous escort.
Deflation: a sustained and continuous decrease in the general price level. (Or what would happen to an escort's rates with age.)
Economic mobility: the ability of an individual, family, or entity to improve or lower their economic status.
Edward had targeted me to improve his. I'd signed any document my lawyer husband had put in front of me, unknowingly transferring my home and my inheritance of millions to him. But he couldn't get my family's beach, the prize he'd truly been after.
As long as I remained alive, his mobility had flat-lined.
Human capital: a measure of the economic value of an employee's skill set.
I was increasing mine by continuing my education at this community college. Heart in throat, I'd enrolled, using the fake ID I'd bought from a source near the Texas border. If I ever reclaimed my life, maybe I could figure out a way to transfer all my stray credits back to my ritzy private college in Jacksonville.
Completing my coursework had become the holy grail to me. On her deathbed, my mother had begged me for two vows: to break up with Edward and to finish college.
I'd only given her one vow. She'd used her last breaths to say, "Run from that evil man!" Phase one of my life plan was to complete my credits to atone for not listening to her. I was one exam away.
So why was I thinking about Sevastyan more than my class? At least he hadn't blown the whistle about my theft. Hey, he'd specified no amount for my tip! And how valuable could that money clip be?
I'd been nervous about him ratting me out, which pissed me off. I was a closer; if something went unresolved, that meant I didn't have the power to settle it and could assign no endpoint.
This unsettled feeling sucked. I already had enough loose ends in my life.
I'd talked to Ivanna several times since that night. She went way back with Anthony, the owner of Elite Escorts, so she would have heard if Sevastyan complained. So far, the Russian hadn't contacted Anthony about my heist--nor had he booked me.
Ivanna had told me, "Don't take it personally, Cat! It happens to the best of us."
I didn't even want to see Sevastyan again. At all. Not whatsoever.
"You need to get back out there. Come in and talk to Anthony. Sign on officially. He's a schmuck, but they all are."
"I was thinking about heading out of town for a while."
"Nonsense! I'll let you take a break, but then we'll get you back in the saddle. You can't let yourself get down about Sevastyan. He wasn't even in the realm of possibility."
Then she'd related all the gossip she'd learned about his dating life from her friends at sister agencies. He only booked one escort at a time, and he always overpaid. He was never cruel to his dates--though he wasn't particularly kind either. He hired a new girl every other night, but never for parties or events. Then he just took a famous actress or model.
I'd wondered why a guy like that would need to hire escorts at all, then thought back to his script. I couldn't shake the feeling that he didn't like to be touched. So why had he let me? I'd climbed him like a jungle gym.
Today Ivanna was supposed to get a callback with even more dirty laundry--so I'd turned off my phone and gone about my job and school.
I'd decided three things about him:
His nastiness was directly proportional to his obscene wealth. (Why? When I'd been rich, I'd always been nice.)
He'd affected me exponentially more than I'd affected him. (I was merely what five thousand had bought him in Miami.)
No one should be that sexy. (Yesterday, I'd gotten off while fantasizing about giving him a BBBJ. Then I'd been disgusted with myself, blaming my run for making me horny.)
Though I'd sworn to Ivanna that I had no further interest in him, I'd broken down today, slipping off my cleaning gloves to Google him on Mrs. Abernathy's computer.
Between laundry cycles, I'd learned that he'd grown up in Siberia, but had gotten a business degree in record time from Oxford. He had two brothers. His net worth fluctuated between nine hundred million and just over a billion, depending on how the market was doing.
Though only thirty-one, he was a powerful politician--a member of the State Duma, or something. There were rumors of a mafiya connection. Maybe I was only attracted to criminals? The thought depressed me. At least his business dealings focused on real estate and government contracts all around the world.
In almost every picture of him, he'd been flashing a movie-star smile, with a tall blond beauty on his arm.
Why had I tortured myself researching him? I'd never see Maksimilian Sevastyan again. Would never know his touch again.
Good riddance.
Once class was over, I hefted my backpack, dreading the long bus ride home. All I wanted to do was microwave a can of soup, soak in my spackled tub for a decade, and not think about Sevastyan. Or how he'd be booking a new girl tonight.
Which I didn't care about.
As I waited at the bus stop, I turned on my phone. It beeped like crazy. Eight messages from Ivanna?
Mierda! The only reason she'd call that much was if the icy Russian had ratted me out! With a shaking hand, I dialed her. "Uh, hey?"
"Sevastyan's been calling Anthony like mad! Apparently, he is one scary-sounding man."
Why now? I'd thought I was in the clear! "I know. Listen, I can explain--"
"I had to do some quick thinking since Anthony didn't know he'd hired you yet. By the way, if he asks, you were an independent, a platinum-level producer out of Tampa."
If you say so.
"Anyway, the Russian wants you to return to the Seltane. Now."
Maybe the money clip had sentimental value? A gift from an ex-lover?
"Oh, Cat, he wants to book you! Do you know what this means? You're the first girl ever to get a callback."
"Wait, book me?"
"Da, for tonight. Anthony was calling me, and I was calling you. And when Anthony couldn't confirm you . . . well, let's just say that Maksimilian Sevastyan is used to getting what he wants."
You have no idea.
"The man kept offering more and more money. Finally he demanded to buy your personal number. Anthony just called me for it."
"Which you would never give him, right?"
At that moment, I got a text chime from a strange number: waiting
"Ivanna, we talked about this! There are boundaries."
"We did talk about your number, about changing it. I held out for longer than even I would've expected, but when Anthony told me Sevastyan offered ten thousand, I caved. We're to split half. There's twenty-five hundred for you at the agency." More money? "By the way, Anthony thinks your vagina is full of rainbows--and dollar signs. Aside from the Russian, you've gotten requests online! He wants your 'upskirt magic' working on other clients."
I didn't have magic. Sevastyan simply wanted his money back, or his clip. Or he planned to punish me for stealing from him. Maybe with a crop? "What else did you tell Anthony about me?"
"Nothing else. Mainly because I know so little. Other than the fact that you scrub toilets for a living--which might cool a billionaire's ardor, if
that got back to him. Cat, listen to me. I think you could land Sevastyan, so I'm going to do everything I can to help you, and then you'll take care of me forever."
"I'm not going, Ivanna." And walk into a trap?
While she blustered, I texted Sevastyan: no dice, querido. have plans xoxo mwah
He wrote back an instant later: this isn't a request
The man thought to intimidate me? He'd have to do better than this! Gritting my teeth, I texted: the money's gone. regret nothing
He replied: then you'll be needing more
There was only one way to meet this problem. Head on. I hung up on Ivanna's tirade and dialed the Russian's number. I opened with: "What's your game, Sevastyan?"
"What do you think it is?"
Ay, his voice. My lids nearly closed. Then I remembered what a dick this guy was. "I think you're pissed, and you want to teach me a lesson."
"You did steal from me," he said. "I had to buy a new money clip yesterday."
"I procured a well-earned tip." I could hear ice clinking in a glass. Having a cocktail while waiting for his cocktease?
"I would think the pleasure I gave you--three times--was its own tip."
"Then by that reasoning, you shouldn't have to pay for it at all, pendejo."
"I looked that word up. Not very nice of you to call me an asshole. Twice. I think you're the first woman in my adult life who's refused to fawn over me. Right now, you sound as if you could take me or leave me."
"Guess which way I'm leaning, Ruso."
He chuckled at that. The sound was warm and rumbling, seeming to stroke me from the inside. What had happened to the icy Russian?
"Come over, Cat, and I'll make you glad you did."
Maybe he had liked sex with me that much? Had I thrown one over on the billionaire? Didn't mean I would let him off the hook. He'd treated me like shit, left me hanging for two days, then barged into my life with all the finesse of a tidal wave. "Couldn't find a tall blonde? I thought that was what you really wanted." What if he hadn't waited a day to request another girl? What if he'd screwed someone last night, intending to switch back to me? "Or maybe you booked one last night to fill your quota?"
"I didn't book another date."
It worried me how much that relieved me.