Asylum

Chapter 43: The Art of Compromise

Saturday afternoon

My bladder woke me up. The new blackout curtains in Ivan's bedroom kept out enough of the weak, gray light of the New York afternoon that I had been able to sleep soundly through the rest of the morning until ... I levered my body up onto my elbow to look over at the alarm clock on the nightstand ... 15:13. I'd clearly been exhausted.

I sat up carefully to avoid waking Ivan, but realized quickly that the rumpled sheets next to me were empty. The door to the bedroom was closed, the loft seemingly silent.

The offensive whiff of stale cigarettes and meat grease wafting from my hair was an unwelcome reminder of some of the more disgusting parts of the night before. I had leaned into Ivan's shoulder for the entire cab ride between apartments, too tired and emotionally drained to speak. I didn't know where we stood exactly, but he had come to me; I'd clung to that fact as I'd skimmed the surface of unconsciousness and let him undress me and put me to bed when we had arrived at the loft.

I briefly considered the gleaming faucets and tiles of the shower as I used the toilet, but curiosity overcame revulsion – merde, I smelled like the exhaust filter from a food truck. I grabbed a T-shirt and sweatpants from the closet and threw them on before heading out in search of the man I still fervently hoped was my boyfriend ... or whatever.

The main living area was deserted, Nikolai the Cello – tucked securely in his case and leaning into a corner – the only presence in the room. I flicked my eyes over to check the door; the door guard was still engaged, so he was either still in the apartment or had left, Spidey-style, through a window. I padded silently over to the office on the other side of the apartment and poked my head through the door.

Ivan was leaning back in the chair behind his desk, one arm crossed nonchalantly across his abdomen, the other propped on the first, one knuckle resting between his nose and upper lip, giving every appearance that he was puzzling out some code in the shifting pattern of raindrops on the window opposite him. He looked up as I stepped carefully into the room, swiveling slightly in my direction.

I took that acknowledgment as an invitation and walked over to lean against the edge of the desk, close, but not too presumptuously close, I hoped.

Not close enough, apparently. He gently lifted my hand and pulled me into his lap, inhaling deeply where the V-neck of the shirt exposed the soft skin above my cleavage.

"Sorry about the smell," I apologized, stiffening in his arms. "I went to a party with Glory and there was a lot of smoking and a burger restaurant downstairs ..."

"I can still smell you under all that," he assured me. He tipped his head back and studied my face. God, he was beautiful. "Hungry?" he asked.

"Always."

He smiled. "We still haven't been shopping, but I think there's some chips and salsa in the kitchen; we can go out for something in a little bit."

"Or order in," I suggested hopefully.

Ivan's smile faltered for an instant. "Perhaps."

We stood together and headed back into the kitchen, fingers interlaced with one another's. He held his arm out from his side and released me, and like a boat pushed out onto a lake, I glided over to a tall stool at the breakfast bar while he began pulling bowls and bags and jars out of the cabinets and setting them onto the countertop in front of me. I decanted the salsa and poured half the bag of tortilla chips into the waiting bowls while he filled a couple of water glasses.

He slid a glass over to me, remaining on the other side of the bar, and considered me for a moment. "Who are you, Alexis Bryant?"

I froze, a salsa-laden chip halfway to my mouth. I made myself eat it, a small frown puckering my eyebrows. "What do you mean, 'who am I?'? I don't understand the question."