The Russian Risk

RECOMMENDED TRACK: Fall Out Boy - I Don’t Care

I AM THE GOD OF PARTY.

I am supposed to have said this during my first year at Crownbridge University, jumping from the roof into the pool at a rager. It was fun and dumb and shallow and exactly how I wanted my American classmates to see me. I leaned into it and it stuck.

Three years later, I was still a god, and Sigma Theta Rho house was my domain. It was Halloween, and my followers expected two things of me: mischief and libido. So I was on the hunt for either.

Blue and magenta lights flickered along to the bass that pulsed through the house like a hormonal heartbeat. I had just come from the kitchen for another vodka—another Russian stereotype I leaned into—as I pushed my way into the throng of dancers in the den.

In that inner sanctum, I found the usual crowd. A gaggle of Deltas from Sorority Row. The women’s soccer team. The theater girls. Faces I had bedded once and moved on from, in mutual understanding. I never make anything I might miss.

I spotted my fraternity brother and partner-in-crime, Monty, dressed in a purple corset and a speedo—I was told this costume was a doctor, but I did not know of what. When he caught my eye, he mirrored my smirk and jerked his head to the other side of the room, waggling his eyebrows dramatically. I let my eyes drift in the direction he demanded.

At first, I only saw the crowd. Then, I saw several partygoers kept glancing the same way. Some of the looks were amused, others curious. I took a step deeper into the throng of bodies, and when a pair of “dancers” parted for breath, I finally caught sight of her.

She was not looking my direction. Her back was plastered to the wall as she peered down the hallway. She was pretty, the kind that gets better the longer you look. Long dark hair that curled pleasantly at her shoulders, which were bare. Dark eyes, alert, not glazed over from drinking. But it wasn’t her looks that were drawing eyes towards her.

It was that in this room full of sexy cats, sexy witches, and sexy zombies (I hate the sexy zombies, someone explain them to me), she was in a ballgown. Not a modern, sexy one. It was like a proper princess dress. The skirt took up half the hallway’s width. Fitted bodice, cut barely low enough to see the beginnings of curves that it hugged close. It was green, I thought, but the colored lights—our chapter president was so proud of those fucking lights—made it hard to tell. She wore a gold circlet across her forehead with a giant flower on either side of her head.

The effect was lovely. Ethereal. Entirely wrong for the frat rager threatening to devour her from all sides.

How had she found herself here?

She held her head high, but inspected the hallway like she was planning to make a run for it. I took another look at the gazes that kept flitting to her, a few faces that looked too eager. Predatory. The sort of look that might be paired with grabbing a passing princess’s wrist, or standing in her path. Like weak wolves waiting for vulnerable prey.

She did not look vulnerable. But gods do not put up with wolves in their own house.

Besides, she looked like someone new. And that made her interesting.

I knocked back my vodka without ceremony and abandoned it on the nearest flat surface. I softened my smirk into something more friendly and nudged my way through the crowd.

She was prettier the closer I got. Also shorter. I had at least half a foot on her, but she still didn’t notice me. Not until I sidled up to her, her head snapping to me as her eyes widened. I couldn’t tell their color in the tinted lights, but they were needle-sharp as I leaned against the wall next to her, making a point not to stand between her and the hallway.

I never block an exit. Earning enthusiastic consent is half the fun.

“Dobryy vecher,” I said, laying the accent on thick. (American women love Russian. English is clever, but Russian, with its coyly curved vowels, the consonants you have to coax just right with the tongue? Russian fucks.)

“We should be introduced,” I continued. “See, you look like goddess who steps out of painting by Mucha,” I gestured to her regal attire and back at myself. “And my name, it is Misha. Misha Sokolov. Mucha and Misha, see?” I watched her neck tense, and I softened my eyes as gently as I could without losing the smolder. I thought she might be like a rabbit, the sort you have to cajole into not fleeing as soon as you get close. “So, what is this costume, Miss Mucha?”

I watched as she took me in from head to toe, eyes catching on the stethoscope dangling from my neck, the bare chest beneath my leather jacket, the muscles I work hard on. The exact attention I picked this barely-costume for. “Do you like what you see?” I asked, my smirk threatening to return.

Now, most girls, when I lay on this charm, they do one of two things. They giggle and act bashful, or they mirror me and try to keep up. Both adorable. Both predictable.

This one? She sighed. Looked down at her pretty poofy dress and sighed, like she was a little bit tired of answering that question.

“Let’s just say I’m a fairy princess and leave it at that,” she said at last, and I had to lean closer to hear her, which was convenient. She smelled nice, a warm scent, like a spiced cider. “And what are you supposed to be?” she asked, giving my outfit a skeptical look. “Doctor Razboynik?”

Girls do not often surprise me, but I straightened sharply at that. Not at the sass, no, that was familiar. It was the word.

Razboynik. It means bandit, outlaw.Even better, her pronunciation—not native, the emphasis was slightly wrong, but the gentle trill on the R, the hard Z, the breathy coda after nik, they were there. “Govorite po-russki?” I asked before I could stop myself.

Her eyes bulged almost in panic and she held up her hands. “No, not—not really. Just random bits and phrases,” she said hastily.

“Okay,” I said, exhaling on a laugh. “But razboynik is not exactly Duolingo Russian. Not even Hollywood movie Russian. And you say it well,” I added, clapping my hands in slow appreciation. “You surprise me. Now, tell me who is the lucky man who teaches you Russian ‘bits’ like razboynik?”

I added a suggestive edge and was pretty sure her cheeks turned pink, but it was hard to tell in the damned lights. She definitely darted her eyes away, and I relaxed again. Back on track, she would be one of the bashful ones.

“I did choir in middle and high school,” she explained, rubbing her ear and glancing at me sideways. “We sang a lot of songs in other languages, and I always wanted to know what they meant, how to say the words right. That’s all. It’s nothing special.”

“That’s all, she says!” I slapped my hand against the wall in amusement. “Some American girls know a few words. Da. Nyet. Vodka. Maybe privyet. They know nothing interesting. They do not know razboynik.” I grinned. “What else are you hiding, fairy princess?”

She clicked her tongue. “I’m not hiding anything,” she said, looking around the room and then back at me with an exasperation I thought was not aimed solely at me. Damn. Was I off-track again? “Should I walk around with a sign that says ‘I can sing in a dozen languages I don’t speak’? Besides which—” She cocked her head to one side and narrowed her eyes. “—I bet every American girl you’ve ever spoken to knew something interesting, even if it wasn’t Russian. Maybe you never ask the right questions.”

Who was this girl? That arrow found its mark, and I had to play it off with a harsh chuckle. “The fairy princess has sharp teeth! Okay,” I mulled it over, trying to find my angle. “Okay, yes. Perhaps I am not curious enough. So, I should ask you more questions, right?” I said, leaning my shoulder against the wall with a smug smile, like that was exactly what I’d wanted in the first place. Which it was. Kind of. “Tell me in what song you learned razboynik, little bird who chirps in a dozen languages. I must know.”

She blinked in surprise. Maybe she had expected me to be offended by her comment. “It was ’Razboynika Blagorazumnago,’” she rattled off in that same imperfect but careful way.

“‘The Wise Thief,’” I mused, impressed but hiding it better that time. “A hymn. An orthodox hymn. Your choir instructor had interesting tastes.” I held out my hand to hers as if to shake and she paused a moment before accepting it, looking up at me with a curious expression I found I liked. I engulfed her hand in mine and gestured out to the dance floor. “I owe you for the lovely Russian sounds. Pozhaluysta. Please, little bird,” I said, putting on my best half-smirk, half-puppy eyes.

But she tugged her hand back gently. “I think I should maybe just...fly back home,” she said, looking almost longingly down the hall that led to the front door.

I do not get in the way of women who are not interested. It does not happen often, but why press? There is always someone else to find.

But this girl, something about her, the way she kept surprising me…I did not want her to leave. I would never stop her, but I was scrambling for a way to convince her to stay when there was a loud shout and a large object moved in my peripheral vision. I curved my body to shield hers instinctively as a burst of shrieks and hoots erupted a little ways off.

And this girl, what did she do? She squeaked. Literally squeaked. Like a startled kitten. It was so cute I thought I might die, and I realized two things: one, that our faces were only inches apart and that I liked that very much. And two, that this was going very different from the easy flirtation I had planned.

I glanced in the direction of the noise. Someone had jumped from the second story landing into the hastily-parting crowd—Dylan Kane, our only resident sophomore, in his best “I do not give a fuck but also I must make sure everyone knows it” mode. I suppressed a roll of my eyes and turned my attention back to the girl.

“Sorry about my brothers,” I said, dismissing the chaos with a wave. “But you. You would insult a poor Russian boy at his own party, in his own language, and then leave without even telling him your name?” She said nothing, just offered me a skeptical look. I took a half-step back to give her space, shrugging. “I will not stop you if this is what you want. I am a good boy. Or at least, I am not that kind of bad,” I conceded with a wink and a wag of my finger. Her lip twitched at the corner. Good. “But instead, come to the backyard. It is quieter. There is a very nice little fire pit. I will ask you more questions like you said, and you get big Russian escort through the crowd. It’s easier to leave from the backyard, if you still want.”

She looked at me, then at the door, then at the throng of dancers and kissing couples and maybe-gropers that stood in her way. She wrinkled her nose and looked in the other direction, towards the backyard. She was easy to read, squaring her shoulders as she made her decision and turned to look me in the eye. “Alright, Doctor Razboynik. Let’s go.”

I threw my head back and laughed. Not my big party laugh. An actual, totally unreserved cackle.

“That’s right, no one will bother the fairy princess with the scary razboynik at her side,” I said, sticking out my arm for her to take like some noble gentleman. She took it with equal flourish, matching my theatrical energy with an elegant upward tilt of her chin.

“And so we go,” I said, brushing off the warning bell that rang in the back of my mind. Writing off the buzz I felt as a mix of vodka and novelty. Ignoring that I was already breaking my own rules.

Rules are for mortals, not gods. Right?

Bonus Content: Sigma Socials

POLL QUESTION: Do you like Misha so far?