THE FIXER

SASHA

THE FIST in my solar plexus only loosens part way with Maxim’s promises. We step into the elevator together, and I have to breathe down my anxiety.

I hate living with suspicions. I wish mom had never suggested he might be after my money, that he might be trying to kill me because now the slightest thing gets me paranoid.

Not that hearing them talking about me in low voices can be categorized as the slightest thing. I think I had good reason to question him.

My mom texted me this morning from a new number to tell me she was still safe but not to contact her. She told me to get a burner phone, warning me that Maxim had access to all my call history, even if I deleted messages.

Of course, I know she’s right. I knew he’d put a tracker in my phone the moment he handed it to me.

The trouble is-how do I even get a burner phone when my husband won’t let me out of his sight? And even if my mom’s wrong-even if I can trust Maxim-is this any way to live?

I can’t be suffocated like this for much longer without going nuts. I know Maxim said it was temporary, but I don’t know if I can believe that. Or how long temporary will be.

When we get downstairs, I take off running on the route he showed me last time. He paces beside me, honoring my silence, but sending me assessing glances.

I appreciate that he sees me. I’m not trying to hide things from him-if I were, I’d like to think my acting skills would keep him from seeing so damn much. But I have to admit, it feels good to have him paying so much attention.

And caring.

It’s hard to believe my mom when I consider how attentive Maxim has been. Then again, if I’m his Golden Goose, he would want to be attentive. He’d want to keep me wrapped around his finger, so I didn’t notice how tight the leash was.

I run farther than I should-after a few days off and the late nights drinking, my body is off-schedule, but it feels good. Moves the anxiety out of my pores with my sweat. Clears the knot in my belly with my breath.

We get back and both shower-not together. Maxim seems to realize I’m not in the mood. When he gets out, a towel wrapped around his six-pack, I confront him.

“I want a car.”

He’s back to playing Mr. Cool-nothing showing in his expression. He drops the towel and pulls on a pair of boxer briefs. “You want freedom.”

I feel seen again. “Yes.”

“Do you have a license?”

“Yep. I got one in California when I was a student.”

“Okay.” He nods. “Let’s go buy you a car, then.” There’s reservation in his tone, like he’s making a concession.

“Yeah?”

“Of course. I don’t have access to your inheritance yet, but I can cover it. We’ll get you something flashy. A convertible? How about a Corvette?”

I’m stunned. I never expected him to agree. Especially not so easily. “Lambo.”

“Lamborghini it is.” He walks toward me in nothing but his boxer briefs. He sprouts an erection as he gets closer. “You’re going to look hot in your Lambo.” His lids droop, and he grabs me by the waist and pulls me against his body.

“Mmm.” I hum and look up at him. I didn’t expect him to agree. It feels like another piece of evidence that he’s operating in good faith.

Not trying to kill me.

“But Sasha?”

“Yes?”

“Lambo’s are fast.” His lips twitch in a smile. “Please don’t make me chase you.” His hand drops to squeeze my ass. “Promise to be good?”ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .

Lust ripples through me at his insinuation of punishment. I remember how hot my last punishment was. How much I like this game. “I promise,” I murmur, only half meaning it.

“Hmm.” He doesn’t believe me because he’s smart and perceptive.

I flash a wicked smile. “Can we go now?”

He brushes a kiss across my lips. “Anytime, printsessa.”

I relax and wrap my arms around him, pressing my face against his chest. He can’t be bad.

He can’t be.

I know my mom is wrong about him.

SASHA

MAXIM BUYS me a convertible Lamborghini Huracan in electric blue, which he says goes with my eyes. After we finish the paperwork and get the keys, he hands me into the driver’s seat, his eyes ablaze with lust.

“Do I look hot?” I ask, remembering his words.

“Like a movie star.” He walks around to the passenger side. I know it must kill him to ride shotgun. He’s all alpha male. The guy who likes to drive, but he takes the seat with his casual grace.

I start the car, and we pull out of the lot, showing the paperwork at the gate. Rather than drive back to the apartment building, I just take off without any destination in mind. Maxim was right-I wanted the freedom.

Driving feels amazing.

Maxim doesn’t comment or direct, another surprise. I push away my mother’s voice in my head, reminding me he’s just trying to keep me happy until he has my money.

“Did you want to be a movie star, Sasha?” Maxim asks.

“What?” I glance over and find he’s examining me closely.

“You told Kayla you were jealous about her agent. How did that work out, anyway? Did you hear?”

Seriously? This guy is actually following up on my friend-gossip?

“She got the agent.” Kayla texted me last night with the news.

“Good for her. So what about you, Sasha?”

I scoff. “Well, obviously, it’s impossible.”

“Because of me?”

“What?” I look over, surprised. “No. What chance do I have getting into even the smallest acting gig? I have a Russian accent. I need to lose thirty pounds. And yes, I don’t live in L. A.”

“What about acting here? Stage acting? Or even commercials.”