Billionaire Flawed 1(345)

Will you stop talking BS. You're my girl, and that's it. He looked at her. She looked hotter than ever with her new hair. She had also lost weight, not that she needed to. Now she was slender, and it made her look taller than the five eight she always claimed she was. All he wanted to do was get her back to her apartment and go to bed with her. He longed to feel her long legs around him and her soft lips on his. He'd often masturbated to a picture of her when she was away. Not a blunt picture of her in some pornographic pose, but a simple picture of her face, smiling into the camera he'd taken with them on a trip to the beach.

No Nathe. I've made up my mind. Please respect that.

So what's happened, Nicki? Have you fallen in love with some heartless communist? They're all communists you know. Spineless alcoholics all of them.

What he was saying wasn't true. She'd met a lot of very nice people in Russia during her exchange year. None of them were communists, and apart from the odd drunken birthday celebration, she'd never seen any of them drinking alcohol. She'd gone there with an open mind. Sure it was a totally different culture, and it had taken a lot of getting used to, but she'd really enjoyed the experience. No I haven't fallen in love with anyone. I just don't think you and I are compatible enough to take it any further than we already have.

Well thanks a lot. Thanks for ruining my day and my life. What a bitch. You know you've always thought you were better than anybody else. He glanced across at her with hurt engraved all over his face.

Surely he'd suspected something, though. She hadn't exactly been nice to him when they'd talked on Skype. And she'd never called him. He'd even complained that he always had to call her. I'm sorry Nathe, but that's it. I can't be with you anymore. Her words sounded so final, she thought. If only, there was a better way, a less cruel way. She'd agonized over it for days but every time she'd come to the same conclusion. There was no kind way to dump someone.

And what the hell are you going to do with you life, Nicki? Yours graduating in four weeks and you still haven't applied for any jobs. It's not easy finding work so you'd better get on with it. There was a cold father like sound to his voice.

I've told you a few times. I'm going to be a freelance journalist.

Yeah right. As if an editor would buy a story from a rookie journalist. You've been told so many times by me, by your professor and by all your peers, you need to get a job on a newspaper. Learn your craft and then, only then, might you have a chance at being a freelancer.

He was right, but only to a certain extent, she told herself. She was graduating from a great school of journalism. Then she had to write some great stories. As a young rookie, she knew it would be difficult, but she was daring, and she intended to get exciting, even dangerous stories that would sell themselves. Stories of hardship, crime, war and death were all on her list, and she knew exactly where she was going to start. But that's what I want to do. It's my life and my business, and nobody else can tell me what to do.

Like I said. You think you are better than anyone else. Everyone's telling you it can't be done successfully, but oh no, madam won't listen. Well, I tell you what, when I drop you off at your apartment, you can darn well go to hell. I don't want to see you anymore either. And I might add, my experience with you has been nothing short of unpleasant. You're self-centered, conceited, arrogant, and a whole lot more.

Nicki put the key in the door to the apartment and opened it. She grunted as she put her bag down in the hallway. When she closed the door, she leaned back against it and closed her eyes. Home. Finally home.

The food in the plane had been exceptionally salty, and she needed water. She turned on the kitchen light and smiled. There was a large, 'Welcome Home,' banner tied along the curtain rail and a bottle of sparkling white wine on the table. Sarah and Lela, her housemates, had intended to drink it with her. Not surprisingly they had gone to bed. It was three am.



 



Nicki woke to someone knocking on her bedroom door. She opened her eyes and immediately shut them again as the sharp winter sunlight tore into them. Why do I never shut the curtains properly, she asked herself.

I'm awake. You can come in.

It was Lela. Lela had started college at the same time as Nicki. They'd found they had lots in common, not least because they were both black and both are starting out in journalism. After six months they'd decided to leave the halls of residence and get an apartment together.

Hi, welcome home, she said as she tripped over the bag Nicki had left unopened on the floor. She fell onto the bed and gave Nicki a kiss and a hug. So how was it? We waited up for you, but sleep got the better of us.

It was a fantastic experience. You know Russia is such a paradox. The people are so polite and friendly, yet if you listen to the rhetoric coming from the politicians that represent them, you wouldn't think so.