---

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Tatiana sat there on the edge of her couch just staring at the package that had been delivered. It was from her parents, in their usual overwhelming manner, scripted in gold, surrounded by gold leaf and even sealed in gold. She could have probably fed a small island nation just off the contents alone.

Two tickets to London were within as well as an invitation to a family reunion of such. The last thing she wanted to do was deal with either of her adopted parents but she missed her siblings. Only one seemed to live close enough to visit but Tatiana was usually out of town, so communication was limited to mostly likes and thumbs up on various media outlets.

Picking up the tickets she stared blankly at them. They wanted her to bring someone with her? Ugh, she had no one special in her life right then but she would be damned to go alone, she needed a shield between her and the parental units. But where in the world could she find someone willing to travel with a stranger half way across the world? All her close friends where out of town or working.

Groaning inwardly she tossed the tickets back on the glass table and leaned back on the couch. Sliding her laptop over, she powered it up and began a Google search for help. She came across several suggestions bit one that stood out to her was talk of hiring someone on Craigslist to pose as a friend or boyfriend to fend off pesky family members.

A huff from her lips and a few keep strokes later she was hip deep in the horrors that were Ceaigslist, but it was like a train wreck, she couldn't look away. Rubbing her temples she typed up an ad...

Russian female seeking travel companion to keep the wolves at bay during family reunion. All expenses paid trip to London. No hanky-panky. Must be able to play the "boyfriend role."

Closing her eyes, she clicked submit. This was going to be interesting.

---

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This was bad.

– Wait, scratch that. This was downright catastrophic.

What kind of restaurant took a month long Christmas break? Wyatt wanted nothing more than to scream at the people in charge, but that would result in him getting fired, so he promptly pushed the thought to the back of his mind.

He was a calm, rational adult, for God’s sake. The restaurant owners were a married couple – nice people, even by Canadian standards, which was really saying something. What good would it do to take out his undying rage on them?

Then again, this basically meant that he was going to lose his job for a month, except for the fact he wasn’t technically fired because they were just taking – and he quotes: “four weeks off to visit our family in Boston.”

Boston.

That was only an eight-hour drive across the border, and arguably one of America’s most boring cities. For what earthly reason would they need to spend an entire month in Boston? Wyatt had to fight the urge to ring them up and shoot them a not-so-friendly reminder that Christmas only lasted a day. Maybe if they’d made an announcement earlier, he would’ve been able to come up with a back-up plan before the world as he knew it came crashing down around him.

...Okay, so maybe he was being a tad melodramatic. But unemployment was no laughing matter, he’ll have you know. After work, Wyatt had spent the previous night (or morning, it was 2 A.M.) chain smoking in a filthy back alley together with one of his line cook pals, complaining about the prospect of having to find a new job on such short notice. Obviously, it didn’t accomplish a goddamned thing, but it was a strange sort of respite; having someone be in the same predicament as you.

There was only one thing left Wyatt could do now, really – and it wasn’t going out to look for a legitimate job, because that’d take him at least a fortnight, and even that was being optimistic. No, he was going to trawl through the cesspool that was Craigslist, in the hopes of finding a somewhat respectable method of keeping his income afloat. Granted, Craigslist probably wasn’t the best place to look, but he figured he’d work his way up from there.

Fishing an iPhone 3G out of his pocket, Wyatt settled down on the creaking, moth-eaten couch, and sprawled across it like a long-limbed octopus. It took a while of scrolling, but he finally found something of value, and just in time, too. He was this close to giving up the endeavour (and also humanity). The ad that he’d stopped on, on the other hand, was almost too good to be true. An all expense paid trip to London, no payment required? He was surprised that no one had snapped up the offer yet. Of course, the first emotion that welled up within him was suspicion, and perhaps a sprinkle of intrigue. After all, he’d watched enough CSI to realise that this was the kind of thing that got people murdered.

But a part of him had latched onto that tiny glimmer of hope, and before he knew it, he was typing out an email to this mysterious Russian maiden.

...At least he hoped it was a maiden. Nobody ever lied on the Internet, right?



And with a heart full of trepidation, he hit ‘send’.

This was going to end horribly.

---

---

Tatiana groaned at every reply she got from the Craigslist ad she had placed. It was horrific, a slew of come ons, would-be guys wanting a Russian Bride and several images that belonged more on a cheap porn site than a want ad. This was turning out worse than she had expected.

Leaning back on the couch she pushed away her lap top and downed a glass of Riesling in a single gulp before lighting another cigarette. Taking a long pull from it she wondered if she would just be better off going alone. That thought quickly was brushed away.

Sure she had done well for herself since she left home. She finished college, was working on her masters now, made more money than she needed inking people, had a wonderful home, but she knew that wouldn't be enough for her parents. Granted she didn't give a damn to what her mother thought, but her father was another matter. As much as she wished he was more like her older brother Gabe in his affection he was a decent man.

Rubbing her temples she was about to call it a night and power down her computer. Looking at the screen she noticed another answer to her ad and got sick to her stomach before she even opened it.

"If another dick pic, I give up," she muttered to herself before clicking open.

Reading it she had a bead of hope. It wasn't propositioning her nor showing her parts of a man's anatomy that she didn't ask for. Maybe this one was alright? She didn't put much hope into it, maybe he was just playing nice so he could harvest her kidney and leave her in a tub full of ice at the Motel 6.

Taking another pull from her cancer stick she typed up a reply.

Yeah, well there haven't exactly been a lot of responses that I would reply to, in fact this is the first. Basically I need someone to play the boyfriend role for me while I am stuck at a family reunion of sorts. Very expectant parents and a lot of siblings.

Tickets are paid for, room and board provided, any extra costs I'll cover, I'll pay you my average salary per week you stick it out, two weeks of time is how long I need you. We'll discuss how much that is later. I just need arm candy. Fit the bill?

I'm in New York City, we can meet here in a public place or I can come to your city and again, meet in a public place.

Guess I should tell you a bit about me. I smoke, no I won't put it out if that bothers you. I am a tattoo artist with a degree in fine arts, listen to metal, quiet at first but I blow up easy if people piss me off. I guess that covers enough to start.

So, still interested?

Tatiana~

With that she clicked send and waited.

"Please don't have him vant a kidney," she muttered under her breath.

---

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Because he was a jobless loser with nothing better to do, Wyatt set his phone aside and flipped on the TV to find reruns of The Real Housewives. It was awful – just terrible, really, but similar to a trainwreck, he couldn’t look away, especially when in a fit of rage, one of the cast members threw her prosthetic leg across the table. That wasn’t even a euphemism for anything. She literally took off her prosthetic leg (which looked very well-crafted, he might add), and flung it full-force across the room at the woman unfortunate enough to incur her wrath.

In the words of Johnny Bravo, he was sickened, but curious, and he’d never been one to judge a book by its cover, after all.

It was only after two hours had passed when Wyatt found himself at the edge of his seat, eyes glued to the screen, and wolfing down a Hot Pocket, that he finally understood how people could get hooked on these shows. There was drama, a lot of it, actually, and the fact that it came packaged in the form of angry, middle-aged women screaming at one another over the most asinine things? Wyatt didn’t know why, but that only sold it to him even more. Maybe he found a sick sort of comfort in seeing people more out of touch with reality than he was.

And then, a whistle from his phone snapped him out of his reality TV induced trance. Swiping a finger across the screen, Wyatt quickly navigated to the source of the notification; a reply to the email he’d sent earlier.

It wasn’t a long email, not by a long shot, but it didn’t stop him from taking way too long to formulate his own response. It seemed genuine, at least, and there weren’t any alarm bells going off in his head saying that this was the work of a serial killer. But freaks were always the ones you least expect, weren’t they? He’d learnt that in prison, when he nearly got a shiv to the face after winning all the cigarettes off a bespectacled little twerp from Montreal in a game of Blackjack.

...Well, perhaps that wasn’t the best example, but hey, give him a break. Wyatt didn’t have a lot to work with, here.

Shaking the rather unpleasant thought out of his head, he wondered just what kind of mess he was getting himself into before starting to tap away at the keypad.

---

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Tatiana pushed her laptop onto the floor and stretched out on the cream tinted leather sofa as she kicked her heels off. She wasn't going to expect a reply that evening, it was getting late and she was a night owl. Rolling onto her side she opted to binge watching some crappy movies instead of going out to see what was happening in the late night scene.

She vaguely remembered the Dance Baby Dance scene from Labyrinth before she fell asleep and woke up smack dab in the middle of The Spanish Inquisition, she hadn't expected that. Rubbing her eyes she sat and decided her back would love her a lot more if she actually crawled into bed.

She nearly face planted into the wall as she tripped over her laptop, forgetting it was on the floor. A slew of curses in both Russian and English came from her lips as she snatched up the computer. She was about to slam the screen shut when she saw there was another reply from Wyatt, one that made her smirk slightly. Maybe this would work out after all. Granted, his profession was less than impressive but the only ones that would care about that would be her parents. Maybe they could come up with an alternative?

Plopping back down on the couch she decided to go ahead and reply. Figured it was better to go ahead and meet the guy as soon as possible instead of the day they flew out.

Just have my back and we should be fine, you could be president or the pope and it still wouldn't be enough for my parents. Who knows, maybe we'll just make a bad impression together.

Yeah, I can cover that. Just give me your last name and I'll purchase a ticket to fly down to NYC in your name. You can just pick it up at the airport.

If it works out, we would be flying to London in five days, I'll put you up in a hotel until we leave, if not I'll pay for your ticket back to Toronto. That work for you?

And right now my biggest worry is you are wanting to harvest my kidney. So at least we're both skeptical.

Can you hop a flight tomorrow night? I have a couple of tats I need to ink tomorrow, so you could meet me at the shop once you're in town, it's just a subway ride away.

So yeah, need a last name so I can buy the ticket if that works for you. I'll email you back with a confirmation number once I buy it.

Tatiana~

P.S. Nah, no picture needed, surprise me. It'll give you a chance to run if you don't like what you see. :p

With that she clicked send and crawled into bed, she knew this was ridiculous and probably going to blow up in her face but at this point she didn't have much of a choice. Laying the laptop next to her she turned the sound up to wake her of she got a response.

---

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3 A.M found Wyatt stood in the kitchen, a duvet draped around his shoulders, stirring away at a bubbling pot on the stove - much like the villainous, child-eating crones of fairytales - save for the fact that instead of a deadly concoction of toadstool and eyes of newt, the pot contained only the cheapest, store brand mac and cheese he could find.

...This was it. He’d officially lost all control of his life. Why was he eating mac and cheese at three in the morning? He wasn’t even hungry, hell, he didn’t even like mac and cheese.

Before he could lapse into yet another existential crisis over mac and cheese, however, he took the pot off the stove. Instant mac and cheese was bad enough as it is, but burnt instant mac and cheese was even worse. Shit, how many times had the phrase ‘mac and cheese’ popped into his head in the past minute? Probably more than a regular human being did in an entire year. Not a good sign. His second day of unemployment, and Wyatt was already starting to stress eat like there was no tomorrow.

Instead of turning in for the night, however, he stayed up for another hour, doing absolutely nothing of value. The majority, if not the entirety of that hour was spent stuffing his face with all the junk food he managed to excavate from his disaster zone of a kitchen, while The Real Housewives droned on and on and on in the background. He probably could’ve kept going, but a chirp from his cell phone reminded him that he really needed to get his shit together if this meeting with Tatiana was really going to happen.

Through bleary, bloodshot eyes, he read the email, arching an eyebrow as he did so. She wanted to fly him down to NYC? Put him up in a hotel? This was beginning to sound more and more like a scam, but if it wasn’t, this would essentially be the deal of a lifetime.


This time, Wyatt didn’t even think before he hit ‘send’. For all he knew, in approximately 24 hours from now, he’d be lying dead in a ditch - his tragic end fuelling a series of Public Service Announcements about the dangers of meeting with strangers on the Internet. But truthfully? He couldn’t muster enough energy to give a shit, and so, it was only then that he finally dragged himself off to bed, flopping face-down onto the squeaky mattress, and into sweet, sweet oblivion.

---

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Tatiana was in sweet slumber, dreaming of what she always did, ballet. Toe on point, the stage, the grand sweeping entrance, the emotions, the pain you pushed through for that brief moment of transcendence. It all swirled through her dreams, fueled by the last years worth of work she had done in secret, something she wondered if she should let her family know about at this upcoming probably train wreck of a reunion.

The beep of a message came from her lap top and her eyes fluttered open, silencing it and rolling over to go back to sleep, forgetting for a time what she was trying to accomplish for one facade in favor for the world of dreams. That only lasted a short time before she shot straight up in bed, wide awake and snatching the computer from its place in the thick down comforter and into her lap.

Rubbing her eyes she clicked open and read the email. So he was in? That's good, isn't it? Or lord, the mention of rich. Well she was well to do in her own right but when she thought of true wealth she could only think of her parents, that was what some Americans referred to as stupid rich.

Taking a deep breath she started a search online for flights out of Toronto to New York for tomorrow, only seats left were first class and were way over priced for last minute travel during the holidays but beggars couldn't be choosers and she was surely at the beggar end of this bargain.

Let's just say urgent and I make enough, I'll fill you in on the rest when you arrive.

Confirmation number for your flight is AEGSCHE538 for British Airways out of Toronto at 6pm tomorrow, you'll be in New York by 7pm. First class, sorry was all they had left. Just bring your ID and Passport, along with the confirmation number.

Instead of you having to try to find your way on the subway, I have arranged for a car to pick you up. Driver will ask for id, they'll have a sign with your name on it at baggage claim outside of international flights. Just tell him to bring you to Seraphim Tattoos in the Bronx. Any problems, call me at 01-212-474-5693

When you get there, just ask the clerk at the main desk for Tati. Prewarning the place looks more like a dive bar than somewhere you want to get ink at. But hey, they do the best work on this side of the states.

Tatiana~

P.S. Oh if you plan on harvesting my kidney, let me warn you my father will find you and he will kill you. See you soon, ^^

With that she clicked send and went back to dream land for a few hours.



The day went by quickly for Tatiana but she had this constant dread balled up in the pit of her stomach. Was she nuts for hiring someone off Craigslist to go with her? What if he was a murdered? Crazy? Or even worse with her family, ugly?

She did her best to keep her mind off things, staying up at the shop all day, trying to stay busy. Co-workers asked her what was up, why she was so on edge. She spilt it all and got the same worry from them she had already within her. That she had just hired an ax-murderer.

---

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Wyatt woke up at 2 P.M, the incessant shrieking of his alarm clock falling on deaf ears. Long practice lets him roll out of bed, a blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, slithering against the floor as Wyatt hurried towards the bathroom. He needed to piss, smoke, drink coffee and if there was actually anything edible, grab something for breakfast lunch.

Of course, no one wants to hear about him relieving himself, so after he was done with that, Wyatt trudged to the kitchen, brewed a pot of coffee, and entertained the prospect of braving the fridge.

On one hand, he’s hungry. On the other, he has to be really hungry to face the furred something that lurked at the back of the fridge. He knew that it probably used to be rice, but at this point, it resembled a ball of green fluff. Which was cool, but also fucking gross, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to risk looking inside.

In the end, after an intense mental deliberation, he decided that the would-be trauma to his psyche just wasn’t worth it. He’d be much better off blowing a couple of dollars at 7-Eleven on a toasted sandwich.

Though with Wyatt being Wyatt, it was only halfway through his coffee that he remembered he was supposed to be flying to NYC. He legitimately thought that he’d dreamt the whole thing up, but a quick, panicked look through his inbox confirmed that this was indeed happening, and that his ticket in first class was for a flight expected to leave at 6 P.M.

...He hadn’t even started packing.

Downing the last of his still-hot coffee (which, in hindsight, wasn’t the best idea), he set to work. The following hours flew by in a blur, with Wyatt spending far too much time worrying if he’d packed enough clothes for a trip to London, and basically upending his entire apartment to find a missing passport. Before he knew it, he was really, really late, and Wyatt soon found himself weaving through traffic, and then sprinting through departures with mere minutes to spare.

But by some manner of miracle, he managed to make it to the boarding gate before the plane took off without him, though the dirty looks he earned from the other passengers took any sort of solace he might’ve found and flung it right out the window.

A quick glance around, and Wyatt was certain that he looked as out of place as he felt. Maybe everyone else knew that, too. Maybe rich people could smell when someone wasn’t one of them, much like a grizzly bear could smell fear. But then again, he wasn’t exactly dressed to the nines. Was there a secret dress code to which one needed to adhere when flying first class? If there was, he was pretty sure what he had on wasn’t it.

His current getup could best be described as ‘hobo chic’, a plaid shirt, a ratty old hoodie, mud-stained work boots, and washed out jeans. Really, Wyatt thought as he sunk further into his seat, all he needed to complete the effect was some fingerless gloves and a shopping cart.

Then, just as the plane hit a rough patch of turbulence, he knew this was going to be the longest hour of his life.

---

At precisely 7 P.M, they landed at the John F. Kennedy International Airport, and after a flurry of customs and bag checks, Wyatt found himself none-too-ceremoniously herded into a Lexus sedan with tinted windows.

Was this a good sign? No. No, it wasn’t, though he was already in too deep to turn back, so really, the only thing he could do was fire up a menthol, taking a long, satisfying pull from it. If he was going to be murdered, he might as well have one last smoke, right?

When he made it to Seraphim Tattoos in one piece, he was legitimately surprised. It sounded ridiculous now, but he’d half-expected to wake up from a chloroformed-induced haze in an abandoned warehouse with like, a missing spleen. Instead, here he was in the Bronx, stood on the sidewalk, and gawking like an idiot.

It took him a moment, but Wyatt finally managed to gather himself, pushing open the glass door and stepping inside. As per the instructions, he strode right up to the front desk to ask for this… Tatiana.

– God, he hoped she was real.

“Uh, hey.” He began, eloquently, and crooked a questioning eyebrow. “Is Tatiana around? Apparently, I’m supposed to meet her here.”

---

---

The inside of Seraphim Tattoo did not look much better than the outside. Cracked black paint peeled from the walls and the tiled checkerboard floor had seen better days. The smell of cigarette and cigar smoke hung heavy in the room and old flash images were hung this way and that on the walls.

Most of the chairs that lined the walls were filled with people waiting, all who looked like they had either just gotten out of prison or were moments from being taken to prison. An African gentleman with long dreads sat behind the counter flipping through various paper work and books when Wyatt approached.

"Yeah mon, she be in the back," the man said as he looked up from his work over towards Wyatt. He looked like he was about to continue when he heard a loud crash coming behind the curtained arched doorway behind him. The sound of metal hitting the ground clanged throughout the room.

Suddenly a large man standing well over six feet in height came stumbling back through the curtain, holding his hands up as he dodged bottles of ink and bagged hypodermic needles that quickly followed him. The man looked like something out of a bad biker movie and here he was with a rather scared expression laced across his face, combined with anger.

"Listen, you screwed up my tat bitch!" the man bellowed.

The African man just sat there watching and not moving, as a chair came sliding across the tiles and from behind the curtain a woman who couldn't have been more than five foot three inches in height and maybe weighing one hundred pounds soaking wet came storming out from behind the curtain.

Bright green eyes were as aflame as her crimson hair that was braided like some Valkyerie of old. She wore platform cream colored leather spike heeled shoes, fitted black leather pants and a cream colored silk tank. The woman looked more out of place in the shop than Wyatt had on the plane.

Slinging the chair over in front of the biker she stepped into the seat of the chair so she could stand eye to eye with him, a single finger poking the man's chest.

"No, you sneezed, you fuck up tat," she yelled in a thick Russian voice laced with an uppity British highbrow accent. "You don't blame me for allergy. You vant fix, you come back later. You vant a problem I have you blacklisted by everything artist this side of Mississippi. Jones, throw him out!"

From behind the curtain a bald and broad shouldered man came out dressed in classical jeans and t-shirt security clothing. A quick scuffle and the biker was out the front door rather unceremoniously. The clerk at the counter just laughed as the woman stepped down from the chair and flung it back behind the curtain.

"Yo Tati, you got company," he said as he pointed over towards Wyatt.

"Vho are you?" she asked in a bit of a huff.

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Everything in this place was intimidating, from the paint peeling off the wall in crackling strips, to the patrons who looked like they could murder someone with their bare hands. By all accounts, getting the hell out of here was probably the most logical thing to do, but as he said before, Wyatt was way, waaay past the point of worrying, and this was not his first rodeo - or so the saying went.

When the shouting started, he simply stood aside, watching the confrontation unfold with an impressive nonchalance , and maybe even a hint of amusement. The guy who was doing most of the shouting looked like the stereotypical biker, with his tattoos, leather vest, and steel-toed boots. He must’ve weighed close to three-hundred pounds, a solid chunk of fat and untoned muscle, but somehow, he still seemed to be losing the argument against his opponent; a fiery redhead who looked to be about a third of his size.

The woman’s accent was the first thing he noticed - Slavic, no doubt, though it was tinged with a little something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He almost contemplated stepping in, but eventually decided against it. She seemed like she had everything under control, and let’s face it, even if he did intervene, he would probably just make things worse.

In the end, all he could do was take another pull from his cigarette, almost comically calm amidst the commotion. As he exhaled, thin, blue tendrils of smoke poured from the corners of his mouth, joining the already cloying scent of tobacco hanging heavy in the air. The whole argument seemed like it was coming to a head - at least until security came stomping out from behind a curtain to escort (read: strong-arm) biker guy out from the parlor.

All in all, it was a little anticlimactic, but it wasn’t as if he’d hoped for things to escalate into a barfight.

...Or maybe he had. Wyatt couldn’t be a hundred percent sure.

But he wasn’t able to dwell on that for long, because soon, he realised that the redhead was asking him a question.

“Wyatt. And I’m guessing you’re Tatiana...?”

To be honest, this wasn’t what he had been expecting. But really, he had no idea what he expected - well, apart from things heading south as soon as he stepped off the plane. Of all the scenarios that he’d dreamt up in his head, this was the least likely. It felt almost surreal that this was actually working out for the better. Not that he was completely out of the woods yet. For all he knew, they were just waiting to murder him in the back alley.

But if there was anything Wyatt excelled at, it was bullshitting his way out of trouble.

“Pretty impressive, back there. Does this kind of thing happen often?” Wyatt nodded his head towards the door, from which the biker had been thrown out seconds earlier. His mouth was formed in an endearingly lopsided smirk, but as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the movement almost seemed to give away his unease.

---

---

Tatiana looked at the man a bit befuddled at first as he introduced himself as Wyatt, he was not at all what she had been expecting. With the number of messages she had gotten from Craigslist and the fact he had not immediately followed their leads lead her to believe that he was going to be something completely different. Maybe some beer barreled older man who could keep a conversation short and to the point only to try to muster in other desires later on or some closest book worm who ate one too many hot pockets and didn't know how to bathe regularly.

His clothing was anything but in order but she figured a quick trip down to Barneys and Armani could take care of that. His looks however was pleasantly surprising, he was rather cute. Maybe this would work? That was as long as he wasn't going to try to harvest her internal organs. Please don't let him try to take my kidney," she thought to herself before plastering a rather genuine smile to her lips and nodding.

"You're Vyatt?" she asked in her thick Russian accent. "Vov, you're cuter than I hoped," she admitted with a chuckle. "Um, yeah, sadly it does. Big men think they can push around little ballerina," she said rolling her eyes before Jones came over to make sure she was alright.

"Everything cool Tati?" Jones asked as he crossed his arms over his chest and eyes Wyatt.

"Da, thank you. Oh, Vyatt, this is Jones, my personal muscle down here in trenches. Jones, this is Vyatt, guy I told you about," she said introducing the two. Jones looked at her oddly for a moment before looking back at Wyatt.

"This is who you're taking to meet Reg and Cass? Oh please, record this shit, I want to see it on youtube," he laughed until he felt a hard jolt to his side from Tatianas elbow. "Ouch woman, what was that for?"

"I hadn't told Vyatt yet who I am..." she said rubbing her temples.

"Aww hell," Jones said before sticking his hand out to Wyatt. "Good luck man, I wouldn't want to be you for all the gold in Fort Knox," he laughed, shaking the mans hand before walking off. Tatiana sighed as she placed her hands on her hips.

"I guess I should explain..." she muttered.

---

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The seconds seemed to crawl by, with neither of them saying a word, and Wyatt was just about to bust out the witty one-liners when Tatiana broke the silence, by way of a compliment which was, admittedly, rather double-edged. Nonetheless, it was a compliment, and he was nothing if not gracious.

Evidently, she seemed quite relieved that he was not, in fact, a fedora-toting neckbeard dusted with crumbled Cheetos, nor a scrawny, four-eyed beanpole with a penchant for World of Warcraft and distasteful anime. It seemed as if they’d both expected the worst out of each other, which was completely understandable, given that a Craigslist ad had been their chosen medium of communication. He supposed this made a valuable life lesson for everyone out there; always set your expectations low, and you’ll never be disappointed.

“Yeah, well - you sure showed him. I thought he was gonna fucking explode.” Wyatt snorted, shaking his head as he remembered how the biker’s face had went red with pure, unadulterated fury. “Good thing your guy here tossed him out.”

But before he could get in a word edgewise, Tatiana had turned to Jones, and from what he gathered, began a rather heated discourse regarding a meeting with her parents. Through it all, there was nothing Wyatt could do but look confused, and perhaps even mildly concerned. Shit, was Tatiana’s parents the mafia? No wonder she was rich. But then, he had to wonder; was he getting involved in the mafia? What if they made him a drug mule? Filled his insides with little baggies of cocaine and meth to smuggle across the border?

...Oh my God, it all made sense now. How could he have been so blind? This was like Breaking Bad all over again.

Before he had a chance to react, however, Jones offered him his hand to shake, and as if on instinct, he shook back twice, even if he had no idea what the guy was talking about. And the mockingly sympathetic comment he made? It didn’t make him feel any better about the whole affair. Not in the slightest. By this point, he was pretty much convinced that he was completely, and utterly fucked.

“Please tell me you’re not mafia.” Wyatt said to Tatiana, in what he hoped was a dry, joking monotone. The last thing he needed was a hitman on his trail, looking to take him out for knowing too much.

---

---

”Vell, this isn’t exactly something I vish to discuss in public,” Tatiana said without missing a beat, a slight smirk coming across her lips. She knew she should put his worries to rest quickly but she couldn’t help but have a bit of fun right then. She wished Marisol, her partner in crime, was there; she would have backed her up and been cheering her on.

”Come on in back,” she said motioning with a single finger before turning on her heels and sauntering through the curtain. Behind the curtain was a very different sight; everything was meticulously clean and fresh painted. White walls with bright lighting, black marble floors; each station was pristine in appearance; except the one Tatiana sat down at. Hers was clean but the signs of the recent tiff was still strone about the floor.

Resting back in a fine leather chair she motioned towards the other next to her that matched; it looked to be a consulting area from the looks of it. A small glass table was between the chairs and was dotted with sketch pads, charcoals, pencils and ink pens; various pieces of tattoo style art darted the walls behind the chairs, each signed by Tatiana. They were truly beautiful pieces, even if they were meant to be on the skin they looked well placed in the frames.

”Vell, I did tell you if you tried to harvest my kidney that my father vould find you and he vould kill you. I vasn’t joking,” she started off as she laced her fingers over her knee and eyed Wyatt. She paused for a brief moment before continuing.

”But it isn’t because he Russian Mafia, though perhaps by end of trip you vill vish he vas,” she admitted before reaching down for her purse and pulling out a small picture album and flipping it open to a single picture. The picture was of Tatiana standing there in all the pomp and circumstance of fitting that of a Carrington, flanked on either side of her stood Reginald and Cassiopeia Carrington.

”I am Tatiana Carrington, daughter of Reginald and Cassiopeia Carrington,” she admitted with a lace of shame in her voice. Taking a deep breath she leaned back in her seat and ran her finger over the picture of them before glancing back over to Wyatt. ”You have probably heard of them…”

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As he started to follow Tatiana into the back of the parlor, Wyatt knew one thing, and one thing only, he didn’t have an ounce of self-preservation in his bones. Any sane man would’ve just said ‘fuck no’ to all this, and got the hell out of dodge before things inevitably went to shit; but right now, he felt like the protagonist of a terrible B-movie, blindly stumbling to his doom with all the grace of an overstimulated gorilla.

Then again, what was life without a little danger, right? Wyatt was pretty sure that if it really came down to it, he’d be able to punch his way out of here, no problem. Not that he’d ever consider socking a lady in the jaw on a normal day, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and he fully expected things to escalate to the realm of ‘desperate’ within the next minute or two.

With an unceremonious thump, he dropped his travelling bag on the ground, and raised a quizzical eyebrow at his surroundings.

“You know, if you wanted to murder me, you probably could’ve picked a better place to do it. I heard it’s a bitch getting bloodstains out of marble.”

Past the curtain, it was like another dimension. Quite unlike the lurid, ash-stained hellhole jangling with heavy metal at the front of the store, this place was immaculate to a near-surgical degree. With all its bright lights, black marble floors, and minimalistic outlines, it would not have looked out of place in a glossy, five-spread for the Architectural Digest.

Where Tatiana sat, the wall behind her was decorated with myriad pieces of art. He wasn’t quite close enough to tell, but the same, flourished signature decorating the corner of each piece was enough for him to realise that they were all the work of the woman before him. Even for someone like Wyatt - whose only exposure to the world of art were the workshops offered in prison - he could safely say that they were real gems, beautiful in the way that everyone could appreciate.

...Or maybe they weren’t. Wyatt felt like he probably wasn’t the best person to judge, but he thought they were nice.

Either way, he knew that he should probably stop gawking, and so, in one smooth movement, he took the proffered seat next to Tatiana, adopting a suitably dour expression. Whatever she was about to say, it looked to be serious, and Wyatt didn’t want to miss even the slightest bit of it.

But what came out of Tatiana’s mouth next - it was definitely not what he’d been expecting. Briefly, his gaze flickered down to the picture shown to him, and in that very moment, he could’ve sworn that every last pint of blood in his body had been replaced with ice, even more so when she confirmed his suspicions with a few choice words.

“...Fuck.”

It was the only thing Wyatt could come up with, and he had to take a few moments to let her words sink in. At this point, he almost wished that Tatiana’s father was the head of the Russian Mafia.

“You’re actually Tatiana Carrington.” He pointed out, lamely, a fact of which she was presumably aware. “Oh God, why didn’t you tell me earlier? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me earlier.”

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Tatiana groaned inwardly as she sat there, slowly leaning back in her seat. Perhaps she could have been a bit more soft in her delivery, but no she ripped the bandaid right off in one fell swoop taking with it some hair and skin. From the look on his face and the tone of his words she half expected him to run out the door and walk back to Toronto instead of dealing with this. She wouldn't blame him if he did, hell she'd be tempted to take the trek with him and get lost somewhere in the back wood of Canada. Being eaten by a bear seemed like a pleasant upgrade to spending time with her parents.

"Da, the adopted child of the Carringtons, the Russian Ballerina, their publicity stunt," she said as she watched him, her tone was rather flat in its answer.

"And I didn't say because if I told people on Craigslist I vas a Carrington I vould have to add kidnappers for ransom to the list of shit I have to vorry about," she stated bluntly as she pinched the space between her nose out of frustration.

"Listen, I'm going out on a limb here but I need help. I can't go home alone. I just can't deal vith them, for multitude of reason. It's five veeks, all through Europe, ending up in London. Ve'll avoid them as much as possible. All expenses paid, you von't vant for anything, I'll cover it all. And I'll pay you vell," she said as she sat there, straightening herself some in her seat.

"Come on deal of lifetime, live life of Carrington, no vorries of money, trekking through Europe and all you have to do is be my arm candy and pretend you like me. Could be vorse vay to spend holidays, no?" she said giving him a rather sultry smile as she locked eyes with him.

Granted she knew on the surface it sounded like a great deal but she also knew if it was so great and wondrous she wouldn't be hitting up some guy on Craiglist to go with her. Right now she felt like Satan, trying to get this poor guy to sign his soul away to spend five weeks in hell disguised as heaven.

"Oh and one more thing, posing as couple, ve'll have to, how you say? Shack up?" she added with a nervous laugh.

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“Okay, well, I wasn’t referring to your fucking ad.”

Oh God, here we go again.

It was a bad habit of his - one that plagued most line cooks - the word ‘fuck’ or some variation of it popping up every other sentence. After spending countless nights over raging burners with a chef screaming bloody murder, it seemed to him that the only thing way to respond to mental duress was to curse like a sailor, even if the other party didn’t quite deserve such treatment. But in a professional kitchen, adhering to the guidelines of social grace wasn’t exactly top priority - quite the opposite, in fact - and as he listened to Tatiana talk, he almost thought he was back in Toronto, in the hot, sweaty furnace that was Charlemagne’s during rush hour.

“You could’ve told me in an email, a call - fuck, you could’ve tweeted me, for all I care! No one said you had to scream for all the goddamned world to hear, but you’ve gotta admit, a little forewarning would’ve been nice.” Wyatt retorted, gesticulating wildly. The tone of his voice was flushed with perhaps a bit more vehemence than was necessary, though it was more out of panic than any real malice. It just so happened that Wyatt was a special kind of awful at dealing with stress, and translating his anxiety into logical, concise sentences had never been his strong suit.

With an almost hypnotic slowness, and a heaving sigh, Wyatt sunk further and further into his chair, arms folded sullenly across his chest. Oh, he could’ve spent the next hour ranting - just screaming his head off about the injustice that Tatiana had done him, but it wouldn’t have accomplished a thing.

If was going to be honest, Tatiana’s offer was almost too good to pass up, if you ignored the whole Carrington thing. After all, where else was he going to get paid to go on a luxurious - not to mention free - holiday around Europe? This was the deal of a lifetime, and he’d have to be a couple muffins short of a baker’s dozen to turn it down.

“Yeah, it could be worse, and just as an FYI, ‘shacking up’ wasn’t what I was worrying about.” He finally conceded, after a long pause. His voice was tinged with a hint of sardonicism, but on the whole, he was being completely sincere. After all, he couldn’t exactly say he was looking forward to spending another Christmas on his own, getting blackout drunk on shot after shot of vodka. While the mere thought of getting within a ten foot radius of the Cassiopeia Carrington was nearly enough to send him running for the hills, the pros far outweighed the cons. Even if he had to be her daughter’s pretend-boyfriend for five weeks, it’d be worth it.

...Maybe.

“Okay, you got me, and uh, sorry about the yelling. I have no idea where that came from.” Sheepishly, he rubbed at the nape of his neck, shoulders rising in a quick half-shrug. “Did I blow it?”

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Tatiana looked at the man as if he had lost his proverbial shit, who the hell did he think he was jumping down her throat like that? She sat there, her face going blank and for a split second that cold exterior that her adoptive mother was so famous for came forth.

The look in her eyes was as cold as being caught out in the middle of Siberia during a thousand year storm. Her fingers curled against the arms of the leather chair and her nails pierced the very hide. It wasn't the first time, taking a closer look at the chair it was obvious that there had been many times where her nails had sliced through the leather out of pent up anger.

Tatiana held her tongue though, letting him rant. She was used to rants and she wasn't exactly in a position to tell him to get the fuck out right then. She needed him, desperately. There wasn't enough time to find another lackey for this failed experiment. Least the man had balls, maybe he could handle this. If all else failed, she'd at least have some choice video to throw up on youtube for Jones.

Slowly, as he finished and asked if he had blown it, she stood up and crossed her arms; looking down on him as if she was contemplating either ripping his throat out or just tossing his ass out and leaving him to find his own way back to Toronto. His apology only made her smirk, as if she was seeing his soft under belly.

"I didn't have your Twitter account or your number numbnuts," she hissed. "And like I tell someone I've never met that I am the child of the Carringtons. So deal vith it. You're getting your fucking forvarning right now. Ve haven't left yet and you can hop a plane back if you vant at any fucking moment. No one keeping you here," she followed up in a harsh tone as leaned over and got in his face, her nose a mere breaths away from his.

Tatiana stayed there for a moment, her eyes locked with his as she studied him. If he ran, he ran. There was nothing she could do to stop him. If he stayed though, she felt this might actually work. He definitely had the back bone to deal with her family. Maybe he was just the front line defense she needed against her parents.

Straightening herself she adjusted her silken tank and the cold in her demeanour seemed to fade away. A smirk coming to her lips, the slowly grew into a smile, then a chuckle, then full out laughing as she fell back into her chair. Shaking her head she looked back over to him as she tried to calm to strange outburst of mirth.

"No, you haven't blown it. In fact I think you're just vhat I need for this. This could be start of beautiful business relationship," she said between the guffaws.

"$10,000 a veek, ve have deal?" she asked as she looked him over before locking eyes with him once again.

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Wyatt wanted to point out that he wasn’t a mind reader, that there had been no possible way for him to anticipate her lineage, but when Tatiana started on her own rant, he knew he was better off shutting up and listening. While he could more than hold his own in a barfight, this was a different matter altogether. For all his bluster, Wyatt’s bite had always been worse than his bark, and just like every other incident in the past, he still proved to be far too easily outmanoeuvred in the art of verbal jousting. Or did being a Carrington give her an unfair advantage? He wasn’t sure, but he liked to think that right now, the intricacies of debate was the least of his concerns, especially when he noticed Tatiana inching towards him.

Much like a deer caught in the headlights, he froze, though he never did let his gaze shutter away. There was a look in Tatiana’s, a curiosity that felt almost clinical, like she was searching for something in the deepest, darkest depths of his soul, assessing, but Wyatt eventually convinced himself that he was just being dramatic. Clearly, this was just her method of asserting dominance over him, though he couldn’t say it wasn’t working. A few times, he almost broke eye contact, the temptation skittering across the surface of his skin, but that would mean admitting defeat, and he’d be damned if he let any of his inner turmoil show.

When she finally backed away, however, Wyatt let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, the cigarette hanging between his fingers raised back to his lips. The stare-down might’ve only lasted a second or two, but to him, it felt close to an eternity, and he was sort of unnerved when Tatiana started to giggle away at seemingly nothing. Were all Carringtons like this? God, he hoped not. This was a little hard for him to take in, to say the least, and coming from someone like him, that was rich.

After all, it was exceedingly clear that Wyatt had never been the most upstanding member of society. It didn’t take much to send him into a tailspin, even on a regular day, but this conversation had pierced right through his defences like a hot knife through butter.

“Glad you managed to find some humour in all this.” He muttered, a little sullenly, though the corner of his mouth was quirked upwards in a wry sort of smile. For all intents and purposes, it looked as if the storm had passed, and he had to stop himself from heaving a huge sigh of relief. Maybe if he stopped sticking his foot in his mouth, things would go a lot more smoothly for him, though he highly doubted he would ever take the advice to heart.

Then, she mentioned the money, and Wyatt almost choked on his cigarette. Ten. Fucking. Grand. That was how much he earned in six months, and she wanted to pay him that per week? This couldn’t be happening, this wasn’t happening. This kind of thing just didn’t happen to people - not in real life, at least. For a few long moments, he felt like if he said anything, or even moved a muscle, he would wake up from this beautiful, beautiful dream of being offered fifty grand to go on a trip to Europe. But, as always, he couldn’t help but blurt out the first thing that came to mind.

“That’s a lot of money.” Again, it was an purely rhetorical statement. What else could be said about something of this magnitude? “Y-yeah, I mean, but... Shit, that’s a lot of money.”

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Tatiana watched him and chuckled at his reaction to the money. Sure it was a lot to most, to the Carringtons it was a drop in the ocean. Granted this money wasn't coming from any type of money that her parents had given her, this was from her own earnings. She hadn't taken a dime from them since she moved out when she was eight-teen.

She wasn't as business savvy as some of her siblings but she had talent, a good head on her shoulders and knew how to get what she wanted. Apparently some thing's in life could be learned and didn't have to be inherited genetically. She had learned some thing from her parents after all.

"Da, it's a decent amount but I told you that I would pay you vhat I made a veek per veek you stuck it out. That is vhat I make here," she stated matter-of-factly with a quick gesture of her hand.

"This is my money, I do vith it vhat I vant, I moved out at eighteen, never taken dime from them. I vant to pay someone to deal vith this vith me, it's my choice," she added as she sunk back into her seat. It was clear she didn't like the idea of having to pay someone to pretend to be close to her but in her mind she had no other choice.

If she asked anyone else, she was sure they would do it, but only in hopes of getting their hooks into her and access to the Carrington fortune. That's what all her ex's had done, they saw dollar signs and used her to try to cash in. She had been hurt a lot because of it. Least with Wyatt she knew what she was getting into. There was no pretense of giving a shit about her, he wanted the money, she needed a date.

"Congratulations Tatiana you've just hired your first gigalo, with no benefits," she thought to herself and a look of disgust came over her features for a moment before shaking it off and forcing a smile towards Wyatt. Leaning over she snatched the cigarette from him and took a long pull before handing it back.

"Sorry, know it's a lot to take in, you vant, I can have you on next flight out of city," she muttered under her breath as she looked down at the floor and shrugged slightly.

"Or I can put you up in hotel until ve leave and take you down to get some clothes fitting of someone dating a Carrington," she said sheepishly as she slowly looked back up to him.

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Wyatt listened to Tatiana, with perhaps a bit more concentration than before. The mere thought of raking in ten thousand American Dollars a week was enough to transform him into the very picture of attentiveness - brows furrowed and fingers steepled. Was he being disgustingly materialistic? Of course he was, without the tiniest inkling of doubt, but Wyatt liked to think that when presented with such a glorious opportunity, any sort of moral decency he possessed could afford to take a back seat.

It seemed almost ludicrous, the amount of money Tatiana made from her business; and the fact that she made enough to pay some random stranger from the Internet to tag along on a family vacation, even more so. He’d encountered his fair share of tattoo artists, though none of them were even close to the redhead’s level of success. It was a testament to her talent, he supposed, not many people had the rare combination of skill and business savvy. When she talked about how she never took a single cent from her filthy stinkin’ rich parents, however, Wyatt would be remiss to say that he found it a little hard to believe. She must’ve needed some help to get her business off the ground.

But while it might’ve been difficult to believe, even he had the acumen to keep his mouth shut, and so he did. In the wise words of Thumper: “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say nothing at all”.

...He should really consider following the advice of cartoon rabbits more often. His life would probably be a whole lot easier, if he did.

Suddenly, before he had any chance to react, the half-spent cigarette was snatched from his hands. He thought about protesting - cigarettes were fucking expensive, after all - but just as quickly as it’d been taken, it was returned to him, earning from him yet another eyebrow raise.

“Can’t afford your own cigarettes?” He drawled in a tone that was joking, though his expression morphed from the classic, shit-eating smirk into one of reassuring concern when Tatiana expressed her concerns about him doing a runner. Once again, his shoulders lifted in a half-hearted shrug, as he waved a hand in dismissal. “Nah, it’s cool. Don’t worry about it. I was having too much fun being a massive tool - you know how it is.”

Leaning back in his seat, he inadvertently gave Tatiana a good look at his terrible, terrible clothes, which, of course, triggered some sort of guarded insult directed at his getup.

“What? This shit’s vintage. Clearly, you don’t know a thing about high fashion.” With a disdainful sniff, and a narrowing of the eyes, Wyatt played at being offended, though he couldn’t keep up the farcical display for more than a few seconds. The thought of trying on suit after suit, however, sent a chill through his bones, and it showed in the grimace that twisted his lips. “You’re gonna make me try on clothes like a 90s makeover montage, aren’t you?”