Naomi & Bradley, Reality Shows... (Vodka & Vice, the Series Book 3) by Angela Conrad, Kathleen Hesser Skrzypczak Page B

truth.”
    “This isn’t truth, it’s bullshit.  How did you even get this?”
    On screen, Viktor’s body covers Naomi’s.  She thrashes under him.  Is it passion or resistance?  Then Viktor kisses her like he’s trying to give her a tonsillectomy and her body relaxes.  He takes her face in his hands and I finally see a little smile cross her lips and then the screen goes to black and so does my mood.
     



Chapter Twenty-One
Snuck out, struck out
     
     
    NAOMI
    Friday, April 29th to Saturday April 30th
     
     
    I take a cab over to my new home, a small walkup off 2nd Ave. Upper East Side.  Marlene McAllister came through with a temporary rental flat for me.  It’s owned by an elderly society dame who’s traveling in Europe and likes to have her property taken care of while she’s gone.  It’s 800 square feet of silence and even better, a Slotzky-free zone.  If Mr. Slotzky imagines he could force me to live in that pigsty with his family, then he’s mistaken.  I’d heard my last Russian songfest, cleaned up my final table of ashtrays and booze, and washed my last glass.
    I’m so furious with that family, especially Viktor’s personal betrayal, posing me in a sexually enticing position to please his devil of a father, and to gain a stupid distillery?  The damn asshat!  A few weeks ago I thought we were friends.  Now I see he’s been using me all along.  He arranged our first meeting, moved in and played my Svengali, bought me presents, arranged my bohemian look with clothes, jewelry and hair styles, he created the ‘new’ Naomi to his liking.  Even then, Viktor had an agenda of breaking Bradley and I up so I’d be easier to manage in their building renovation deal.  And I assumed he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.  Now he’s making me look awfully dull.  Viktor should have stayed in acting; he’s a master at manipulating me.  I’m ashamed of myself too because not only did I let him, but I also had sex with the sleaze ball.  The thought of it disgusts me.
    I’m so happy to escape that white loft, home to my parents’ misery and damaged marriage, with every room full of terrible memories.  I love living somewhere new, free from reminders of Molly at my kitchen table back in early February.  I want to distance myself from everything in the past.  I need a new beginning.  Bradley and I both do.
    That next morning, it wasn’t even difficult for me to sneak out in the early hours, rolling three suitcases behind me; the loft sang with the deafening sounds of drunken snoring. 
    I am hiding out until Bradley returns.  No way am I leaving myself open to any more of the Slotzky games.  It feels good to breathe in fresh air without choking on cigarette smoke.  It’s wonderful to skip up a few steps and avoid the elevator I’ve hated all of my life.  I’m feeling better than I have in months.
    Only one dark cloud hangs over me. 
    The video.
    What will Bradley think?  Will he believe I’m cheating on him a few days after he’d come back to see me?  No!  Stop thinking that.  Everything is fine.
    I remember our talk about a sign, a signal and I regret that I didn’t catch on sooner to the Slotzky plot; I wish I had pulled my ear, fought Viktor harder, something.
    My new closet-sized apartment is furnished with authentic Chippendale cabinetry.  The antique quality has me uneasy, I feel like a child playing in grandmother’s priceless suite.  The chairs are Georgian with splat-backs and claw-and ball feet, and the upholstery cushions are comfy, with down-filled pillows flying French tags.  The apartment has actual draperies, with tieback cords woven with golden threads.  It has a museum feeling but it’s still homier than my mother’s sterile white tastes.  It has a television, a small 21” screen, and on Friday night I get ready to watch the Model House show.
    I’m not much of a prayer, but I hope Mr. Slotzky was bluffing about the video.
    The show starts