Apartment 8 Has A Golden Ticket

A sequel to "Apartment 7 Has A Golden Ticket"

*****

Sunday morning...

There were very few things in life that surprised Vasily anymore, and fewer things that got a rise out of him. Snow in June, zombies on bicycles, flying pigs...none of those would give him pause. If you Googled the words "rock" and "poker-face" you would likely see his stoically monkish -albeit broodingly handsome- mug pop up on your screen.

He once won $1000 answering a call for a random dial-up morning radio show contest.

"Goooood morning, Vasily...Vasily...oh jeez...Nesyvy-vy...Nesyavati...?" The host sprained his tongue trying to pronounce his name over the phone.

"Nesyvyatipaska," Vasily said.

"Hey, yeah, buddy! None for me, thanks. I'm driving!"

"What is you want?"

"This is Chuck and Buck On The Air and you're our $1000 wake up call!"

"What?" Vasily asked with a thud.

"You've just won a thousand bucks...but not Chucks! What do you think of that? Better than a morning shower, huh?"

Five seconds of dead air later, Chuck -or maybe Buck- chimed in, "Vasily? You still there, guy? Don't make us say your name again! It hurts the ears of all the dogs that are listening."

"I come now."

"Uh...okay," the host stammered, "Your excitement is just...it's like a brick, Vasily. Amazing. So how about telling everyone what's your favourite morning show..."

Click. Vasily hung up the phone and was at the radio station within twenty minutes to pick up his cheque. He cashed it at the bank next door, bought a breakfast sandwich at the cafe next to that, then went home and back to bed.

Nothing ruffled the furry face of the Ukrainian ex-pat. Nothing.

Yet this Sunday morning, he had managed to surprise himself. This morning he stood motionless in the middle of his apartment floor, arms folded across his broad chest, clutching a bottle of aromatherapy oil in one of his granite paws, with his bushy brown brows pinching heavily downward between his eyes as he punched a hole in his front door with his stare. The curious club-bouncer stance wasn't what was surprising. It was the stare that was the most telling.

Vasily was bothered. He was bothered a lot. Nothing ever bothered Vasily.

The subject of his consternation was on the other side of his apartment door, across the hall, and through the peephole of Apartment Eight.

Where was she?

* * * * *

The past Monday evening...

Carie walked down the corridor of her apartment building, a bag of take-out sushi dangling from her teeth, as she dug around in her purse for her apartment keys. By the time she reached her door, she was still rummaging through it to no avail.

"Goddammit," she hissed through her teeth as she flipped back her long, dark hair.

"You."

Carie turned and jumped, her back bumping against her door. "Shit!" The bag of sushi dropped out of her mouth to the floor, maki rolls tumbling onto the carpet. Swallowing her heart back down into her stomach, she gasped, "Jesus Christ! Vasily! What the hell?!"

Her neighbour in Apartment Seven across the hall stood in his doorway, filling it with his blocky frame. Wearing plaid pyjama pants and a stretched out tank-top, Vasily glared at her, unmoved by her look of shock.

"Where is tee-kit?" he asked.

"What?" Carie replied, her eyebrows twisting together.

"Is Monday," Vasily continued.

Carie nodded. "Yes it is," she replied, still in bewildered-mode, "Did CNN tell you that?"

"It's been over two weeks since you received it."

Carie closed her eyes and shook her head. "'It'? What are you...?" She paused, her mouth rounding open just as her eyes did. "Oh. Ohh! The ticket."

Vasily stood quietly, waiting.

Carie rolled her eyes to the side. "You remember writing that? It was like a message written by someone who had just been hit over the head with a hammer." She immediately winced, realizing that probably came across as kind of insulting. "Sorry," she said with a sheepish shrug.

"I am ready," Vasily said, filtering out her comments about his writing skills, "You want to redeem now?"

"Now? I just got home from work."

"Perfect," he said, clapping his hands like two steaks slapping together. "I make you relax with Vasily massage."

"I haven't had any dinner," she replied, bending down to pick up the bag and scoop sushi off of the floor. She peered into it -rice and raw fish in a jumbled mess- and sighed, "I don't have any dinner."

"Good." Vasily nodded curtly towards her door. "Go get tee-kit then come back."

"You mean I still have to get the stupid ticket?" Carie dropped her arms, perplexed.

He looked back at her very matter-of-factly. "Of course," he replied. The he disappeared into his department closing the door behind him.

Carie stood in the corridor, still holding her bags, gazing at his closed door. She shook her head and smirked. "I never should have let him into my apartment," she sighed. Then from somewhere deep behind her tired chest, a hearty giggle came forth. "Yes, as if letting him into the apartment was where you drew the line with him," she thought to herself.

Damn what a silly, strange, scruffy man...and a brilliant fuck, she couldn't deny it. Behind that stoic veneer was a very driven and determined young stud when given the proper motivation. Carie was a decent incentive if she did say so herself.

"You are totally hopeless, Carie," she mused.

Once in her apartment, she scampered to her bedroom and changed into her black and pink, short kimono robe. She found the makeshift ticket for Vasily's Lounge where she had left it a week ago after receiving it, on her nightstand beside a used up ticket for Chez Carie.

She wasn't sure why she had waited to "redeem" it...or maybe she just didn't want to admit to herself how much of a tease she could be some times. Well, it had taken Vasily long enough to notice her, that's for sure. It was the big lug's turn to wait on his heels for a little while.

A quick stop in the bathroom to brush the life and silky shine back into her hair and pinch some rose into her cheeks and she was at Vasily's front door within ten minutes. She gave it a whimsical rap of her knuckles.

Vasily opened the door. The aquatic hues of his blue eyes still looked as impassive as ever.

Carie smiled and did a little playful curtsy with the skirt of her robe. "I am here for my complimentary massage, m'sieu."

He held out his large palm.

"But of course," Carie replied. She reached into the pocket of her robe and handed him the post-it note "ticket" with Vasily's hand-scrawled advertisement: "Come to Vasily's Lounge. Only deal for woman in apartment eight. Ticket is good for six massages generously for free. Big hands. Big everything! Try Vasily's Special. You come 24/7 including Christmas. We make satisfaction for sure!"

Vasily stepped aside as he took the ticket from her and stuffed it into his pocket.

Carie walked by him. She couldn't deny that she was a little giddy entering Vasily's apartment for the first time. That balloon of anticipation was popped the moment she stepped onto an empty water-bottle, the plastic crunching and wrapping beneath her heel. The glimmer in her slender dark-brown eyes dimmed with the frown that fell over them as she quickly scanned the interior of his apartment.

"Holy hell," she murmured, unable to hide her astonishment. "When did the bomb drop?"

She had been expecting a young bachelor's pad; perhaps a bit spartan, a bit lacking in refinement with a jumbo screen television as the centre-piece of the decor, and maybe a few magazines and clothes laying around with last night's dinner still in the sink.

What she had just stepped into though...she didn't want to say it, but she did. "This is like a war zone."

It was almost an indescribable mess in Vasily's apartment. Wall-to-wall litter on the floor, spaghetti and meatballs-like wires and dismantled electronics on every counter and seat, a small fort of books and magazines and CD and DVD cases by the window...it was endless. Carie didn't even want to turn her head to look into the kitchen; the foul whiff of air made her think better of it.

Vasily was a little rough around the edges, true, but it added to his rugged allure. This was like steel wool being dragged across her eyes, however.

Carie shook the bottle off of her foot. "Vasily, why is it so messy in here?" she asked as gently as she could.

Vasily looked around as if he were watching a pachinko board, then back down at her. He said nothing.

Anxiously, Carie asked, "Do you ever clean your place?"

He shrugged his broad, tattooed shoulders. "I clean."

"I meant this decade?" Carie snapped. She waved her hand around towards the enclosed dump. "It's such a...I don't know where to begin!"

Vasily remained still but an ebb of concern started to seep to the surface of his face.

Swiftly Carie looked back and forth toward the apartment and up at the stoic man standing beside her. Her stomach gurgled. She suddenly remembered that she hadn't had any dinner and now she was really, really hungry. Finally, feeling deflated, she tightened the sash of her robe and proceeded to walk back out into the hallway.

"You go?" Vasily asked, confused.

"I go," Carie grumbled. She turned on her heel to face him and held out her hand.

Vasily stared at her.

Carie tilted her head slightly, arched her brows upward, pursed her small pink lips and gave him an insistent bob of her palm in front of his face. "Tee-kit?"

Hesitantly, he reached into his pocket and produced the ticket. She snapped it from him.

Carie stepped backwards, waving the little piece of paper in her fingers. She pushed open her apartment door and stepped inside, still looking back at him. "Word of advice: Next time, be a bit more prepared when you ask young women of certain finesse over to your place, okay?" She slipped the ticket under the collar of her robe, beneath her breast pocket.

Vasily's mouth hung slightly ajar, his squared, stubbly jaw shifting to the left.

"Good night, Boris," Carie said and then shut her door.

* * * * *

Sunday morning...

Vasily stared at his door for a few minutes longer then checked his watch and sighed. She wasn't late; he was early. A frown twitched onto his face and he finally relaxed and put aside the bottle of oil. He did another check of his apartment; everything looked okay. He sniffed the air; no pervasive odours. Checking himself in a mirror, he rubbed his fingers across his clean shaven jaw and through the short crop of hair on his head. He looked presentable, acceptable.

Grabbing a banana from his kitchen counter, he chewed on it as he went to his apartment door and peeked through the peep-hole; Apartment Eight's door remained shut. After a minute, he shook his head. He wasn't annoyed that she wasn't coming out, yet. No, he was annoyed with himself.

Going back to the thing about him rarely even being surprised, it seemed like over the past couple of months, it was happening a lot...and he was causing it himself.

Starting back when he found that post-it note on his door, that "Golden Ticket", he didn't know why he didn't just throw it in the recycling bin along with the rest of the junk mail. He knew who it was from. It was from her, the young woman in Apartment Eight.

Ever since he moved into the place, he hadn't really paid much attention to her. Sure she was cute and he could have been pressed into admitting that she was attractive. But she was so petite and slender and so...delicate. It was an inherent bias he held towards Asian girls. He was used to associating with women made of heartier and sturdier stuff, women who could handle his tendency not to be so...delicate.

She was also very cheerful and chatty, like a bird on his window sill in the morning chirping away endlessly. No matter how often he would brush it away, it would just come back even more chipper and somewhat feisty. It puzzled him. Bears usually weren't so preoccupied with little birds flitting about.

Then the next thing he knew, he was actually walking across to her apartment, ready to present his Golden Ticket in exchange for a promised shave at Chez Carie. Part of him was fully expecting her to just laugh in his face and he was already scolding himself for falling for her little joke as he knocked on her door. Yet, she let him in...and she shaved him...with her pink razor.

The first time was out of necessity; he had a meeting with a client that day and had run out razors. Yet he couldn't explain to himself why he had gone back again and again, just as he couldn't explain why she would so dutifully shave him again and again.

He found himself almost reluctant to hand the ticket over again for the sixth time, the last time, one Sunday morning. It was the start of a series of surprises that quickly escalated and relentlessly caught him off guard: seeing her in that short kimono and colourful leggings, the immediate stir that caused within him, her methodical motions and look of intense concentration as she shaved his head with the electric clippers, then the way she sculpted the shaving foam on his face before slicing it off with confident strokes of the straight razor. It was so invigorating watching her do this, moving so close to him, her sweet flowery scent around him.

His hand dropping and brushing against her bare thigh was an unconscious act, he truly believed that. To be clear, she actually made the first move, almost climbing on top of him to shave him; his response was definitely reactionary to her unpredictable manoeuvring. What happened immediately after that was much, much more deliberate but no less unexpected. Before he had crossed the threshold into her apartment that morning, he really had no idea that they would end up having an exhausting screw-fest before lunch.

Topping it all off? The little bird took the bear's best...and she gave it back to him, relentless, feisty. There was nothing subtle about their heated session in her apartment and, to his surprise and explosive satisfaction, Carie wasn't nearly as delicate as he thought she would be.

He had really enjoyed the way she said, "Fuck."

Vasily leaned away from the peep hole and grimaced. He felt flush around his neck, all over, in fact.

He checked his watch again. He had time for a quick, cold shower.

* * * * *

The past Tuesday evening...

Carie walked down the corridor of her apartment building this time with her keys hooked around her middle finger and a plastic bag of fried chicken and coleslaw hanging around her wrist. As she approached her door, she heard a loud bang behind the door of Apartment Seven. It didn't make her jump but the rustling and the scuffling noises that ensued, punctuated by some grunts and what sounded like grumbling curses, piqued her curiosity enough that she had to pause and lean in for a good listen.

Suddenly, the door opened and some junk fell at her feet. Carie did a quick-step backwards on her high heels as an empty can rolled towards her.

Vasily grumbled like a hungry wolf. He emerged from the door, his long arms overloaded with bags and boxes and what looked like half the contents of his home. He used his brick-like chin to steady a stack of magazines tucked underneath.

She leaned back against her door and crossed her arms. She smiled and asked, "Rummage sale?"

"Cleaning," he grunted.

Carie nodded. "Good for you. Do you need a hand?"

"Nee."

"Knee? You need a knee?"

"Nee. Is 'no'."

"'Nee' is 'no'? Ah! Is 'no'!" Carie coughed back a chuckle behind her smiling lips. She said, "Oh nee nee, I insist." She bent down and daintily picked up a can with two fingers. Leaning on the toes of one foot, she placed the can on the top of the stack of magazines, right by Vasily's nose.

Vasily said nothing. Instead he turned carefully and baby-shuffled his way down the corridor; likely it was one of many trips he was making to the apartment garbage chute. As he ambled away, he reminded Carie of those circus dogs balancing on the balls on their hind legs. She did admire the little wiggle of his strapping behind, though; dogs wished they looked so good in denim pants.

"I guess no massage tonight, either," she commented to herself. She went into her apartment. The chicken smelled really good.

* * * * *

The past Wednesday night...

Carie put the leftovers of her dinner in the fridge. She knew she shouldn't have ordered the burrito with double-meat, but she was just so damn hungry at the time and her inner carnivore needed to be satiated. As she threw back another shot of tequila she heard a knock on her door, like a ham thumping on the wood. She swallowed hard, the alcohol burning her throat, and rolled her eyes.

Not bothering with the peephole, she opened the door and was greeted by the looming shadow of Vasily.

"Yes? May I help you?" Carie asked, leaning against the door frame; she felt a bit tipsy.

"You are free now?"

"Maybe," she replied with an indifferent shrug. "Is your apartment clean?"

The big man noticeably paused, his eyes trailing off to the side momentarily. He looked back at her, "Yes. Clean."

Carie's long lashes pulled together, darkening her eyes to narrow slits. She stared at him for a few seconds but then gave up. Getting him to sweat from her glare was probably asking too much; can't get perspiration from a statue.

"Okay," she finally sighed.

"You bring..."

"Yes, yes. I'll go get the ticket." Carie gave her head an exaggerated nod. It didn't help the alcohol-induced swirlies she was experiencing.

Within a couple of minutes, she was passing through the door into Apartment Seven again. Standing in the foyer she did a quick check of the surroundings and whistled. The apartment was practically laid bare, as if some black-hole had opened up and sucked everything away. All that was left was a sofa, a cheap wooden coffee table and, of course, a jumbo screen television and entertainment unit. It was likely everything he had arrived with when he had first moved into the apartment a few months ago.

"That's some major excavation you managed to pull off, Vasily," she commented.

"Do you have tee-kit?"

Carie handed him the massage ticket. Still gazing into the apartment, she twisted her lips aside and frowned. "So," she mused aloud, "Where am I to receive service?"

Vasily paused then said, "Bedroom?"

"Uh...no," she said flatly. She looked up at him with a discerning eye, considered his rather unfazed expression, and asked, "I am getting an actual massage, aren't I? That's why I'm here?"

Once more, Vasily's blue eyes withdrew toward an empty corner as he thought. Just as quickly he looked back at Carie and nodded. "Of course," he offered, his hand gesturing toward the sofa, "There."

Carie hesitated and then finally made her way to the sofa, a grudging drag in her step, Vasily following close behind.

They stood in front of the sofa, facing one another.

Carie waved her hands indifferently. "Should I lie down or what?"

Again, Vasily gestured for her to have a seat.

With a heavy sigh, Carie plopped herself down onto the sofa. As Vasily sat down beside her, she turned away and pulled her long hair over her shoulder across her front, exposing her neck and back.

"You want to take off shirt?" Vasily asked. He had already suffered a small disappointment when she came over still dressed in her work attire.

"Not really," Carie remarked.

With her back towards him and motionless, Vasily allowed a puzzled expression to draw itself on his face. After a long moment, he placed his hands on the back of her shoulders and started kneading. It actually felt kind of nice pushing her soft skin beneath her blouse, but he'd be lying if he said that this what he was expecting to be doing tonight with her.

Somehow, Carie sensed that. As his heavy hands massaged her, she couldn't relax. She grimaced and winced as if someone were prodding her with a broom handle, her body swaying and pushing this way and that without any soothing rhythm.