A Jenni and Val Story
Having a Russian gangster for a boyfriend wasn't as much fun as you'd think it would be. In fact, thought Jenni from where she sat alone on the couch, sometimes it could be downright boring.
Boring, yes, and also disappointing. Jenni had been looking forward to entirely different plans tonight, plans that that did not involve watching six men—including her boyfriend, Val—play poker. Poker as a spectator sport, Jenni had discovered, was incredibly dull.
Hmm. Make that that boring, disappointing and frustrating. Jenni didn't get Val (it was short for Valentin, not Valentine; 'I am not holiday for cards and chocolate, ' he had said to her once) to herself very often, and had been really looking forward to an evening involving being naked and screaming in ecstasy while Val did wicked, sinful things to her. Instead, he had been invited to some gangster's house at the last second to hang with the big boys and she had been dragged along. At first she had thought that tonight had been a set-up, that maybe Val had planned something wonderfully perverted for her, but, no. The game tonight was just poker, not poke-her. After an hour of being treated as nothing more than a beer and chip fetcher, Jenni had retreated to the living room, where the only thing to do was sulk. Val, damn him, hadn't even apologised. Hell, she wasn't sure he'd even noticed.
Calling Val Kosvick a Russian gangster was, she knew, not really true, even if it was fun to say. He was Russian. He'd been born Valentin Kostavich Illianov in some town she couldn't pronounce and had moved to Moscow when he was eight, then emigrated to America at fourteen when his mother had married an oilfield guy from Arizona. In Jenni's opinion, he played the Russian thing up. Every second word was 'spasiba' this and 'eblivaya' that, all said with a really thick (although, admittedly, really, really sexy) accent that she knew he could turn off when he wanted to.
But he wasn't really a gangster. He drove a motorcycle and hung out with some scuzzy guys, but it's not like he went out whacking guys or beating up old ladies for protection money. he was still in his last year of high school, for Christ's sakes, (a promise he had made to his mother) and studying to be a mechanic. Gangsters did not write exams and get yelled at by the principal for smoking on school property.
But, while not a real Russian gangster, Val was definitely no choir boy (She knew several real choir boys, so she knew what she was talking about). He got in a lot of fights, and won more than he lost. Jenni was pretty sure the garage where he worked did some shady dealings, but he never talked about that and she only saw the place when it was closed. Val and his high school motor head friends (his bratans, he called them) hung out there in an empty garage bay that had been fitted out with a bunch of old bar furniture.
She spent most of her time with him there, too, but never when his bratans were there. In the corner of the 'bar bay', behind the old tables and stools, was an old dirty and stained mattress. That was where she and Val usually hung out.
In the kitchen, Val said something with his thick accent and the rest of the guys at the table (were they gangsters? bikers? stockholders in some black leather company?) all laughed. Jenni glanced up from the carpet and saw that none of them, not even Val, were looking anywhere near her. She had dressed up for tonight in a brand new red blouse that really showed off her boobs and a very short black skirt ... for absolutely nothing, it seemed. She'd forged a doctor's note to get out of class and then driven all the way to the next county just to buy this outfit. It was a lot of work to just buy clothes, but Jenni knew from hard experience that word of anything she did in town would eventually reach her father.
Jenni's father. He could never could never find out about Val, the short skirts she wore when she went to see him or, especially, the mattress in the corner of the empty bay of the garage. She was the daughter of Deacon Jason Westcott, and he used his pious morality as a shield to protect his actions and a sword to condemn any act he deemed unworthy. A man's family was a reflection of himself, he always said (something about solid pillars and roots), so any misbehaviour by a child made the father look bad. As a deacon, a pillar of the community, he absolutely could not look bad, so Jenni and all her equally imprisoned brothers and sisters, could not look bad either.
So far, Jenni had succeeded in doing just that. As far as the town and the county knew, she was the apple of her father's eye, as pure in mind and body as the white robe she wore when she sang in the church choir. She went to church every Sunday, led and participated in all the youth prayer circles, never wore any skirt above her knee and never, ever, associated with anyone her father didn't approve of.
It was a huge lie, all of it. Jenni's thoughts hadn't been pure since she'd been twelve, and her body decidedly less so since last summer, when she had chosen school bad boy Val Kosvick as the one she wanted to take her virginity. He had been her secret boyfriend ever since, keeping her identity from his friends and hers, and fucking her every way he could think of on those too few occasions when both of them could sneak away to meet.
She'd kept him a secret, too, promising her family and congregation that she would never date before she was eighteen, become involved with anyone who wasn't Christian (preferably Baptist) and, of course, that she was going to save herself for marriage.
She had even believed it, once, before she had discovered sex. it had started with accidental touches in the shower, then secret explorations in her bed at night. She had carefully asked her father—her hero, then—and been shocked by his answer of temptation, sin and damnation. To this day, Jenni couldn't understand how something that felt so good—something that God had given to Man—could be considered bad. God had made her this way, which meant that He was OK with it, and if He was, then she wasn't going to worry about it anymore than that.
Either that, or her father and everything he believed in was a complete bag of shit. She was OK with that, too.
None of that mattered now, because, with Val, she could be herself. None of the gangsters—or whatever they were—went to her church or knew who her father was. And, even if they did, she didn't think it would have mattered. The few times anyone had looked at her tonight, they had been staring at either her boobs or ass, not her face.
It gave her a thrill to have men stare at her like that. When a man undressed her with eyes, it made her feel important and powerful. Maybe it wasn't modern, moral, or progressive, but Jenni didn't care. It was fun, it was sexy, she liked it, and that was all that mattered.
And, it made being ignored like she was right now even more frustrating.
"You're Val's girlfriend, right?" someone asked. "The one he never talks about?"
Jenni turned and saw another woman, a brunette a few years older than herself, probably college age. She was pretty, Jenni thought, but not as pretty as she was. She had blue eyes and that kind of kinky, curly hair that Jenni couldn't grow herself. She was wearing tight jeans, cowboy boots, and a man's flannel shirt worn open over a tank. She was small in the chest but made up for it with an impish smile and eyes that sparkled with mischief.
Jenni smiled, grateful for someone to talk to. "I'm sorry, what?"
The woman sat down across from her. "You came in with Val, right? You're his girlfriend?"
Her first instinct was to say no, to not take the chance that the deacon's daughter might be connected to the Russian gangster's girlfriend, but she stopped herself. It was a reflex, a bad reflex, and she was tired of it.
"Yes, I am."
"I'm Rachel," the brunette said.
"Hi. I'm Jenni." She tilted her head. "What do you mean Val never talks about me? Do you know him?"
Rachel smiled. "He's friends with my boyfriend, Zane, so I see him sometimes. He's asked me some questions about what girls like and stuff like that, but he always clams up when I ask him who he's seeing. All he ever says it that it is a secret."
Jenni's smile froze. She couldn't think about knowing that Val not only asked advice about what she did and did not like, or that he seemed to be honouring his promise to keep her secret, even to people unlikely to know or care who she was. That was nice, but it didn't matter, because this woman was Zane's girlfriend. She was talking to Zane's girlfriend.
Jenni knew Zane, kind of. Before tonight, he had been the only one of Val's friends that she had met as his girlfriend. The question of whether her secret was safe with him had never entered the picture, because they hadn't really talked. All they'd done was have sex.
On the list of deliciously dirty things that Jenni had done since meeting Val, this had been the dirtiest. During pillow talk a few months ago, she and Val had talked about some of the things that they fantasized about when they weren't together. Jenni had made up some vanilla fantasy that she had read in a romance novel, but somehow Val had known she was lying. He had badgered her until she told him one of her real fantasies, one of ones that she had never dared share before, not with him or with anyone.
.... There is more of this story ...