Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 1

screaming at him, entrances to nightclubs, bars, and restaurants, and seethed.
    He arrived at the hotel suite reserved for him by his father around five p.m. local time, jet-lagged and exhausted. He found the room was the best the hotel had to offer, but the bar was empty here, too. On the desk by the giant French window sat a lone sheet of paper with a message from his father— on the Embassy stationery, neatly typed up, of course. It greeted him with all the warmth of a Siberian winter and kindly informed him that his psychologist appointment was tomorrow at seven-thirty a.m. sharp, and non-attendance would bring on grave consequences. Cam crumpled it and threw it in a corner.
    That very evening, he tried to sneak out. It proved a little more difficult than he anticipated. He stuck his head out the door only to see two black-clad figures with grave faces pacing the hall, trying to look nonchalant but failing. Cam shut the door and cursed under his breath. He hoped his dad would be above actually putting up guards outside his room, but apparently Cam had gotten him angry enough.
    Well, well, he thought furiously. He doesn't know what he's up against.
    With a sigh, he took off his fashionably ripped denim jacket and stretched his arms. He worked out with a trainer several times a week, and he considered himself fit. He was sure he would manage something so simple.
    Normally, he would never try a stunt like this. But his indignation and anger made him daring.
    He slid the window open and stepped out onto the little balcony. Immediately he hesitated— the sight of a ten-story drop made his head spin. But then again, he didn't need to climb down all that. All he needed was to get on a balcony outside a room where someone would let him through.
    It didn't occur to him at the time how exactly he intended to get back in. But he was determined. His father would not have the last word. He would not lock Cam up like he was some raving lunatic.
    He leaned over the edge of the balcony. This should be a piece of cake, he thought. He threw his leg over the railing, and immediately hesitated. Suddenly his palms became damp as he gripped the bars. He climbed outside the railing, balancing himself on his toes on a ledge of no more than a few inches. He held on to the elaborate baroque-style bars as he felt the emptiness below him with his foot, trying to find the edge of the balcony below him. His foot dangled in nothingness, and when he tried to look over his shoulder all he could see was the street below, full of blinking lights and roaring cars. He was overcome with the sensation that his hands were about to slip, and held on for dear life, paralyzed with fear.
    Cam wasn't sure for how long he hung there like this. He debated yelling for help, but realized it was unlikely anyone would hear him. Inwardly he cursed himself with every word he could think of, wondering if maybe his dad had a point.
    Next thing he knew, out of nowhere, someone grabbed on to his ankle and yanked. Seized with terror, Cam held on to the bars of the railing and kicked out blindly with all the strength he could muster. He heard laughter from below, and voices, male and female. He listened and realized they were speaking in Russian, but by the sound of it they were quite drunk.
    "Help!" he hollered.
    Another explosion of laughter followed, and Cam felt someone take his foot and guide it to— thank God!— a solid surface. He balanced his weight on it while his other foot found the railing. As carefully as he could, he lowered himself until the balcony below came into view.
    He almost let go of the railing in surprise. He found himself face to face with a guy with blond cherubic curls and bright blue eyes, clad in a skin-tight rhinestoned T-shirt and with a massive gold chain around his neck. The guy eyed him curiously. Cam stared back, slack-jawed.
    The guy said something in Russian and laughed. Other voices echoed, and Cam finally noticed the five or six other people gathered behind him, tall, modelesque girls and muscular, tanned guys, all of them decked out to excess just like the blond guy.
    The blond guy repeated the unfamiliar words again, and Cam only shook his head.
    "Sorry," he said, feeling stupid. "English?"
    Blondie exchanged a glance with a sequin-clad girl behind him and laughed.
    "Get down from there," he said, in more than decent English— with a kind of British intonation to it and yet with an unmistakably Slavic accent.
    Cam remembered