60

Oleg
I don’t have a way to get home. I could text one of the guys in my cell, but it’s almost four in the morning.
I could use a ride-sharing app, but it would mean interacting with another person-something I loathe. I decide to walk. It’s only a few miles. It’s freezing out, but I’m from Russia. Cold doesn’t bother me, especially when I could use the temperature to cool down after what just happened.
Story’s vanilla-sweet scent still lingers on my shirt.
I zip my leather jacket and shove my hands in my pockets. My mind is still filled with images of Story getting off under my hands. It was the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen. Like that first hit of a drug, I’m now utterly addicted. I don’t know how I’ll wait a full week to see her again. How I’ll settle for just watching now that I’ve touched her.
But I’m not stupid enough to think I can have Story.
Keep Story.
I am a man with a very dangerous past. A past that could catch up with him at any time. One that would hurt the people I’ve come to care about-my bratva brothers-and will likely mean the end of my life.
I’m not safe for Story, even if I was lucky enough for her to want someone as broken as I am.
I back the memories up to the moment I got in the van with her, wanting to replay every minute we were together. The indulgence costs me.
Dearly.
Because I don’t notice anyone else around.
Pain explodes on the back of my head as I’m clubbed from behind. A bag gets pulled over my face as I topple forward, landing heavily on one knee. I try to rip it off, to see my attackers, but the blow to my skull disorients me, and I tumble to my side before I yank it away.
The cold metal of a gun presses against my temple. “Don’t move.” The words are Russian.
Blyad’.
They found me.
I always knew this day would come. I knew it, but to have it happen tonight-the night I got to watch my little lastochka come-makes it a special torture. The night I’m given a burning reason to live.
“Get up,” a different voice rasps.
“You want him not to move or to get up?” a third voice argues. “He doesn’t look that smart. Why confuse the guy?”
Yeah, every mudak thinks he’s a comedian.
Several thoughts snap together in my brain. If they wanted me dead-if they worked for Skal’pel’-I’d already be dead. So that means these idiots work for someone who’s after Skal’pel’. Someone who wants what’s in my head. Which means they have orders to take me alive.
The crack I took to the skull makes it hard to focus, but I’m a big guy. I can still throw my weight. I stand, launching myself backward into the guy holding the gun. As I predicted, he doesn’t shoot.
I knock him on his back, my weight landing square in his middle. His gun arm splays out to the side, but I miss snatching the pistol before it clatters to the ground out of reach.
I rip the hood off my head and turn to punch him in the face to make sure he stays down then go for the gun. Too late-it has already been scooped up by Mudak #2.
“Shoot him in the kneecap!” Mudak #3-the comedian-suggests. These guys would never make it anywhere in Ravil’s cell. They lack the organization and discipline of bratva. And intelligence.
Mudak #2 does try to shoot me in the fucking knee. My fist hits his throat at the same time he pulls the trigger. The bullet grazes my leg. At least I hope that’s just a graze. I feel a burning line all along my outer thigh.
The gun clatters to the ground.
Lights come on from the windows in the buildings all around us. Someone shouts down that he’s called the police.
“What in the fuck are you doing?” Mudak #1 is conscious again. “You’re not supposed to shoot him.”
I’m still trying to get to the gun-a mistake-when I feel a sharp jab to the back of my neck.
A fucking needle!
They tranqued me. I have to work fast. I spin and backhand Mudak #1 in the temple. He staggers, and I punch his mouth with my left fist, then his nose with my right, then his jaw with the left again, and he’s down.
The world is already starting to spin. I can’t tell if it’s because of the head injury or the drugs or both. I have to get away before I black out.
I forget about the gun and my aspirations of eliminating these guys. The cops are on their way, and there’re a few dozen witnesses looking through their windows now. The two upright assholes try to wrestle me to the ground at the same time, which gives me the advantage. I hook the throat of one of them with my hand and spin him around to knock the head with the other guy. Four more punches, and they’re on the sidewalk.
My vision’s fading around the edges. I stagger, limp-running in the direction of Story’s building. I won’t make it, though. I just need to find a place to hide before I pass out. Before the cops arrive.
Are those sirens?
My vision has streaks in it. I can’t focus. I stumble and fall against something. A car.
No, a van.
Fuck, it’s the van. Could it be Story’s van?
I fumble with the back door, but my fingers don’t work.
Or maybe it’s because it’s locked.
No, my fingers work now. The door opens. I was an idiot for not making sure it was locked when we got here. The inside is packed with amps and speakers. The sound system. Story’s guitar. I don’t even know how it’s possible I found the van.
The miracle that it would be unlocked. There’s no room-especially not for a big guy like me, but I climb in anyway.
I’m not sure if I make it all the way in. I definitely don’t get the door closed. I pass out, face down over the speakers, my head splitting with pain.
Story
I dream I’m onstage at Rue’s. Oleg’s watching me from his usual table in front of the stage. I’m performing for everyone, but his attention is the fuel behind my act. He gives me courage to be crazy-go big. I feel more like myself under his watchful gaze. The noise of the crowd fades away, and I come alive. I can be more of myself.
Only this time, something happens. A bunch of girls come up on stage and distract my brother in the middle of the set. I’m pissed at him for being such a man-whore and letting his womanizing get in the way of the band. I’m pissed enough that I shove the mic back on the stand and flip everyone off.
The audience gets crazy, yelling at me to go on. Or maybe they’re yelling at Flynn, I can’t tell. All of it pisses me off.
And then Oleg’s there at the front of the stage. He lifts his arms, and I jump, trusting he’ll catch me. His large hands span my waist, and he easily lifts me down to the floor, then he takes my guitar from me, tosses me over his shoulder, and smacks my ass as he walks out the door.
I wake up, a naughty-girl smile curling my lips.
Oleg did that. Last night.
He threw me over his shoulder and smacked my ass. Then put me to bed.
Why does that memory get me even more wet than the orgasm he gave me? There was also the way he shoved me against the door and palmed my pussy like he owned it.
Oleg has a dommy side. My large guy is larger-than-life in bed, too. Maybe it’s his way of speaking. If you’d asked me yesterday what I liked, I never in a million years would’ve named that. I date musicians. Artists. Soft, articulate boys who smoke pot and philosophize about the environment and social justice. Things I care about, too.
I date guys who are like myself. Or like my younger, not-so-little brother. It’s a familiar type. Guys who seem to fit with me. With my friends. With my bohemian lifestyle.
Not guys like Oleg. Never giant, tattooed, Russian men with chivalrous, but extremely dominant manners.
But I freaking loved the way he touched me.
I’m embarrassed that I tried to get him to have sex with me and peeved he refused.
And I’m also kind of mad he didn’t leave his number or ask for mine.
But he’ll be there next week.
I know it with certainty. He’s been there every week for the last year. And he comes for me.
And all these thoughts about Oleg still don’t negate my saddest one-now that we’ve started down this path, we’re on the road to the end. Because that’s how things roll for me. I don’t do long-term relationships. I don’t like to rely on people because I’ve learned through experience, they always let me down. My parents loved me-deeply-but I sure as hell couldn’t count on either one of them to ever be there for me when I needed them. My mom was always a hot mess, and my dad was often swept away with partying and women-same as Flynn, now. I won’t
I get out of bed, happy to discover I’m not the slightest bit hungover.
I should shower and eat breakfast, but all I want to do is get my guitar. Oleg tickled my muse, and I need to play. Maybe actually compose for once. It’s been eighteen months since I’ve written an original song.
I pull on a pair of pajama pants and boots and throw a jacket over the top I’m still wearing from last night. The keys to the band’s van are right by the door because Oleg is a freaking prince.
I leave my door unlocked and trot down the stairs and out the front door.
The March morning air is frigid, and I yank my jacket closed as I look around for the van. I find it a half-block down. When I get to it, though, I gasp. My heart starts pounding with a surge of adrenalin.
Oh God.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Some fucking asshole has broken into the van. The back gate is slightly ajar! All our sound equipment was in there. And my guitar! Flynn will freak out. I’m freaking out.
Cringing, I swing the door open.
And gasp a second time.
“Oleg?”
Oh my God. Oleg is face down over the equipment. One of his pant legs is soaked with blood. Holy shit-is he dead?
I touch his ankle and find his skin cold. Christ, he could have frozen to death last night.
Did he?
I throw myself inside and tug at his massive body, pulling his arm and trying to move him.
He stirs.
“Oh thank God. I thought you were dead. Oleg?”
He barely lifts his head, groans. I’m not sure he even recognizes me.
“Oh my God. What happened to you? I need to get you to a hospital.”
That seems to rouse him because he instantly surges up, hitting his head on the top of the van. He groans and drops it into both his hands, sitting on a speaker.
“Come on, I’ll drive you to a hospital.”
He grunts this time and shakes his head no.
“No? You don’t want to go?”
A very emphatic no because his bloodshot eyes meet mine and hold. I mean, it couldn’t be clearer. He doesn’t want to go to a hospital.
“Why not? Are you… an illegal? Are you afraid of being deported?”
He shakes his head again and lurches forward, stumbling down out of the van. He drops to one knee and then on his side to one shoulder in pain.
“Oleg, you’re bleeding. I don’t know how much you’ve already lost. I need to get you help.”
No.