62

Oleg
I wake not sure how long I’ve been out. I shove the covers off and attempt to sit up. I wait until the room stops spinning and my stomach stops lurching before I focus and look around. I’m naked, but there’s a gauze bandage taped to my leg, covering the bullet wound, and my clothes are folded neatly on a chair. Story must’ve dressed my wound and washed the clothes for me at some point. I pull on my t-shirt, almost falling to the floor in agony when the neckhole passes over the bruise on my head. I take my time putting on my boxer briefs, not trusting myself to stand yet.
I’m guessing I’ve been out of it for at least twenty-four hours, considering I woke during the night, and now it’s light again. And it was morning when Story found me. I think.
Story. She’s been in and out of the room, bringing me more ibuprofen and juice. I have a vague recollection of her lying beside me during the night, but that could’ve just been a fantasy. Every time I woke, the usual adrenaline pumped through my veins, my normal agitation of existence revved up, but then I remembered where I was-not in prison, not in my own room, but in Story’s apartment, and the noisiest place inside me quieted.
Being near my little lastochka-my swallow-soothes a lifetime of struggle.
I know it won’t last. I know I can’t remain here forever. I need to figure out who’s after me and what they want. Eliminate them.
I smashed my phone thinking they might have put a tracker in it although in my more lucid moments, I realize they aren’t that sophisticated. They’re not like my pakhan Ravil’s bratva cell. I highly doubt they have someone like Dima who can hack anything. Or a Fixer like Maxim. They didn’t seem organized or high-tech.
They are idiot criminals unprepared for the job they were sent to do.
I’m not dumb enough to think whoever sent them won’t rectify his mistake the next time, though. And that brings on sharp realization.
Those guys were waiting for me. Which means they might know where Story lives.
No… maybe not. They would’ve been waiting outside the door.
The van.
They must’ve followed the van. My brain is so fucking fuzzy it’s hard to think this through. Maybe they got behind in traffic, but then spotted it again after I’d parked?
That has to be it.
I lunge off the bed, a hoarse cry coming out of my throat. Fuck. I hate it when I make noise.
Story runs from her small living area and meets me at the doorway to the bedroom. She’s barefoot, looking gorgeous in leggings and a long dusty rose sweater that falls off one shoulder, exposing her pale skin and delicate collar bones. She isn’t wearing her usual heavy eyeliner and stage makeup, and she’s even more alluring fresh-faced.
“What is it? Are you okay?”
I look around wildly for the keys to the van. Every turn of my head makes the apartment spin. The pounding in my skull makes me want to chop it off my neck. I spot her purse by the door and point.
Story looks over her shoulder, searching. “What is it?”
I clomp past her, stumbling when the floor dips and my feet seem to slide off the surface. I catch myself on the sofa and keep going. When I reach her purse, I root through it, relieved when I find the keys there. I hold them up and point outside.
“You want me to take you somewhere?”
Blyad’.
I shake my head.
“You want to drive?” she asks dubiously.
I nod. I need to move that van. But moving my head makes a wave of nausea climb up my throat. Great. I’m dizzy, and now I need to puke.
“Here!” Story runs and grabs a notebook and pen then brings them back to me.
Fuck.
“Write it,” she encourages.
I hate myself for never bothering to learn the Roman alphabet. Ravil requires his men to only speak English in the penthouse. He wants everyone in his cell to speak it perfectly, to make sure we blend in and avoid discrimination. So I understand it completely. But I, of course, was exempt from speaking it, so I also made myself exempt from learning to write it. Stupid, stupid mistake.
Frustrated, I snatch the pen up and write in Russian, “Move the van.”
She stares at the words. “Shit. You don’t write in English.”
I shake my head. If I hadn’t busted my phone I could find a translation app to help us right now, but I already screwed that up.
“Fuck!”
I take the pen and draw a terrible rendering of the van and the street outside. Then I draw a few more streets. I drag a penline from the van down the street and over a few blocks and then make an X.
“You want to move the van.”
Relief pours through me. Gospodi, how did she even figure that out? I swear the girl can read my mind. She’s magical.
I grip both her shoulders to show how important it is and nod.
“Got it.” She grabs the keys from me then takes her coat off the rack by the door.
I catch her arm and shake my head, pointing at my chest. I can’t have her move the van. What if someone is out there?
“You aren’t going anywhere. You can barely stand,” she tells me. “I’ll be right back. Let me get you to the sofa.”
Dammit. I can’t let her go for me. I reach for the keys, but she dances out of my reach, and the room spins around me.
“Okay, I’m going before you kill yourself trying to stop me. Be back in a minute.”
I groan and make my way to the window to look out. I’m relieved when she makes it to the van safely and pulls out.
Only then do I find my way to the couch where I collapse and breathe into the nausea. The couch is old but comfortable. Story’s place is nice. Not fancy but very comfortable. It’s an old building. The ceilings are high with old-fashioned molding, and the floors are oak. They could use a refinishing, but they’ve worn well. There’s real art on the walls. Not expensive matching art but a random assortment of paintings, framed photographs and poems. Like she lives in a world of artists who all contributed something to her place.
Story returns fifteen minutes later and tosses her bag and coat on the rack by the door. “Done. You want something to eat?”
I shake my head.
“You haven’t had anything but a little juice in twenty-four hours. I think you need to try to eat.”
I don’t answer. At home I rarely communicate with my cell brothers. They’re used to my blank expressions, and they don’t try to talk to me unless it’s important. Sasha, our fixer Maxim’s new bride, tries sometimes. But this thing with Story is fucking painful. She keeps asking questions, watching me for answers. Trying to connect.
It triggers the rage and frustration I thought I buried long ago, back in prison. After I woke up without a tongue, framed for a crime I didn’t commit.
Story goes to the kitchen-which is really just one wall of the living area with a two-person breakfast bar to separate the space. She opens the refrigerator and rummages through, eventually returning with a container of lemon yogurt that she opened and sprinkled granola on top.
“Do you like yogurt? Russians are supposed to like yogurt, right?” she cringes like she just said something stupid, so I take it from her, even though I have no interest in eating.
I force a few bites down before I set it on her 1970’s coffee table.
“I teach lessons all afternoon,” Story says. She looks apologetic, so I struggle to figure out what she’s telling me. “Like, here, in the living room.”
I grunt and throw myself off the couch and onto my feet. My head aches so badly I can’t see straight, but I stumble for the bedroom and miraculously land in the center of her bed.
I can’t put my thoughts together well enough to decide if I should use Story’s phone to text Ravil. I’m almost positive my pakhan and cell brothers have nothing to do with this shit. They wouldn’t sell me out. They have no reason to.
But they don’t know I worked for Skal’pel’. That I’ve seen the faces of people he operated on-before and after. And if they found out, they might not forgive me for the omission. My work fell on the other side of the Moscow bratva, where most of my bratva brothers originated. Some of Skal’pel’s clients were hiding from Igor Antonov, the now deceased pakhan. Sasha’s father. I helped them change their identities and disappear. I may recognize their new faces. People would either pay a lot of money for that information or kill me to keep it quiet.
I have often wondered why I’m still alive. Why Skal’pel’ dumped me in a prison instead of a cedar box.
It’s a mystery that haunts me. All these years, I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. For someone to show up and finish the job.
Looks like it’s finally happening.
So even if my cell doesn’t forsake me for what I’ve done, I can’t bring this shit down on them. It’s not their problem. I need to handle it on my own.
That’s what I decide, anyway, before the pounding in my head makes me pass out again.
Story
Oleg sleeps in my bedroom all morning and into the afternoon. I change the dressing on his wound, pouring hydrogen peroxide on it. Thankfully, it really doesn’t look that bad, not that I have any experience with bullet wounds. But it’s not deep and appears more like a friction burn than anything.
I’m more worried about the presumed concussion.
And about whatever shit Oleg’s in. He’s badly injured, and I have no idea who did it or what happened. I have people showing up for music lessons here all afternoon and a wounded guy who may have men looking for him in my bedroom.
What if someone shows up here for him? He’s pretty incapacitated. I would have to protect him, and I don’t even know if I’m capable of that. Violence isn’t really in my wheelhouse.
And a much smaller but still realistic concern-what if he needs my help while I’m trying to give lessons? It would be unprofessional and hard to explain why there’s a giant, bleeding and dizzy man in my bedroom.
Fortunately, he sleeps through the guitar lessons I give all afternoon. I’ve already seen five regular students when a new student, Jeff Barnes, shows up. I got a bit of a creeper vibe from him on the phone. My mom’s told me a hundred times that she doesn’t like me teaching lessons out of my own apartment, but I don’t really have another choice. Leasing a music studio would eat up every cent I make with the lessons, which are how I pay the rent and eat.
When he called for lessons he played cool, doing that thing where he acted like we’re friends. He dropped a few names of people I know and said he likes to watch the Storytellers play. Sounded enthusiastic. I figured he either wants in the band or he wants in my pants. Still, fifty bucks is fifty bucks, and lessons are how I pay the rent, so I scheduled him. I didn’t get a dangerous vibe from him, and now that I’ve met him in person, I still don’t.
But the guy is annoying. He’s definitely not here to learn guitar. He acts like he already knows everything I’m trying to teach him, even though he doesn’t, and keeps trying to make small-talk instead of learn.
At the end of his half-hour, I put my guitar down. “Okay, time’s up.” I don’t offer to schedule another lesson because I didn’t enjoy teaching him. If he asks, fine. But I’m not going to try to get him into a regular package or anything.
He makes no move to get up off my couch. Instead, he pulls a little baggie out of his jacket pocket and starts rolling a joint.
For fuck’s sake.
I don’t happen to have any students after him because it’s already 6:30-my dinner time-but I easily could have. Maybe I’ll pretend I do.
“You want a hit?” he offers after flicking his tongue along the edge of the rolling paper.
“No, I’m good. And listen, I’ve got plans for dinner, so…”
“Yeah.” But the asshole doesn’t take the hint. He just flicks his lighter and lights up in my living room.
I’m not the type to pitch a bitch. Sounds like we know some of the same people, and I don’t want to completely be rude. I get up and start cleaning the kitchen to give him a better hint.
I look over to see him watching me with hooded eyes.
Ugh. Definitely a creeper.
And then behind him, in the doorway of the bedroom, Oleg appears. He’s put on his jeans, and he still looks pale, but his focus is on the back of Jeff’s head, and his expression is deadly.
“Oh hey, honey,” I chirp brightly to call Jeff’s attention to Oleg’s presence.
The guy whips around in surprise, coughing on the hit he just took.
Oleg folds his arms across his massive chest. He’s huge, and he looks like he could rip Jeff’s head off his shoulders with one hand. I notice, only because I’m looking for it, that he’s also strategically propped himself up against the doorframe for balance.
He’s playing along for me, just like he always does at my show when I decide to climb him like a jungle gym or make him carry me around on his shoulders. Or catch me when I dive from the stage.
I wrinkle my nose at Jeff apologetically. “My boyfriend doesn’t really like when guys hang around past their lessons.”
I’ve never seen a guy move so fast. Jeff shoves his pot back in his jacket pocket and slams his ratty guitar case closed. He’s out the door with only one side of it buckled and his jacket dragging on the floor as he carries it under his arm.
As soon as the door shuts, I laugh and skip over to Oleg, reaching on tiptoe to give him a peck on the cheek. “Thank you,” I purr. “You’re a good bodyguard.”
Brows still down, he frowns at the door.
“He would’ve left if I’d told him to,” I reassure him, guessing at his thoughts. “But now he’ll never overstay.” I reward Oleg with a big smile.
Oleg casts another dark glance at the door.
“I know, you would’ve beat him up for me if I needed you to, right?”
Oleg draws his index finger across his throat. A shiver runs down my spine because I believe the threat. As gentle and safe as Oleg seems to me, as much as I think of him as my giant teddy bear, I have every reason to believe he’s a criminal-a dangerous criminal. Those tattoos tell a story of violence. And he runs in a group of Russian guys who all have tattoos like his. They’re Russian mafiya, probably. I don’t even want to know what kind of crimes they’re into. I mean, I found Oleg shot in the back of my van.
“Okay, that won’t be necessary,” I tell Oleg, sober now.
He still looks ready to kill someone.
“Seriously. It’s good to know that, ah, you’re willing to kill for me, but I wouldn’t want that. Ever.” I’m trying to be as clear about this as I can.
Oleg seems to catch my tone because a flash of uncertainty replaces the deadly expression, and he runs a tattooed hand over his stubbled face.
“Is that what you do?” I don’t know where I worked up the nerve to ask. I really don’t think I want to hear the answer. I bring my fingertips to touch the place across his breastbone where I saw the dagger tattoo. “That’s what the ink means, right?”
He gives me a single nod.
Fuck. A violent shiver runs through me. I definitely didn’t want to know that.
“Is that why you got attacked? Someone’s after you now?”
He tips his head to the side, considering my question, then shakes it.
Okay, so he didn’t get attacked as a retaliation over murder. Good to know. Again, I’m stupid for asking.
The less I know about Oleg and his crimes, the better.
For a second time, a wave of regret runs through me about getting to know Oleg better. He’s definitely not the kind of guy to make a boyfriend, not that I ever last more than a month or two with boyfriends, anyway. Now we’re headed down the path toward this thing ending, and I don’t want it to end. And I didn’t want it to change.
Except that’s a lie. Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the rough way Oleg took me-and he didn’t even take me-take me! But I still feel his hands on me. The way he shoved me up against the wall and palmed my pussy like he owned it. The way he ripped open my fishnets to get to my skin. That bald hunger in him. The dominance.
I crave more of it. I’m definitely seeing this thing through. I want all the sex I can get before it ends.
But end, it must.
Endings are a given with any guy, and Oleg’s profession makes it a certainty.
Which is too bad. Because I like the way I feel with him. Like I can be me.
All of me. Unfiltered me.
It’s just easy with him. Even with the communication disrupt.
I like Oleg. I press my body against his, asking for an embrace. Like always, he gives me what I ask for. I bite his giant pectoral muscle-only because it seems so inviting.
He surprises me by fisting my hair and tugging my head back. He lowers his mouth slowly, watching me intently, like he’s looking for a sign of displeasure. I lift my lips. He brushes his across my mouth twice, then nips my lower lip. Then his fingers release my hair to cup the back of my head, holding me in place for a real kiss. A demanding kiss.
I miss the tongue-my heart fucking bleeds for Oleg and his injured tongue-but even without it, it’s a better kiss than I’ve had from any guy, hands down.
It’s the energy behind it. That raw, rough desire. That sensation of being both claimed and honored at the same time. It makes my knees weak.
Unfortunately, it has the same effect on Oleg. No, that’s probably the concussion. He stumbles a bit and breaks the kiss, catching the wall.
“It’s okay. You should probably lie back down. But you owe me,” I warn him.
He cocks his head, like he requires an explanation.
I run my hands across his chest and down his washboard abs. “I’m going to need some of this before you go.”
Oleg tugs me by the nape back up to his face and gives me a soft, exploratory kiss. Heat flares everywhere. I want him now, but I know that’s impossible. When he pulls away, I bring both hands to cup his face. “Can you eat some more food?”
He hesitates, then shakes his head, turning back to the bedroom.
“I’ll bring you some more pain killers,” I tell him.
He doesn’t acknowledge my words, but when I bring him the ibuprofen, he downs the pills obediently and drinks the whole glass of juice, same as every time. I push away the creeping anxiety that I should’ve taken him to the hospital.