69

Story
I curl into Oleg on the low bed and rub my ass, which still stings from Oleg’s large palm.
“You spanked me.” There’s amusement in my tone. A tinge of wonder. “Is that like… your thing?” I definitely think it’s my new thing. “Do you do that with every girl you’re with?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Dude.” I pinch his nipple, and he gently catches my hand. “I asked you a question. Just because you can’t speak doesn’t mean you don’t try to communicate.”
He pulls me back in to snuggle closer against his warm chest and shakes his head.
“No? You don’t do that with every girl?”
Another shake. His hand slides down to grip my ass possessively. It makes my belly flip with excitement.
“Only me? Am I the first?”
Shrugs and nods. He strokes up and down my thighs, over the place where the buttock meets thigh.
“You were so reserved about making any moves with me for all those months. You just came and sat and watched. Now I find out you’re rough and passionate.” I lean up on one elbow to look at his face. He has light scars running beneath the stubble on his face. The guy has been in lots of fights.
“Hey, we need to figure out a way to talk to each other.”
He nods and reaches for the bedside table. I see he’s written out a list of the Roman alphabet letters with the Cyrillic alphabet symbols beside each one.
“You’re learning our alphabet.” My heart lurches a bit. “For me?”
His brows come down as he nods, which I interpret to mean, of course, for you.
I push up to lean on my hand, sitting up more. “We should learn sign language.”
Oleg blinks at me.
“I’ll bet they teach it at the community college. We can both learn it. Your friends can learn it, too.” I’m pretty excited about my idea although I don’t know why I’m making long-term plans with this guy. It scares the hell out of me.
Oleg nods, watching my face like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he looks away.
“Yeah? I’ll look into it, then.”
Maybe I’ll even break down and finally get a smartphone, so we can text translate.
I get my guitar out and sit cross-legged on his bed. Oleg stays where he is, watching me with the same intensity he watches me perform. I watch him watch me, and try out the song I’ve been working on. The one about sex. With him. I have a chorus, but not the verses yet. Not the hook.
I don’t sing the words, but they play in my head as I try out the notes.
I’m up against the wall / your hands tangled in my clothes
I’m kissing, I’m biting, I’m begging for more
Knowing once this rocket’s launched, it will never be restored
Knowing once this rocket’s launched, you’ll never bring me more.
Inspiration isn’t mine at the moment, though. I’m too clogged up with the intensity of last night and this morning. The fuzzy-headedness of my on-going denial about it all. I’m very good at compartmentalizing.
Instead, I pick out the tune to Van Morrison’s “Brown-Eyed Girl.” I don’t know why that particular song came out-it’s a song my dad used to play for me when I was little. He said it was my song because my eyes are brown. I think it always made me feel loved.
And that’s how I feel right now, playing under Oleg’s smoldering gaze. If only I could string together all the little moments of feeling loved in my life. Weave them into a tapestry that stays.
But it doesn’t. I know better than to believe it would.
I close my eyes and sing the words softly, sinking into the melody. My fingers slide over the frets by memory, knowing the notes by feel. By heart.
Oleg can’t sing along, and yet I swear, I feel him listening. Drinking in every note. Every word. Weaving the same sense of pleasure I feel into the music. My pleasure, his. His, mine.
When I stop playing, I open my eyes and look at him.
My phone rings from my bag by the door. Oleg gets up and fastens his pants. He retrieves my phone and looks at the screen. Flynn’s photo flashes on the front. For a moment, I think he might not let me answer it, but he hands it to me.
“Hey,” I answer, looking up at Oleg. My stomach contracts as reality barrels back in.
“Hey.” Flynn’s voice sounds froggy with sleep. “I was just making sure you’re all right. I tried calling last night when I saw your car was still there.”
“You did? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear it,” I lie. I’m actually touched that party-boy brother is checking up on me. It’s almost always the other way around. I’m freaking out about him the next day because I left a party at 4 a. m., and he was still there, tripping his balls off.
“Well, you’re fine, I just wanted to check. I don’t need the details.”
“Yeah, everything’s cool.” I don’t know why I check Oleg’s face again. Is it cool? Are things going to be cool for him? I actually don’t know the real answer. I do know when I tried to leave, he stopped me. But then I quickly forgot because he made me come twice.
“Okay. See ya later.”
“Yep. Bye.” I hang up.
Oleg nods like he approves. Whether he approves that Flynn’s checking up on me or whether he approves of my answer, I can’t be sure.
I get up and walk to the bathroom. “I’m going to take another shower,” I tell Oleg.
I’m only slightly disappointed that he doesn’t follow me in. I really don’t think I could take more sex at this point. The guy is huge and rough, and I’m definitely sore.
Even so, I’m already excited to do it all over again. I can’t wait to experiment in this new way. To play his bad girl. Receive his punishment and dominance with the pleasure of being wrapped up in his arms when it’s over. Something I never wanted before.
I’m definitely like a cat when it comes to men. I want them on my own terms. I go to them when I want. Leave when I want. I’m the opposite of clingy. So the fact that I would even like being held after sex is freaking weird. But the sex was intense.
So is Oleg.
Maybe that’s the addiction.
I turn on the water and take a long shower, refusing to work through the unwelcome thoughts bumping around in my head. I was too shocked last night to examine everything, and now I don’t want to.
Oleg’s in trouble. I know that much. Someone wants something from him. First they attacked him in front of my place. Then they found him at Rue’s. And they grabbed me to try to force him into a car. Which means I’m his weak spot. I’m the leverage on him.
It’s stupid that I’m flattered by that. But what’s more stupid is how much I want to stay here with him. How much I believe this is my problem, too. That we’re in this together.
But there’s no together if he can’t-or refuses to-explain things to me.
And there shouldn’t be together anyway because I don’t plan on sticking around long enough to make this a relationship.
Oleg
Story puts her clothes from last night back on and pulls one of my button-downs out of the closet to wear over her tiny t-shirt. “Is it okay if I wear this?”
I nod, absurdly pleased to see my clothes on her body. She leaves it hanging open, like a long jacket.
“So if that’s your closet, what’s this?” She pulls open the door to the rest of the penthouse.
From the living room, the sounds of voices and baby Benjamin fussing like he’s about to fall asleep reach us.
Story’s mouth falls open in an exaggerated “O”.
“Who’s down there?” she says in an exaggerated stage whisper. She stage-tiptoes like she’s in a Scooby Doo episode.
I hesitate. Selfish me wants to keep Story to myself. Plus, I haven’t told the guys about what happened last night. And I should have. Ravil will have my balls for the omission, but he may have my balls when he finds out my past, anyway, so it’s a lose-lose.
She runs down the hall on the balls of her bare feet like a little kid, stopping at the end to peek around the corner into the living room.
I crowd behind her, my arm wrapping around her waist. My head is thick, still aching at times from the concussion.
“You don’t live alone,” she says with a wondering voice. “That explains the lack of kitchen in your room.”
I nudge her out into the open.
The living room is it’s usual gathering place. Dima sits at his computer in front of the television. Pavel’s on the couch watching with him. Maxim and Sasha are in the kitchen. Nikolai eats at the breakfast counter. Ravil has Benjamin on his shoulder, and he’s dancing in front of the wall of windows that look out over Lake Michigan.
Sasha sees us first and gives a cry of delight. She turns off the blender she’s running to make a smoothie. “Story’s in the house!”
She and Maxim are in their running clothes, probably just back from a jog. Sasha, who is as friendly and social as I am silent, met Story at Rue’s the night they all decided to come along to see the girl I’d fallen for. She made sure Story knew my name and wasn’t a total creeper.
Pavel turns off the television and swivels to look at us. “Oleg, you animal.”
“Shut up,” Sasha says, which is good because I was saying the same thing with my glare. “Here, let me do introductions again because you probably don’t remember. I’m Sasha, this is my husband Maxim. Nikolai and Dima are twins, if you hadn’t guessed. Pavel’s on the couch, sexting his girlfriend in L. A. who he saw just a few hours ago, and that’s Ravil with the baby. This is his place.”
A very diplomatic way of saying that Ravil is our boss. Sasha has such an easy way of speaking, and so does Maxim. Now that they’ve come to love each other, they’ve become quite a power couple. Especially with her money and his strategy.
Ravil looks over, Benjamin still sounding off on his shoulder. Even with the distraction, his gaze is shrewd. I’ve never brought anyone to the penthouse in the entire time I lived here. I don’t socialize. I don’t go out, other than to Rue’s.
“So this is Story,” he says lightly. He doesn’t walk over, just keeps bouncing the baby. “Sorry I haven’t been out to hear you play yet. I’m Oleg’s boss.”
Story waves. “Nice to meet you all-again. This place is incredible!” She gestures toward the lake view.
I pull out a stool at the breakfast bar for her to sit on. She must be getting hungry for lunch after all that sex. I know I am.
“I thought I heard a guitar playing this morning, but I figured it was someone’s radio. How was the show last night?” Sasha quizzes Story.
Story shoots me a glance. I give the tiniest shake of my head, which she seems to understand. “It was good. Yeah.” She doesn’t say a word about the men I killed.
I go into the kitchen and pull out the makings for a sandwich, then hold them up with a questioning face.
“Sandwich? I’d love one, thanks.”
Sasha and Maxim exchange a look, like they think it’s amazing I’m making a sandwich. Or maybe that I’m offering to make someone else a sandwich. Or just that I’m communicating.
“Would you like a mango smoothie?” Sasha offers, holding up the blender.
“Sure. Thanks.”
Sasha pours Story a glassful and leans her elbows on the breakfast bar across from Story.
Ravil gets Benjamin to sleep and walks over to shake Story’s hand. “Who’s this sweet baby?” she coos in a soft voice, so as to not wake him.
Ravil rotates, so Story can see the baby’s tiny slumbering face. “This is Benjamin. He’s four months old today.”
“Happy four-month birthday, little guy,” Story sing-songs in a breathy baby voice, lightly rubbing his back. “Congratulations, he’s angelic.”
I’m transfixed by her. How beautiful she looks talking to the baby. How easy and natural everything is for her. I’ve lived with these people for two years-the men are my bratva brothers-and she seems more comfortable than I feel with them after one minute.
I fix two sandwiches and slice up an apple then bring them on two plates to Story.
“Thank you. My wife is getting a massage in the bedroom right now, but hopefully you’ll meet her soon.”
“With Natasha?” Nikolai interjects. “I think I’ll schedule with her as well.”
Dima’s head jerks around, and he glares at his brother. “What are you talking about?”
“A massage.” Nikolai sounds a bit too innocent. There’s some fuckery going on between the twins that the rest of us aren’t privy to. “That sounds nice. I think I’ll schedule with Natasha, too.”
“What, for you?” Dima practically explodes.
“Yeah. Unless you’re going to.” He raises his brows in question.
“I will fucking kill you.” I’ve never heard Dima make a threat. Especially not to his brother.
“Whoa. Okay.” Ravil clears his throat. “Sounds like you two have some shit to work out.”
“No, I think we’re good.” Nikolai picks up a magazine from the coffee table and pretends to read it. “Unless he wants me to make that appointment for him instead.”
Dima switches to Russian. “I will seriously throw you off the rooftop if you fucking say a word to her.”
Ravil shrugs. “Glad we didn’t have twins. I’ll be back after I put him down.”
“So, do you all live here?” Story asks, pulling the plate in front of her and scooting her stool over to make room for mine. Maxim and Sasha pull up bar stools opposite ours.
“Yep. It was just the guys and then Lucy-Ravil’s wife-moved in. And then Maxim brought me here from Moscow,” Sasha explains. “It was an arranged marriage, but I’ve decided to keep him.” She winks.
“I guess you can never get bored with so much going on.”
“No.” Sasha laughs. “I like it. I was an only child growing up, so it’s nice to have people around all the time.”
Story smiles. “I grew up in total chaos. Two siblings, a mother who is… emotionally unstable, and a dad who partied like a rock star. We had a lot of love but not much consistency. Consequently, I have a very high tolerance for chaos.”
“So, was your dad a rock star?” Maxim asks. “Do you take after him?”
Story’s laugh is chagrined. “He thinks so. He has a classic rock cover band that’s been playing Chicago since the early eighties. The Nighthawks?”
It bothers me that I didn’t know this about her. That I haven’t been able to make this easy, comfortable conversation. Blyad’, until this week, I really didn’t give a shit about not being able to communicate. In fact, I sort of preferred it. I still do, so this is making my head ache with conflicting desires.
Maxim shakes his head. “I don’t know them. So that’s where you and your brother learned to play?”
“Yep. My dad taught guitar lessons in the living room when I was a kid.”
“What were you playing this morning? That was an oldie, right?” Sasha asks.
“Van Morrison-yes. My dad used to play it for me because I have brown eyes.”
Sasha studies Story. “What color is your hair naturally?”
Story tsks. “Pink,” she says like she’s offended Sasha doesn’t think it’s natural. “Just kidding, it’s dirty blonde.”
“I love your look,” Sasha tells her. “You really rock the rockstar.”
Story’s lips quirk. “Rock the Rockstar. I might steal that for a song.”
“Feel free.” Sasha beams like they’re best friends.
It’s wrong how badly I want them to be. How much I want Story to stay.
“And play away while you’re here. We love your music,” Maxim says.
Finished with my sandwich, I stand and move closer to Story, putting my hand on her back. Drinking in these delicious morsels about her life. Story leans into me, tipping her head to rest it against my chest. Maxim and Sasha exchange another look, like they can’t believe I’m cuddling someone. Or maybe that someone is cuddling with me.
It does seem strange and fantastic that Story just accepted me. We went from strangers to lovers in the blink of an eye.
Relationships always end quickly for me.
She believes this will end as quickly as it started. Maybe that’s her M. O. with men-quick to let them in, quick to throw them out. That seems to fit with her enigmatic personality.
As much as the thought of this ending shreds me, something staunch and stubborn rises up. I will still be hers. I won’t stop coming to her shows. I will always be whatever she needs me to be for her. Even if it’s just the guy in the audience she can trust to climb onto during her shows.
I drop a kiss on her head, and she smiles up at me. I kiss her again, this time on her forehead.
“I’m glad you two finally got together,” Sasha says with a warm smile.
Story’s gaze drops. “Yeah.”
I bring my hand to her nape and gently squeeze. It’s okay, I want to tell her. No pressure. You’re mine whether you claim me back or not.