71

Story
Ravil stands. “Get Svetlana,” he says to Maxim, who pulls out his phone to text. To me, he explains, “She’s a midwife who lives in the building. She should carry antibiotics.”
I want to hold Oleg. Not because of the fever although I’m worried about that. But because whatever just went down in this office seemed big. Important to him. And I still don’t understand any of it.
I’m part relieved, part frustrated to see that Oleg’s walls aren’t just for me. They’re for everyone around him-including the people he lives with and apparently loves.
Ravil called him fiercely loyal, and I realize that’s what he’s been to me, as well. He decided at some point to become my number one fan, and then nothing would sway him from that job. Now he has to be my protector.
His loyalty to me makes me feel it right back. I may normally be flighty and flakey in relationships-at least the intimate ones-but there was no question when I found him bleeding in my van that I was all-in with him. And no question when we got jumped at Rue’s. Whatever he’s into, I’m sticking beside him.
Once we see it through, I’ll probably bail, but I don’t abandon friends in need.
He’s more than a friend, a voice whispers in my head.
I nuzzle into his neck and kiss his hot skin. “You should go and lie down,” I murmur.
No. He doesn’t move, but I hear the word clearly projected in my head.
I stand and pull on his hand. “Come on. Svetlana will need to look at your wound.”
He catches me around the waist and lifts me back to his lap. With his phone, he texts one-handed and sends a message.
Ravil’s phone beeps. He reads the message and considers me.
“What does it say?” I demand. This literal game of telephone is going to drive me nuts.
“It says, talk to Story.” Ravil says it like an apology. Like he already knows it’s going to piss me off, and it does.
I rotate to glare at Oleg. “I told you not to do that.”
His stare back is blank. I want to slap that impassive wall right down. “Oleg. what the fuck, does talk to Story mean?” I demand.
“I’m guessing he wants us to straighten out the issue of you wanting to leave the premises,” Maxim says mildly from beside us.
Oleg nods.
Okay, that makes sense. But I’m still pissed. “Don’t say talk to Story,” I tell Oleg. His stoicism crumbles under my glare. He blinks. His lips move. I swear to God he mouths the word sorry.
“Was that sorry?” I ask.
He nods. He looks sorry.
“Thank you.” My shoulders sag. I point at my sternum. “You talk to me. Don’t make them do it for you. I don’t even know them.”
I barely know Oleg, I think, but then acknowledge it’s not true. I know him intimately. And I feel like I’ve always known him.
Oleg appears daunted. I don’t think he’s breathing. He looks at his phone and back at me. Then he types something.
Ravil reads it. “I need you to stay here. Please, lastochka.” Ravil looks at Maxim. “What bird is that in English?
Maxim clears his throat. “Swallow.”
Swallow. He has a pet name for me. And I’d never heard it. But like any songbird, I hate to be caged. The anxiety I feel before I break things off with a guy rears up strongly. “I have lessons to teach, starting tomorrow. And gigs Friday and Saturday.”
Yeah, I’m being irrational. I had a gun to my head last night. I shouldn’t be thinking about lessons and gigs.
Oleg scowls and shakes his head.
Maxim interjects, “Sorry, sweetheart. You’re going to sit tight while we figure out who’s after you and Oleg and make it go away.”
“That’s right,” Ravil says. “I hate to paint the picture for you, but I will. Someone wants what’s in Oleg’s head, and they know he cares about you, which means your life’s in danger. Unless you want to get picked up and tortured while Oleg watches, you’ll stay where we can protect you. I’m not going to elaborate on what would happen after they got what they wanted, if Oleg can even give it to them.”
A muscle tics in Oleg’s cheek. He sucks in a harsh breath through his nostrils.
“Right. Okay.” My voice sounds shaky. That makes sense. I twist my fingers around each other. “Um, yeah. I’ll cancel my lessons.”
“You will.” Ravil walks around to the front of his desk and leans against it.
“But what about the gigs this weekend? I don’t have a replacement.”
Oleg growls his displeasure.
“You’ll cancel them, too, if we don’t have this sorted out,” Ravil says.
Maxim gets up to pace. “Who came after you on Saturday?” he asks Oleg. “Did you know them?”
Oleg shakes his head and types on his phone. Ravil reads the text aloud in English. I didn’t recognize anyone. They seemed like bounty-hunters. “Who wants you?” Ravil asks.
Oleg shrugs and types again. Could be anyone who found out who I worked for. They want to know where to find him, probably. Or where to find one of his associates.
“And do you know?” Ravil asks.
Oleg shakes his head and types, it’s been twelve years. I was in prison and with you. I know nothing.
“But whoever is after you will probably keep trying,” Maxim asks.
Oleg nods.
“Well, maybe the best defense is a good offense,” Maxim says.
No. I hear Oleg say it with his whole being before I even understand what they’re talking about. He didn’t speak or shake his head, but his body goes rigid, and his hands tighten on me.
Apparently Maxim is also practiced at reading Oleg’s non-communication. “You know I’m right.”
Oleg shakes his head.
“Wait… what are we talking about?” I ask.
Ravil catches his hands loosely in his lap. “We’re talking about using you as bait, Story.”
Cold washes over me, especially when Oleg holds me like someone’s trying to rip me from his arms.
“If we don’t get who’s behind these attacks, we can’t stop them from happening. You’ll be hiding here forever, and you’ve already said you’re not up for that.” Ravil looks at Oleg. “We’ll all go to the gig. And I won’t let anyone touch her. We just need to take someone alive, so we can question them. Find out who wants you and what information they’re after. Get to the bottom of this.” He glances at Maxim who holds up his hands in surrender.
“I know. My fault for dispatching the first three without getting answers first. I fucked up,” Maxim admits.
Oleg shakes his head.
Oh God, I’m so out of my mind. “Yes,” I answer. “Let’s do it.” I can’t cancel the gigs. There’s no one who can replace me, and I don’t want to leave the bars in the lurch. It’s unprofessional. Anxiety churns in my stomach, but I trust these guys to protect me. Oleg alone is a formidable bodyguard. He rescued me when he was outgunned, and I was already in the enemy’s hands. If all of his gang or friends or whatever are going to be there, I’ll probably be safe.
Besides, I can’t stay here longer than this week. I can practically sense the time-bomb for our relationship ticking down. Every minute I stay, I sink in deeper with Oleg, which will only make things harder when they end.
I slide to my feet. “So I stay until Friday, and then you’ll take care of the problem,” I sum up. “And I can go back to my normal life.”
Oleg rises, his brows down over his eyes.
A knock sounds at the door. Dima opens the door to let a slender young woman in her twenties with strawberry blonde hair in. He follows her.
“Natasha,” Ravil says. He sounds slightly surprised.
The name sounds familiar, but it takes a moment for me to figure out why. Then I remember-Natasha was the massage therapist Dima and Nikolai were arguing over.
“Sorry, I know you were expecting my mom. She’s out delivering a baby, but she got Maxim’s message and asked me to bring this up.” The young woman holds up a large bottle of pills. “She said to tell you she will come and check on whomever has the infection.” The young woman darts a glance at me. “Hey.”
“Hi.” I walk forward and take the pills. “Is the dosage on here?”
“She said to take one now, and one before bed if she’s not here by then.” Natasha cocks her head. “Are they for you?”
I tip my head in Oleg’s direction. “They’re for Oleg. He has a wound. I’m guessing it’s infected. I hope that’s all it is.”
“May I see it? I could make a poultice. I’ve been assisting my mom since I was in grade school, and I’m a licensed massage therapist. I’m into all the natural remedies. I have teas, tinctures, essential oils, salves-you name it.”
I glance at Oleg for his agreement. Of course, as usual, nothing shows on his face, so I make the decision for him. “Yeah, that would be great.”
Oleg takes a step but loses his balance, throwing a hand out to catch the chair, which he nearly knocks over.
Natasha stumbles back into Dima, who catches her with an arm around her waist and a hand at her hip.
“Little help,” I call out, ducking under Oleg’s arm to support his massive body, but he recovers his balance on his own. I notice Dima hasn’t released Natasha yet. He lowers his head as if to kiss the top of hers or smell her hair but stops an inch away. His lids droop like having his hands on her is an unexpected pleasure. He doesn’t release her until she turns into him, blushing, and mumbles something I don’t understand. It sounded like, “Spasibo.”
Interesting. Someone has a crush.
“Are you Russian, too?” I ask as I follow her out the door. Dima holds it open then leads the way down the hall, as if we needed an escort.
“Yes,” she smiles.
“Is everyone in this building Russian?” I say it as a joke, but Natasha nods, smiling.
“Yes. That’s why it’s known as the Kremlin. Ravil only rents to Russians and at rates we wouldn’t find anywhere in the city.” She throws a grateful glance over her shoulder at Ravil, who has left the office behind us. “He takes care of his own.”
He takes care of his own. Yes, like any mafia leader. He’s mild-mannered, but I could tell by the tension in Oleg when he questioned him, that he respects and holds his boss in high regard. Ravil wields his power quietly.
They’re killers, all of them. Dangerous men in dangerous business. I keep trying to shove that into a box and forget it, but there’s an anxiety gnawing in the background. I have a high threshold for trauma and chaos, but this is all starting to get to me. My compartmentalizing skills are starting to fray.
As we walk, I notice Oleg favors his leg a bit. He’s not limping, but there’s a stiffening through his trunk when he walks on it. Christ, why didn’t I notice sooner that he hasn’t healed? There’s been so much to decipher and interpret and try to understand since he brought me here. I feel way out of my depth with all of it.
I squeeze his hand, and he looks down at me. It’s faint-barely perceptible-but I see the shadow of a smile at the corners of his lips.
I don’t want to think about where this is going. How close I’m starting to feel with him because I need to brace against this becoming anything real. I can’t start to believe this is going to last. It can’t. He’s Russian mafiya. I’m allergic to relationships. This can’t work.
Still, that ghost of a smile produces that same swirling warmth I always felt as Saturdays approached, and I knew he’d be there to watch me. Up for anything I threw his way-standing on his table. Climbing on his shoulders. Making him catch me as I dead-dropped off the stage.
We pass through the living room and kitchen toward Oleg’s room. Dima is still with us, leading the way. “So, what’s your connection here?” Natasha asks, which I realize is a nice way of asking who I am. I never introduced myself.
“I’m Story. A friend of Oleg’s.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“You, too.”
Dima opens the door and steps inside. We all follow, but Oleg hesitates, standing in the middle of his room.
“Pants off, big guy,” I tell him. He toes off his boots and unbuttons his jeans.
“Oh, um. Where is the wound?” Natasha asks.
Dima steps closer like he’s going to shield her from any unwanted peen if it gets flashed.
Oleg sways on his feet again, and I move in to help him carefully get his jeans down over his wound and then sit down.
For fuck’s sake. The bandage is soaked with yellow and red, and when Natasha kneels beside him and gently peels it back, we both gasp. The edges of the wound are swollen and angry, and puss is coming out of it. I look away, suddenly nauseated.
“Okay, wow. Definitely infected. Give him one of those antibiotics for starters.” Natasha indicates the bottle I’m holding.
I jump into action. “Right. Oh my God.” My hands shake as I pry it open.
Dima leaves and returns with a glass of water, which he hands to Oleg, who throws the pill back and swallows.
“I’m going to go downstairs and make a poultice. Do you have hydrogen peroxide you can pour over the wound?” Natasha stands.
I look at Dima who nods. “I’ll get it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?” I demand.
Oleg pulls me around to his other side and sits me on his good knee.
“Oh my God! I was sitting on your wound!”
He shakes his head.
“No? You could die from an infection like this. What if you have MRSA? I should have taken you to the hospital when it happened.”
Oleg shakes his head lightly and closes his eyes.
“Oleg?”
His eyes open, and he stares back at me.
“You’ve probably been feeling miserable this whole time. Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shakes his head.
“You have to start communicating with me.”
“I can help with that.” Dima reappears with the hydrogen peroxide and a washcloth. He also carries a tablet, which he hands to Oleg. “I have you all set up, my man.” He touches the screen, which reveals a keyboard with the Russian alphabet. “You type in here, it spits out the English for Story. It can even speak it aloud although I didn’t find a voice with a Russian accent.” Dima grins.
I pour the hydrogen peroxide liberally over Oleg’s wound, catching the drips with the washcloth. I suck in a breath when it bubbles and hisses over the open wound.
Oleg types something with his forefinger. He’s slow. I imagine his large finger makes it harder.
“Hit that to make it speak aloud.” Dima points at the screen.
An Australian-accented male voice says, “Don’t worry about me, swallow.”
I meet his eye. “What was swallow in Russian?” I ask.
Oleg looks down at the screen, like he’s not sure how to reverse the language, but Dima answers for him. “Lastochka. Is that what he calls you? I can set that word not to translate, if it’s your pet name.” He picks up the tablet and types something in.
Natasha reappears and doctors the wound with a poultice, and then she and Dima leave us alone.
Oleg falls back on the bed. I curl into his side, resting my head on his shoulder. He looks at me and points at my chest then at his own.
“I belong to you?”
A tiny smile appears. I didn’t get it right, but he likes my interpretation. He nods.
“Oleg, I-”
He stops my words with a finger on my lips then repeats the gesture, reversing it.
“You belong to me?” His lips tip up again. He nods.
I can’t stop staring at him. He looks so transformed with the small smile. Much younger. So warm.
He belongs to me. One part of me wants to reject that gift. Because believing it’s something I can count on is irrational. I know love doesn’t last. People don’t stick. We just do the best they can as we all muddle through life.
That’s what Oleg and I are doing right now. And it’s a precious moment, despite-no, because of the drama surrounding it.
I want to believe what he’s telling me. That this sturdy, steady man will always be there for me. Always and forever. Something I’ve never had with anyone in my life.
Maybe it could really be true.