Adrian frowns into the rear-view mirror. “Are you serious?”
“Da.”
“You just want…”
“Sex?” Kat fills in.
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“No, not maybe. Don’t get involved if it’s a maybe. This guy is a player.”
“Yes. It’s a yes. I think I want sex. I need to get over what happened. To know I can be intimate without freaking. Flynn might be the guy to help me with that.”
Adrian makes another disapproving sound. “I’m sure he’d have no problem helping you out with that.”
“And you’re not going to kill him for it,” I say firmly.
Wow. I’m already feeling stronger. Making a stand. Demanding what I want. Setting boundaries.
I lean my head back against the seat and rub my lips together remembering the kiss. Flynn’s-not Cadence’s. I want to remember every detail–how he went in slowly but gradually grew more aggressive. How his masculine scent–like leather and soap–wrapped around me. I want to overwrite my memory banks. For every horrible thing that happened to me, I want a new, shiny memory to take its place.
One with an easy, breezy rock star who makes everything seem possible.
Flynn
Sunday, I go to the Kremlin.
Like a dumbass, I never asked Nadia for her number, and I woke up today still feeling like a douche for how things went down last night.
The party was the wrong scene–I’d known that at the time–but the bedroom thing? I don’t know how I fucked that one up so badly. I’m good at reading people–especially women. Chalk it up to growing up with two sisters and a mentally unstable mother. I trust the vibes they give off, and I could’ve sworn Nadia wanted to go in the bedroom. I can tell the difference between when a girl does something because she thinks it’s what you want and when she’s actually into it herself.
At least, I thought I could tell. So either I fucked up, or she changed her mind, which is cool. I just need to talk to her. Make sure she’s okay. Apologize if I’m the asshole.
The building the Chicago bratva call home has security as tight as the actual Kremlin, and the gatekeeper is not a friend. The guy who mans the front desk totally cockblocked me with Nadia last time I invited her to a party. I’m hoping I can bluff my way past him.
But I don’t even know which floor Nadia lives on.
Even though the band practices here once a week, I don’t have a keycard to use the elevator. I have to park below and then walk around to the front door to be let in. The glass doors–bulletproof, I’m sure–are locked tight. No one is at the front desk.
Fuck.
It’s a Sunday morning. I guess they’re closed to visitors on Sundays?
I try dialing Story, but she doesn’t answer. I text both her and Oleg’s phones.
Nothing.
I try banging on the glass door with my knuckles. Not that anyone’s there to hear me. I stand outside, loitering for a while, hoping someone will go in and out, but no luck.
Who else do I know in the building? I consider whether I have anyone else’s phone number. There’s Chelle, the publicist who connected us with Skate 32, the skateboarders. She texted me once. I may have saved her number.
I find her in my contacts as PR Chelle.
“Yes!” I murmur to myself.
I send her a text. Hey, it’s Flynn. I’m outside the Kremlin, but there’s no one at the front desk. By any chance, could you let me in?
I don’t get a reply, but five minutes later, her boyfriend, one of the blond twins stalks out into the cold. I search my memory bank for his name. Is it Dima? Or Nikolai?
“Nikolai.” I hold my hand out to shake his.
He clasps mine but then doesn’t let it go. “Text my girlfriend again, and I’ll kick your ass.”
I try to pull my hand away. He tightens his grip. These bratva guys are serious about their women.
Really serious.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” I say.
Nikolai instantly relaxes his grip, releases my hand, and thumps my shoulder as if to say no hard feelings.
“Why are you here?”
I think about going forward with my bluff about having practice, but I know it won’t fly. Especially because I didn’t bring my guitar. I go with the truth.
“Yeah, well, I need to see Nadia. We went out last night–after the gig–and she left abruptly. I want to make sure everything’s okay.”
“You went out with Nadia?” Nikolai says it like he doesn’t believe me.
“Yeah. After the show.”
“Nadia went out with you.”
Why does it sound like he doesn’t believe me?
“She came to the party with me, but she left with her brother–with Adrian.” I never imagined I’d be explaining the whole damn thing just to get through the front door.
Nikolai’s expression clears. “Don’t worry about it. Nadia often ducks out early. It’s not personal.”
Now I’m getting impatient. “Yeah, I know she gets panic attacks. I saw her through one earlier in the night. I just need to see her myself, okay?”
Nikolai’s eyes narrow. “You have her number?”
Fuck.
“No. I never got it. I wouldn’t be here if I had. I mean unless she invited me.”
“Yeah, you shouldn’t ever be here without an invite.”
“Dude, stop busting my balls. I am trying to do the right thing here. I just need to talk to her.”
Nikolai grows more relaxed, which makes me want to punch the guy. “Nadia is okay. She has a lot of people here to look after her. You can go home.”
“How many people here kissed her last night?” I sound like a middle schooler. I don’t know why I’m trying to make anyone else understand the connection I have with Nadia. I don’t need outside approval or recognition.