Knowing there’s at least one person in the crowd who is crazy about me.
Oh well. It was nice while it lasted.
Chapter 2
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.