Oleg has a dommy side. My large guy is larger-than-life in bed, too. Maybe it’s his way of speaking. If you’d asked me yesterday what I liked, I never in a million years would’ve named that. I date musicians. Artists. Soft, articulate boys who smoke pot and philosophize about the environment and social justice. Things I care about, too.
I date guys who are like myself. Or like my younger, not-so-little brother. It’s a familiar type. Guys who seem to fit with me. With my friends. With my bohemian lifestyle.
Not guys like Oleg. Never giant, tattooed, Russian men with chivalrous, but extremely dominant manners.
But I freaking loved the way he touched me.
I’m embarrassed that I tried to get him to have sex with me and peeved he refused.
And I’m also kind of mad he didn’t leave his number or ask for mine.
But he’ll be there next week.
I know it with certainty. He’s been there every week for the last year. And he comes for me.
And all these thoughts about Oleg still don’t negate my saddest one—now that we’ve started down this path, we’re on the road to the end. Because that’s how things roll for me. I don’t do long-term relationships. I don’t like to rely on people because I’ve learned through experience, they always let me down. My parents loved me—deeply—but I sure as hell couldn’t count on either one of them to ever be there for me when I needed them. My mom was always a hot mess, and my dad was often swept away with partying and women—same as Flynn, now. I won’t
I get out of bed, happy to discover I’m not the slightest bit hungover.
I should shower and eat breakfast, but all I want to do is get my guitar. Oleg tickled my muse, and I need to play. Maybe actually compose for once. It’s been eighteen months since I’ve written an original song.
I pull on a pair of pajama pants and boots and throw a jacket over the top I’m still wearing from last night. The keys to the band’s van are right by the door because Oleg is a freaking prince.
I leave my door unlocked and trot down the stairs and out the front door.
The March morning air is frigid, and I yank my jacket closed as I look around for the van. I find it a half-block down. When I get to it, though, I gasp. My heart starts pounding with a surge of adrenalin.
Oh God.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Some fucking asshole has broken into the van. The back gate is slightly ajar! All our sound equipment was in there. And my guitar! Flynn will freak out. I’m freaking out.
Cringing, I swing the door open.
And gasp a second time.
“Oleg?”
Oh my God. Oleg is face down over the equipment. One of his pant legs is soaked with blood. Holy shit—is he dead?
I touch his ankle and find his skin cold. Christ, he could have frozen to death last night.
Did he?
I throw myself inside and tug at his massive body, pulling his arm and trying to move him.
He stirs.
“Oh thank God. I thought you were dead. Oleg?”
He barely lifts his head, groans. I’m not sure he even recognizes me.
“Oh my God. What happened to you? I need to get you to a hospital.”
That seems to rouse him because he instantly surges up, hitting his head on the top of the van. He groans and drops it into both his hands, sitting on a speaker.
“Come on, I’ll drive you to a hospital.”
He grunts this time and shakes his head no.
“No? You don’t want to go?”
A very emphatic no because his bloodshot eyes meet mine and hold. I mean, it couldn’t be clearer. He doesn’t want to go to a hospital.
“Why not? Are you… an illegal? Are you afraid of being deported?”
He shakes his head again and lurches forward, stumbling down out of the van. He drops to one knee and then on his side to one shoulder in pain.
“Oleg, you’re bleeding. I don’t know how much you’ve already lost. I need to get you help.”
No.
I swear I can almost hear the word in my head, he projects it so loudly. He struggles back up to his feet, shaking his head.
Tears of frustration spike my eyes. I’m not the type to just override someone’s wishes, but I’m also not sure he’s capable of making a sound decision right now. “What happened to you?” I ask again, which is stupid because I know he can’t speak.
I arrive at the only other option that makes sense. “You have to come inside. Can you make it?”
He steps forward, but his leg gives out. His face contorts in obvious pain. He looks down at the blood-soaked fabric like he’s surprised.
Then he scans the area, even though I’m not sure he can even focus.
I slam the van doors and lock them then tuck myself against his side, pulling his arm around my shoulders, so I can support him. “Let’s go. We’ll get you to my place, okay?”
He allows me to lead him into the building.
It takes forever to get him up three flights of stairs. I’m nearly in tears the whole time because he’s in a ton of pain, a little groan escaping him with each hard jostle. Thankfully, none of my neighbors pick this time to go up or down the stairs because I’d have a hard time explaining. And somehow, I get the feeling that whatever happened to Oleg isn’t something he wants the authorities to know about.
When we get to the last flight of stairs, Oleg faceplants against the wall when he loses his balance.
I cry out for him and grab his arm tight. “Oleg, you can do it. We’re almost there. This is my floor. Just a few more steps.”
He hobbles up them, and I push open the door.
“Come here.” I bring him into the bathroom. “I need to get you cleaned up.”
He leans against the door like he’s weak. No—like he’s dizzy.
“Did you get hit on the head?”
He reaches his hand behind his head and winces when his fingers touch it.
“Oleg,” I moan. This time the tears spill.
Oleg’s head jerks up when I sniff and alarm passes over his expression. He reaches out, his thumb roughly wiping a tear from my cheek.
“No—it’s okay. I’m just crying for you. I don’t know what happened, and I’m scared for you. And I feel bad that you’re hurting.”
Oleg’s brows knit. He’s breathing hard from the trek up the stairs. He catches my face in both his hands and brings his forehead down to mine. We pant together, our breath mingling. His skin is cold against mine. God, he must have hypothermia by now!
After a moment, after his breathing slows, he presses his lips to my forehead.
I blink rapidly, still fighting off the urge to cry. “Let’s get you out of these bloody jeans.” I unbutton his jeans and pull down the zipper.
He leans his hip against the bathroom cabinet—I’m guessing because he can’t stand up on his own—and lets me pull them down. He doesn’t hiss or flinch when I get to his wound, but I’m sure it hurts.
A chunk of flesh seems to be missing. There’s a hole in his jeans above it. “What caused this? A bullet?”
Oleg doesn’t confirm with a nod or shake, but I’m sure I’m right. Not that I’ve seen a bullet wound before, but this has to be what it is.
“I think you got lucky,” I tell him. I don’t think the bullet hit anything. I doubt it’s still inside him. It seems like it just nicked the side of his leg.