I get him in there and fall down on the bed with him, trying to get him in it. He rolls onto his side and groans. I curl up, facing him, staring at his pained expression, unwilling to leave him.
He watches me watching him. Time lengthens. Stands still. I don’t know how long I stay there. Long after his eyes close, and he passes out. I curl my hand into his, holding his fingers, wishing I knew what to do.
Chapter 3
Oleg
I wake not sure how long I’ve been out. I shove the covers off and attempt to sit up. I wait until the room stops spinning and my stomach stops lurching before I focus and look around. I’m naked, but there’s a gauze bandage taped to my leg, covering the bullet wound, and my clothes are folded neatly on a chair. Story must’ve dressed my wound and washed the clothes for me at some point. I pull on my t-shirt, almost falling to the floor in agony when the neckhole passes over the bruise on my head. I take my time putting on my boxer briefs, not trusting myself to stand yet.
I’m guessing I’ve been out of it for at least twenty-four hours, considering I woke during the night, and now it’s light again. And it was morning when Story found me. I think.
Story. She’s been in and out of the room, bringing me more ibuprofen and juice. I have a vague recollection of her lying beside me during the night, but that could’ve just been a fantasy. Every time I woke, the usual adrenaline pumped through my veins, my normal agitation of existence revved up, but then I remembered where I was—not in prison, not in my own room, but in Story’s apartment, and the noisiest place inside me quieted.
Being near my little lastochka—my swallow—soothes a lifetime of struggle.
I know it won’t last. I know I can’t remain here forever. I need to figure out who’s after me and what they want. Eliminate them.
I smashed my phone thinking they might have put a tracker in it although in my more lucid moments, I realize they aren’t that sophisticated. They’re not like my pakhan Ravil’s bratva cell. I highly doubt they have someone like Dima who can hack anything. Or a Fixer like Maxim. They didn’t seem organized or high-tech.
They are idiot criminals unprepared for the job they were sent to do.
I’m not dumb enough to think whoever sent them won’t rectify his mistake the next time, though. And that brings on sharp realization.
Those guys were waiting for me. Which means they might know where Story lives.
No… maybe not. They would’ve been waiting outside the door.
The van.
They must’ve followed the van. My brain is so fucking fuzzy it’s hard to think this through. Maybe they got behind in traffic, but then spotted it again after I’d parked?
That has to be it.
I lunge off the bed, a hoarse cry coming out of my throat. Fuck. I hate it when I make noise.
Story runs from her small living area and meets me at the doorway to the bedroom. She’s barefoot, looking gorgeous in leggings and a long dusty rose sweater that falls off one shoulder, exposing her pale skin and delicate collar bones. She isn’t wearing her usual heavy eyeliner and stage makeup, and she’s even more alluring fresh-faced.
“What is it? Are you okay?”
I look around wildly for the keys to the van. Every turn of my head makes the apartment spin. The pounding in my skull makes me want to chop it off my neck. I spot her purse by the door and point.
Story looks over her shoulder, searching. “What is it?”
I clomp past her, stumbling when the floor dips and my feet seem to slide off the surface. I catch myself on the sofa and keep going. When I reach her purse, I root through it, relieved when I find the keys there. I hold them up and point outside.
“You want me to take you somewhere?”
Blyad'.
I shake my head.
“You want to drive?” she asks dubiously.
I nod. I need to move that van. But moving my head makes a wave of nausea climb up my throat. Great. I’m dizzy, and now I need to puke.
“Here!” Story runs and grabs a notebook and pen then brings them back to me.
Fuck.
“Write it,” she encourages.
I hate myself for never bothering to learn the Roman alphabet. Ravil requires his men to only speak English in the penthouse. He wants everyone in his cell to speak it perfectly, to make sure we blend in and avoid discrimination. So I understand it completely. But I, of course, was exempt from speaking it, so I also made myself exempt from learning to write it. Stupid, stupid mistake.
Frustrated, I snatch the pen up and write in Russian, “Move the van.”
She stares at the words. “Shit. You don’t write in English.”
I shake my head. If I hadn’t busted my phone I could find a translation app to help us right now, but I already screwed that up.
“Fuck!”
I take the pen and draw a terrible rendering of the van and the street outside. Then I draw a few more streets. I drag a penline from the van down the street and over a few blocks and then make an X.
“You want to move the van.”
Relief pours through me. Gospodi, how did she even figure that out? I swear the girl can read my mind. She’s magical.
I grip both her shoulders to show how important it is and nod.
“Got it.” She grabs the keys from me then takes her coat off the rack by the door.
I catch her arm and shake my head, pointing at my chest. I can’t have her move the van. What if someone is out there?
“You aren’t going anywhere. You can barely stand,” she tells me. “I’ll be right back. Let me get you to the sofa.”
Dammit. I can’t let her go for me. I reach for the keys, but she dances out of my reach, and the room spins around me.
“Okay, I’m going before you kill yourself trying to stop me. Be back in a minute.”
I groan and make my way to the window to look out. I’m relieved when she makes it to the van safely and pulls out.
Only then do I find my way to the couch where I collapse and breathe into the nausea. The couch is old but comfortable. Story’s place is nice. Not fancy but very comfortable. It’s an old building. The ceilings are high with old-fashioned molding, and the floors are oak. They could use a refinishing, but they’ve worn well. There’s real art on the walls. Not expensive matching art but a random assortment of paintings, framed photographs and poems. Like she lives in a world of artists who all contributed something to her place.
Story returns fifteen minutes later and tosses her bag and coat on the rack by the door. “Done. You want something to eat?”
I shake my head.
“You haven’t had anything but a little juice in twenty-four hours. I think you need to try to eat.”
I don’t answer. At home I rarely communicate with my cell brothers. They’re used to my blank expressions, and they don’t try to talk to me unless it’s important. Sasha, our fixer Maxim’s new bride, tries sometimes. But this thing with Story is fucking painful. She keeps asking questions, watching me for answers. Trying to connect.
It triggers the rage and frustration I thought I buried long ago, back in prison. After I woke up without a tongue, framed for a crime I didn’t commit.
Story goes to the kitchen—which is really just one wall of the living area with a two-person breakfast bar to separate the space. She opens the refrigerator and rummages through, eventually returning with a container of lemon yogurt that she opened and sprinkled granola on top.