“Do you like yogurt? Russians are supposed to like yogurt, right?” she cringes like she just said something stupid, so I take it from her, even though I have no interest in eating.
I force a few bites down before I set it on her 1970’s coffee table.
“I teach lessons all afternoon,” Story says. She looks apologetic, so I struggle to figure out what she’s telling me. “Like, here, in the living room.”
I grunt and throw myself off the couch and onto my feet. My head aches so badly I can’t see straight, but I stumble for the bedroom and miraculously land in the center of her bed.
I can’t put my thoughts together well enough to decide if I should use Story’s phone to text Ravil. I’m almost positive my pakhan and cell brothers have nothing to do with this shit. They wouldn’t sell me out. They have no reason to.
But they don’t know I worked for Skal’pel’. That I’ve seen the faces of people he operated on—before and after. And if they found out, they might not forgive me for the omission. My work fell on the other side of the Moscow bratva, where most of my bratva brothers originated. Some of Skal’pel’s clients were hiding from Igor Antonov, the now deceased pakhan. Sasha’s father. I helped them change their identities and disappear. I may recognize their new faces. People would either pay a lot of money for that information or kill me to keep it quiet.
I have often wondered why I’m still alive. Why Skal’pel’ dumped me in a prison instead of a cedar box.
It’s a mystery that haunts me. All these years, I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. For someone to show up and finish the job.
Looks like it’s finally happening.
So even if my cell doesn’t forsake me for what I’ve done, I can’t bring this shit down on them. It’s not their problem. I need to handle it on my own.
That’s what I decide, anyway, before the pounding in my head makes me pass out again.
Story
Oleg sleeps in my bedroom all morning and into the afternoon. I change the dressing on his wound, pouring hydrogen peroxide on it. Thankfully, it really doesn’t look that bad, not that I have any experience with bullet wounds. But it’s not deep and appears more like a friction burn than anything.
I’m more worried about the presumed concussion.
And about whatever shit Oleg’s in. He’s badly injured, and I have no idea who did it or what happened. I have people showing up for music lessons here all afternoon and a wounded guy who may have men looking for him in my bedroom.
What if someone shows up here for him? He’s pretty incapacitated. I would have to protect him, and I don’t even know if I’m capable of that. Violence isn’t really in my wheelhouse.
And a much smaller but still realistic concern—what if he needs my help while I’m trying to give lessons? It would be unprofessional and hard to explain why there’s a giant, bleeding and dizzy man in my bedroom.
Fortunately, he sleeps through the guitar lessons I give all afternoon. I’ve already seen five regular students when a new student, Jeff Barnes, shows up. I got a bit of a creeper vibe from him on the phone. My mom’s told me a hundred times that she doesn’t like me teaching lessons out of my own apartment, but I don't really have another choice. Leasing a music studio would eat up every cent I make with the lessons, which are how I pay the rent and eat.
When he called for lessons he played cool, doing that thing where he acted like we’re friends. He dropped a few names of people I know and said he likes to watch the Storytellers play. Sounded enthusiastic. I figured he either wants in the band or he wants in my pants. Still, fifty bucks is fifty bucks, and lessons are how I pay the rent, so I scheduled him. I didn’t get a dangerous vibe from him, and now that I’ve met him in person, I still don’t.
But the guy is annoying. He’s definitely not here to learn guitar. He acts like he already knows everything I’m trying to teach him, even though he doesn’t, and keeps trying to make small-talk instead of learn.
At the end of his half-hour, I put my guitar down. “Okay, time’s up.” I don’t offer to schedule another lesson because I didn’t enjoy teaching him. If he asks, fine. But I’m not going to try to get him into a regular package or anything.
He makes no move to get up off my couch. Instead, he pulls a little baggie out of his jacket pocket and starts rolling a joint.
For fuck’s sake.
I don’t happen to have any students after him because it’s already 6:30—my dinner time—but I easily could have. Maybe I’ll pretend I do.
“You want a hit?” he offers after flicking his tongue along the edge of the rolling paper.
“No, I’m good. And listen, I’ve got plans for dinner, so…”
“Yeah.” But the asshole doesn’t take the hint. He just flicks his lighter and lights up in my living room.
I’m not the type to pitch a bitch. Sounds like we know some of the same people, and I don’t want to completely be rude. I get up and start cleaning the kitchen to give him a better hint.
I look over to see him watching me with hooded eyes.
Ugh. Definitely a creeper.
And then behind him, in the doorway of the bedroom, Oleg appears. He’s put on his jeans, and he still looks pale, but his focus is on the back of Jeff’s head, and his expression is deadly.
“Oh hey, honey,” I chirp brightly to call Jeff’s attention to Oleg’s presence.
The guy whips around in surprise, coughing on the hit he just took.
Oleg folds his arms across his massive chest. He’s huge, and he looks like he could rip Jeff’s head off his shoulders with one hand. I notice, only because I’m looking for it, that he’s also strategically propped himself up against the doorframe for balance.
He’s playing along for me, just like he always does at my show when I decide to climb him like a jungle gym or make him carry me around on his shoulders. Or catch me when I dive from the stage.
I wrinkle my nose at Jeff apologetically. “My boyfriend doesn’t really like when guys hang around past their lessons.”
I’ve never seen a guy move so fast. Jeff shoves his pot back in his jacket pocket and slams his ratty guitar case closed. He’s out the door with only one side of it buckled and his jacket dragging on the floor as he carries it under his arm.
As soon as the door shuts, I laugh and skip over to Oleg, reaching on tiptoe to give him a peck on the cheek. “Thank you,” I purr. “You’re a good bodyguard.”
Brows still down, he frowns at the door.
“He would’ve left if I’d told him to,” I reassure him, guessing at his thoughts. “But now he’ll never overstay.” I reward Oleg with a big smile.
Oleg casts another dark glance at the door.
“I know, you would’ve beat him up for me if I needed you to, right?”
Oleg draws his index finger across his throat. A shiver runs down my spine because I believe the threat. As gentle and safe as Oleg seems to me, as much as I think of him as my giant teddy bear, I have every reason to believe he’s a criminal—a dangerous criminal. Those tattoos tell a story of violence. And he runs in a group of Russian guys who all have tattoos like his. They’re Russian mafiya, probably. I don’t even want to know what kind of crimes they’re into. I mean, I found Oleg shot in the back of my van.