Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 89090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
I jerk up my chin. “Doesn’t mean I want you snooping in my apartment, though. Keep your beady fucking eyes out of here.”
His laugh rumbles out of the speakers of my laptop. “And miss the opportunity of watching Alek kick your ass when he finds out you didn’t pack her any underwear?”
As my eyes snap to the alluring curve plumping out the back of Polina’s T-shirt while she draws the drapes closed, I slam down my laptop screen, stuff it under my arm, then race into the kitchen.
Kliment’s laughter roars through the speakers until they’re gargled by the water of the quick wash setting on the dishwasher. Then it comes from the direction of my coffee table. “About time you stacked the dishwasher.”
As I glare at my cell phone, I growl out, “Kliment—”
“I’m going,” he interrupts, his voice husky with laughter. “I’ll send you a photo of the driver you need to get before Friday.”
I realize he can’t see me anymore when he waits for a response. I nodded—a foolish response for verbal communication. “Thanks.”
The rustle of a head bob sounds down the line before Kliment says, “Have fun, lovers. If Feo’s death taught us anything, it was that we shouldn’t waste a minute.”
Awkward silence amplifies the dead noise of a disconnected call. There’s no fading dial tone or clunk of a rotary phone. Just two people breathing in air neither of us is sure we deserve.
“I…” Polina and I say at the same time.
“You go,” I offer.
Strands of hair still wet from her earlier shower cling to her cheeks when she shakes her head. “No. You go. It’s your house, so it’s only fair you go first.”
I almost argue until I realize that’s what I’m trying to apologize about.
“I fucked up. I shouldn’t have yelled at you, and I shouldn’t do that shit in front of you.” I wave my hand to my bedroom door like she has X-ray vision so she can see the dust lines of the cocaine my snort missed. “My head has been a little messed up the past few months. It calms me.” When she raises a manicured brow, I mutter, “I thought it calmed me.” I hit her with straight-up honesty. “Until I saw you again.” Once my honesty starts, it refuses to stop for anything. “Then I needed it to calm my anger.”
She gives me a faint smile, thankful for my honesty, before asking, “Why?”
I try to think of a way I can reply without starting World War III, but when seconds merge into minutes, I give up. “Because I don’t deserve to be happy while my little brother is under layers of dirt.”
Remorse floods Polina’s gorgeous face. “Yev…”
“I’m not looking for your sympathies, Polly. I’m just being honest.”
“Then be honest,” she snaps out, her tone surprisingly strong for how devastated her expression is. “Admit that Feo’s death isn’t your fault.”
I shake my head. “I asked him to go.”
“And he went willingly. That isn’t forced, Yev. He volunteered just like you did when you went to Sicily with Ana.”
Our conversation has veered in a direction I wasn’t anticipating, but it is clear from the strain on her face that it is a conversation she’s been wanting to have for a long time.
“I didn’t volunteer to go with Ana.” Her breaths barely move her chest as she waits for me to continue. “I went because Alek asked me to.” Her silence advises she knows there’s more to my decision than loyalty, so I snap out, “And you were with that fuckhead. What was his name again?”
I tap my temple as if I am thinking. I’m not. I’ve never forgotten the guy who ripped the rug out from beneath my feet so fucking well, I almost considered not popping into Polina’s boutique when I returned to Russia.
It is lucky I manned up, or I would have never known what it was like to have everything I’ve ever wanted. My brother was alive, and I had the girl of my dreams willing to get on her knees and crawl to me.
Life was good.
Too fucking good.
“Pe... Petra… Pa—”
“Pavel?” Polina interrupts, her voice as high as her brow. It is buried in her wet hairline.
“Yeah, that’s him. Pavel the Perve.” I can’t say his nickname without grinding my back molars together. I hate the fucking guy, and I would have killed him if Alek hadn’t rearranged his face with his fists only days before he asked me to follow Ana to Europe.
“Pavel the Perve,” Polina agrees, her tone lowering before asking, “Have you ever wondered how he got that name?” She doesn’t give me the chance to think, much less respond. “Probably had something to do with him spiking girls’ drinks before trying to SA them on his filthy sheets.”
“What?” She tries to end our conversation by storming back to my room, but I beat her to the door, blocking her entrance. “Are you fucking saying what I think you’re saying?” I swish my tongue around my mouth to loosen up my words, but they still come out as stiff as a whip’s crack when I ask, “Did that piece of shit rape you?”