I go into the kitchen and pull out the makings for a sandwich, then hold them up with a questioning face.
“Sandwich? I’d love one, thanks.”
Sasha and Maxim exchange a look, like they think it’s amazing I’m making a sandwich. Or maybe that I’m offering to make someone else a sandwich. Or just that I’m communicating.
“Would you like a mango smoothie?” Sasha offers, holding up the blender.
“Sure. Thanks.”
Sasha pours Story a glassful and leans her elbows on the breakfast bar across from Story.
Ravil gets Benjamin to sleep and walks over to shake Story’s hand. “Who’s this sweet baby?” she coos in a soft voice, so as to not wake him.
Ravil rotates, so Story can see the baby’s tiny slumbering face. “This is Benjamin. He’s four months old today.”
“Happy four-month birthday, little guy,” Story sing-songs in a breathy baby voice, lightly rubbing his back. “Congratulations, he’s angelic.”
I’m transfixed by her. How beautiful she looks talking to the baby. How easy and natural everything is for her. I’ve lived with these people for two years—the men are my bratva brothers—and she seems more comfortable than I feel with them after one minute.
I fix two sandwiches and slice up an apple then bring them on two plates to Story.
“Thank you. My wife is getting a massage in the bedroom right now, but hopefully you’ll meet her soon.”
“With Natasha?” Nikolai interjects. “I think I’ll schedule with her as well.”
Dima’s head jerks around, and he glares at his brother. “What are you talking about?”
“A massage.” Nikolai sounds a bit too innocent. There’s some fuckery going on between the twins that the rest of us aren’t privy to. “That sounds nice. I think I’ll schedule with Natasha, too.”
“What, for you?” Dima practically explodes.
“Yeah. Unless you’re going to.” He raises his brows in question.
“I will fucking kill you.” I’ve never heard Dima make a threat. Especially not to his brother.
“Whoa. Okay.” Ravil clears his throat. “Sounds like you two have some shit to work out.”
“No, I think we’re good.” Nikolai picks up a magazine from the coffee table and pretends to read it. “Unless he wants me to make that appointment for him instead.”
Dima switches to Russian. “I will seriously throw you off the rooftop if you fucking say a word to her.”
Ravil shrugs. “Glad we didn’t have twins. I’ll be back after I put him down.”
“So, do you all live here?” Story asks, pulling the plate in front of her and scooting her stool over to make room for mine. Maxim and Sasha pull up bar stools opposite ours.
“Yep. It was just the guys and then Lucy—Ravil’s wife—moved in. And then Maxim brought me here from Moscow,” Sasha explains. “It was an arranged marriage, but I’ve decided to keep him.” She winks.
“I guess you can never get bored with so much going on.”
“No.” Sasha laughs. “I like it. I was an only child growing up, so it’s nice to have people around all the time.”
Story smiles. “I grew up in total chaos. Two siblings, a mother who is… emotionally unstable, and a dad who partied like a rock star. We had a lot of love but not much consistency. Consequently, I have a very high tolerance for chaos.”
“So, was your dad a rock star?” Maxim asks. “Do you take after him?”
Story’s laugh is chagrined. “He thinks so. He has a classic rock cover band that’s been playing Chicago since the early eighties. The Nighthawks?”
It bothers me that I didn’t know this about her. That I haven’t been able to make this easy, comfortable conversation. Blyad', until this week, I really didn’t give a shit about not being able to communicate. In fact, I sort of preferred it. I still do, so this is making my head ache with conflicting desires.
Maxim shakes his head. “I don’t know them. So that’s where you and your brother learned to play?”
“Yep. My dad taught guitar lessons in the living room when I was a kid.”
“What were you playing this morning? That was an oldie, right?” Sasha asks.
“Van Morrison—yes. My dad used to play it for me because I have brown eyes.”
Sasha studies Story. "What color is your hair naturally?"
Story tsks. "Pink," she says like she's offended Sasha doesn't think it's natural. "Just kidding, it's dirty blonde."
"I love your look," Sasha tells her. "You really rock the rockstar."
Story’s lips quirk. "Rock the Rockstar. I might steal that for a song."
"Feel free." Sasha beams like they’re best friends.
It’s wrong how badly I want them to be. How much I want Story to stay.
“And play away while you’re here. We love your music,” Maxim says.
Finished with my sandwich, I stand and move closer to Story, putting my hand on her back. Drinking in these delicious morsels about her life. Story leans into me, tipping her head to rest it against my chest. Maxim and Sasha exchange another look, like they can’t believe I’m cuddling someone. Or maybe that someone is cuddling with me.
It does seem strange and fantastic that Story just accepted me. We went from strangers to lovers in the blink of an eye.
Relationships always end quickly for me.
She believes this will end as quickly as it started. Maybe that’s her M.O. with men—quick to let them in, quick to throw them out. That seems to fit with her enigmatic personality.
As much as the thought of this ending shreds me, something staunch and stubborn rises up. I will still be hers. I won’t stop coming to her shows. I will always be whatever she needs me to be for her. Even if it’s just the guy in the audience she can trust to climb onto during her shows.
I drop a kiss on her head, and she smiles up at me. I kiss her again, this time on her forehead.
“I’m glad you two finally got together,” Sasha says with a warm smile.
Story’s gaze drops. “Yeah.”
I bring my hand to her nape and gently squeeze. It’s okay, I want to tell her. No pressure. You’re mine whether you claim me back or not.
Chapter 8
Story
I end up hanging out for another hour with Oleg and his friends in the living area, meeting Ravil’s wife, Lucy, when she comes in from a swim. Apparently this millionaire pad has a heated pool and hot tub on the roof. I’m tempted to ask Oleg if we can go skinny-dipping, but I’m starting to get antsy.
But the longer the day goes on, the more I feel like I need to get back to my place. I have classes to teach tomorrow. Or maybe that’s just my excuse. I also have this underlying, nagging anxiety to leave. It’s the nudge I get when relationships get to a certain stage. This one got here faster than most, but it’s been more intense than most. We packed a couple months into the past week.
“Well, I should be going.” I swivel to slide off the barstool I’ve been perched on since lunch.
Oleg blocks my way, concern written on his face.