Her gasp of shock couldn’t be faked. But then, I don’t trust my judgement when it comes to her. She pulls a spatula from the drying rack. For one second, I think she plans to use it as a weapon against me, but she angles it toward my eggs and lifts her chin.
Aw fuck. She’s looking out for my eggs, which are getting crispy around the edges. I hate how considerate she is. It makes it so damn hard to fight the part of me that wants all in with her. I flip the eggs and reach for a plate.
“Really, Dima?” The hurt on her face appears genuine as well. “I would think you know me better than that. My mother and I do as Ravil bids. We turned a blind eye when he kept Lucy there against her will. Pretended we didn’t speak English. I gave her massages, and my mother provided her medical care. We treated Oleg’s bullet wound without asking any questions. I would think you would trust us by now.”
“It was my trust in you that got us into this, wasn’t it?”
She turns away. “I didn’t know he was a Fed, and I wasn’t a party to his infiltration plan.” Her voice is quiet but stubborn.
I should tell her I believe her. Because I’m mostly sure I do.
But again, I can’t trust my judgment. I need to look at the data. Follow trails. I need to be sitting behind a screen—the only place I know how to live.
“So I’m a prisoner here.” It’s a statement, not a question.
I walk past her to sit at the long rustic farm table to eat my eggs. “Maybe think of it more as detention. You’re here as a consequence. We’re still examining the finer points of what happened.”
“You do that.” She picks up the t-shirt and toiletries and walks out in her bare feet. “You won’t find anything on me.”
I crane my neck to watch her climb the stairs.
I sure as hell hope she’s right.
7
Natasha
I go upstairs to my room, but the crunch of car tires on the dirt drive outside sends me to the window.
I watch as Maxim, Oleg, the giant bratva enforcer, and Story, his musician girlfriend, climb out of an SUV. Story’s hair has changed color since I saw her last week. Instead of all platinum, her bob is now accented with two bold chunks of a beautiful magenta in the front.
Oleg brings a cooler in with him, and Maxim carries a plastic crate filled with what looks like wires and cords or other electronic equipment.
I hear the door open and shut, and Dima’s surly tones before he heads out to the SUV. I should go downstairs, but I hesitate, feeling awkward. I don’t know how they all feel about me now. I open my door quietly and stand out on the upper balcony, looking down. They don’t see me.
“I’ve never seen Dima so upset. Is Nikolai that bad?” Story asks from the living room. “I thought Ravil said he was going to be okay?”
Maxim grunts. “It’s possible Dima’s mood relates more to a certain redhead who’s under his skin.” He peers into Nikolai’s bedroom.
“Hey, guys.” I lift an awkward hand and come down the stairs.
“Heyyyy, girl. How are you?” Story wraps me in a hug when I reach the bottom of the stairs, and I instantly feel better.
“Not great,” I admit.
“We stopped in and fed your cat before we came. What’s his name?”
“Mr. Whiskers. Thank you so much.”
She looks me up and down. “I’m sorry, I should’ve thought to bring you some clothes. We brought food, though.”
I tug on the stupid dress. I didn’t put on the fishing shirt, since I don’t have any shorts to wear it with. At least I can use it as a sleep shirt tonight, though. “Yeah. I’m about ready to cut a hole in a pillowcase to wear it instead.”
Story smiles. “I’m sure you could rock a pillowcase, and I’m pretty handy with a pair of scissors if you want to try.” She gestures to her black leggings, which have deliberate slashes up the thighs and down the sides of the calves, showing her pale skin. She’s always a few measures of punk but underneath the counter-culture clothes, she’s model-beautiful, which makes her mesmerizing. I think that is literally how Oleg fell in love with her. He got obsessed with watching her perform on stage.
Dima comes back in with another box that looks like it's filled with computer equipment, and he and Maxim shut themselves in the office.
Story heads toward the kitchen. “We did bring some groceries although Dima says he already picked some stuff up.”
I follow her into the kitchen where Oleg had set the cooler and help unload stuff. It’s good—way more than the basics Dima bought. A couple of bags of salad mixes, fresh vegetables, and fruits, some deli meat for sandwiches, and an already roasted chicken.