Sordid (Sordid 1)

“Which one?”

“Developmental biology.”

He made a face like I was being ridiculous. “Like you need to study for that one. You can take two hours off. We’re going out to celebrate.”

“Celebrate?” There’d been a weird pitch to his voice that I couldn’t place.

“Yeah.” He gave me half of a smile. “Your early acceptance to Johns Hopkins came today.”

It took me a moment to process the words, and once I got over the initial thrill . . . “You opened it?”

It wasn’t the invasion of privacy that bothered me, it was that he’d taken the moment away when we could have shared it together.

“No, I didn’t open it,” he scoffed. He pulled a thick envelope off the desk and held it up. “I’m assuming. Unless this is an unnecessarily detailed rejection letter.”

“Holy shit.”

“Open it. Then get your ass upstairs and get dressed.”

I stood, snatched it from him, and tore open the envelope. I didn’t mind when he moved to stand behind me so he could read over my shoulder, or when his arms wrapped around my waist, holding me close.

“I told you,” he whispered as we scanned the letter, confirming my acceptance.

Johns Hopkins. My dream school.

I couldn’t stop smiling as he led me upstairs to our bedroom and picked out a dress for me to wear. Luka watched me get ready, amusement playing in his eyes. Maybe even a little bit of pride. He knew how badly I wanted to get in.

I practically galloped beside him as we walked down the hall toward the garage, unable to contain my excitement. Tonight the six-car garage was completely loaded with cars. Often Dimitrije stored his newest acquisitions for his pre-owned luxury dealership here, and Luka examined the selection as if facing a difficult choice.

“BMW or Lexus?” he asked.

It was the most elegant of the cars in the garage, and its black paint gleamed. “The BMW.” He seemed pleased at my choice. I relaxed into the soft leather in the passenger seat, marveling at the interior. “It’s like a spaceship.”

He paired his phone with the large screen and plugged the restaurant’s address in.

“We’re going into the city?” I asked.

He nodded, but didn’t elaborate. As we drove, I called my parents and told them the good news. The conversation was stilted when they realized Luka was listening in on the car speakers, but they were happy for me. After, Luka and I chatted about our days, and then we lapsed into a comfortable, easy silence.

We were exiting the freeway into the city when his phone rang. I stared at the screen, and went cold. Dimitrije Markovic was calling.

Luka’s expression turned to stone as he pressed a button. “Hello?”

“Where are you?” Dimitrije’s tone was annoyed.

“Downtown.”

“Did you take the new BMW?”

Luka’s eyebrows pulled together. “Yeah, why?”

There was a loud sigh on the other end. “Don’t get pulled over, and if you do, don’t let them search the trunk. I’ve got stuff in there.”

Luka’s hand tightened on the wheel at the same time the muscles along his jaw flexed. In his head he was surely cursing his father’s name. “All right, understood.”

The call disconnected and blanketed the car interior in tension. What kind of stuff was back there? Guns? A dead body?

“Should we turn around?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “We’re almost there. We’ll be fine.”

The restaurant was Serbian. I could tell from the fact Luka spoke in Serbian to the host, who greeted him by name. It was always surprising when the foreign language rolled out of him. Unexpected, but pleasant.

The day Luka started to let me have supervised internet access, I’d queried luce, spelling it incorrectly as he’d pronounced it, luche. He’d grimaced, and then typed it in for me. He’d been embarrassed at calling me a term of endearment, most closely related to ‘baby.’ He’d only slipped and done it the one time, but when I’d read the translation, warmth spread down through me. It shouldn’t have. I wasn’t supposed to like how he’d whispered to me in his mother’s native language.

We were seated at a table near the back, and from the way the host fawned over us, it was clear he knew exactly who Luka was. A bottle of wine was poured for us and left on the table, and as I reached for my glass, Luka spoke abruptly.

“Congrats, Addison. I’m happy for you.”

I held my wine in stunned surprise as he clinked his against mine, and then brought his glass to his lips.

“Are you?” I asked quietly.

He looked confused. “Of course. This is what you wanted—”

“No.” I was on an emotional rollercoaster, and it made me reckless and brave. “Are you happy?”

He set the wine down and his fingers remained on the bell of the glass, as if he were too distracted to move while thinking about his answer. “Yes,” he said finally. His gaze captured mine and stole my breath. “You make me happy.”