“I will throat punch all of you,” I warn, tugging Sasha past the assholes and out the door. “Ignore them,” I tell her. “We both know I’ve won nothing yet.”
Chapter 14
Sasha
Rue’s Lounge is a hipster lounge—grungy but very cool. It’s located in the basement of a more industrial area of town. The band hasn’t started, but Oleg has staked out the closest two-top to the stage where he sits with a pint of craft beer in front of him.
“Hey, how’s it going?” I touch his shoulder before remembering with a smile that Maxim doesn’t like it.
I’m irrationally pleased by his irrational possessiveness. Especially because he doesn’t make me feel like a whore, he makes me feel desirable. Highly desirable.
I take the free chair next to Oleg while Maxim and the other three guys scrounge chairs from other tables and arrange them around our tiny table. A cocktail waitress arrives promptly, and we all get a round of the local brew on tap. As we sit, the place starts filling up.
I lean forward, thoroughly enjoying myself. Unlike my father’s men—these guys are friendly. I’m their roommate’s wife not the boss’ daughter. It’s a different vibe here entirely. They seem to have a sense of humor and casual affection with each other, like we’re all in the sitcom Friends or something. “So what is the story with Lucy and Ravil?”
Nikolai and Pavel groan and sit back in their chairs. Oleg barely takes his eyes off the empty stage. Like a dog waiting at the door for its owner to show, even though the car hasn’t pulled into the garage yet. Dima looks at Maxim to tell the story.
“Ravil hooked up with Lucy at this one-night-stand kind of thing last Valentine’s Day. It happened at this BDSM club in Washington, D.C. and was anonymous—no names, no phone numbers exchanged. Flash forward to this month—Ravil goes to hire some big shot defense attorney for one of our guys. When he shows up at her office, he finds Lucy, pregnant with his child.”
I clap my hand over my mouth. “No!” I also want to hear so much more about the BDSM club, but I don’t want to stop the story.
“So Ravil loses his shit. He’s usually level-headed as fuck. I mean, as the cell Fixer, I almost never have to fix.” Maxim spreads his hands. “More than half the operation is legit. Force is only employed when necessary.”
“So what happened?” I’m impatient for the love story. It sounds better than fiction.
Maxim shrugs. “So he kidnaps her.”
“What?”
“Yeah. He was deeply offended that she hadn’t told him. Took it really personally. He moves her into his suite and puts Oleg on her door, so she can’t leave. Tells her she has to work remotely until the baby’s born.”
I shake my head slowly. “That’s not right.” I suddenly don’t like Ravil much.
“No kidding. And it’s my job to make sure shit like this doesn’t blow up in our faces, right? So I looked at it from all angles, and all I came up with was one fix.”
I raise my brows. “What was it?”
“Make her fall in love. It was clear he already had it for her badly. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been hurt. So that was my only fix. Love.”
I sit back in my chair relieved for Lucy. More than a little impressed with Maxim.
Was that his solution for us, too? I want to ask, but my pride won’t let me.
“And it worked,” I finish for him.
“Almost didn’t. But yeah. Thank fuck.”
The band comes out, and I watch Oleg’s body react. He doesn’t move, but I see his muscles stiffen, the intensity of his gaze on the only female in the band almost frightening.
She’s punk-goth-beautiful. Like a modern-day Blondie, she has a platinum bob with bangs and thick black eyeliner. Her nose is pierced, and she has perfect bone structure—one of those heart-shaped faces that will make her model-beautiful well into old age. She’s wearing a micro skirt with fishnets and Doc Martens underneath. Her top is early Madonna midriff style with a torn-out neckline to make it hang open over one shoulder. She’s rocking the bad-girl rock and roll thing, and I sort of instantly love her.
I mean, if Oleg wasn’t obsessed, I probably wouldn’t have looked twice. She’s nothing like me or my kind of friends. But his obsession makes me curious. She picks up the mic.
The place has filled since we arrived—a din of laughing and talking now makes it necessary to raise our voices to be heard. The crowd fits with the band—a little grunge-punk—and people seem to know each other. Like Oleg isn’t the only guy who comes to hear the band on the regular.
“Hey everyone, thanks for coming out,” she says. “I’m Story, and we are the Storytellers.”
Even though she’s talking into the mic, people don’t stop to listen. But that’s how it is at a bar or lounge. It’s not a concert where the musicians get the audience’s undivided attention. They’re background here.