“Yeah, hey.” I remember the guy and his friendly wife, and he doesn’t seem threatening, but I don’t know who hurt Oleg, and the guy smashed his own phone like he was afraid of being tracked. Plus, I don’t know how these guys found me or my place.
“I’m sorry to show up here. It’s just that we haven’t seen Oleg since Saturday night, and we were wondering if you know anything? Was he at your show Saturday?”
I shake my head quickly. “No.”
He cocks his head like he knows I’m lying.
“I mean, yes, he was at my show, but I don’t know where he went after that. I mean, I haven’t seen him.” Damn, I’m a terrible liar. I sound breathless, and I’m speaking way too fast.
Maxim’s eyes narrow. He tries to peer past me, and when he does, his shoulders relax. “Oleg, what the fuck?”
I whirl to find Oleg behind me. He pulled on his jeans, but he’s shirtless, and there are no shoes on his feet. He’s certainly not hiding from these guys. Relief flows through me.
I’m suddenly overjoyed to have someone to share the weight of Oleg’s plight with. “He got attacked. Someone shot him,” I blurt, standing back from the door, so they can come in.
“What?” Maxim scans Oleg quickly.
“He got hit over the head and shot in the leg.” I point at the hole in his jeans. I washed the blood out, but the entire thigh area of his jeans is still stained rust.
“Fuck.” Maxim says something terse in Russian to Pavel who appears grim. “Thank you for taking care of him.”
“You don’t have to thank me.” I’m slightly offended. Of course, I took care of him. He’s my friend.
Oleg staggers back toward the bedroom, and Pavel follows him, not offering help but staying close.
“Do you know who attacked him? Did you see what happened?”
I shake my head. “No, he drove my van here to take me home. The next morning, I found him in the back of it, bleeding with a wound on the back of his head.”
Oleg appears with his shirt and boots on.
“Where the fuck is your phone?” Maxim demands. I bristle a little at the way he speaks to Oleg, but it also puts me at ease. They’re obviously comfortable with each other. There’s a rapport. Like I have with Flynn and the guys in the band.
Oleg doesn’t answer. Well, of course not, but he doesn’t try to communicate at all. I’ve noticed him do that with me, too, when he decides he doesn’t want to engage. It’s like he doesn’t even try.
“He smashed it,” I offer, even though I’m not sure Oleg wants me to share that.
Maxim stares at him, like he’s trying to puzzle it out. “Okay,” he says, like he’s got it handled. “Let’s get you home, buddy.”
Oleg looks at Maxim and tips his head my way.
Maxim pulls out his wallet and grabs all the cash in it. I catch sight of more than a few hundred dollar bills. He folds the wad in half and hands it all to me, pinched between his index and middle fingers. “Thank you for taking care of Oleg.”
“What?” I shove the bills back at him, offended. “I didn’t do it for the money.”
Oleg appears alarmed by my tone. His brows go up, and he watches my face carefully.
“No, no, no,” Maxim says smoothly. “I didn’t mean it to sound transactional.” He spreads his free hand in a peace-making gesture. “Not at all. I know you did it because you care about Oleg.”
I calm down a bit.
“But Oleg wants you to be taken care of. Please accept it.” He stretches his arm out toward me again.
I hesitate. I’m still a little offended. Or maybe I don’t like that Oleg’s leaving. He’s leaving, and I don’t have his number or know when I’m going to see him again.
This is so unlike me. Usually I’m the one running from a relationship.
My eyes suddenly get hot, and I blink rapidly. I still haven’t taken the money. I sort of hate that I’m talking to Maxim right now instead of Oleg.
Why is that?
Why is Oleg letting his friend speak for him? And why is he just leaving with them? Is he even going to say goodbye?
It pisses me off. I fold my arms across my chest. “Then let Oleg give it to me,” I challenge.
Maxim pivots, so his arm points toward Oleg. Oleg’s dark brows are down. He snatches the money from Maxim’s fingers and tosses it on my coffee table like he’s throwing it in the trash. He steps right into my space, cupping the back of my head, his mouth descending on mine before I even have time to breathe. To think.
The tears spear the inner corners of my eyes as I receive his kiss. His hand on my waist, his thumb cupping my cheek. When he breaks the kiss, he leans his forehead against mine and stays there. He makes that soft humming sound he did after we had sex. His friends leave the apartment, standing out on the landing to give us privacy.