Just like my mother isn’t bad for all her nervous breakdowns, live-in boyfriends and bad breakups. And my father isn’t bad for drinking too much, sleeping with every band groupie who came into his life, and putting his kids last.
I’ve lived in total chaos my whole life. I think that’s why I choose to live alone now. Because my thoughts are messy and disorganized, and usually, when I add someone else to the mix, I lose myself completely. Except that doesn’t seem to happen with Oleg. Maybe because he doesn’t talk. I don’t want to look at that like a plus, but he not only doesn’t add to the noise, he absorbs it.
Now that I’ve identified it, I’m sure that’s why having him at my shows made it so fabulous for me. He somehow gave me space in the chaos.
“Good morning, sunshine.” I kiss his temple.
Oleg’s dark gaze sweeps over my naked form and grows hooded.
My nipples pucker at his appreciation.
Purposely provoking him, I dance out of his reach to the wall of curtains, curious to see what’s behind them. I yank them back and gasp. “Whoa.”
It’s an entire wall of floor to ceiling windows looking out over the city. “This is incredible, Oleg.” I take another look around the place in the light of day, drinking in what, in the shock of last night’s trauma, I failed to notice. This place is gorgeous. And expensive. It’s weird because it’s just a studio without any kitchen—not even a mini fridge, unless I’m missing something—but it’s very high end. We’re in some kind of small penthouse on the top of a building that must be very close to Lake Michigan. I’ll bet other apartments in the building have lake views.
“Can people see in?” I ask, realizing if they can I’m putting on quite a show.
Oleg makes a popping sound with his lips. I turn to find a t-shirt flying through the air at me.
“Thanks.” I catch it and shake it open. It’s one of Oleg’s shirts—soft cotton and hunter green. It’s gigantic. I pull it over my head, and it almost falls to my knees.
“Is this a hotel?”
Oleg shakes his head.
“This is your place?”
A nod.
“I love it.” I race past him to leap onto the bed, which, sadly, doesn’t bounce. “Except your bed has no springs.” I pick up a pillow and lob it at him. “You need a bed with springs, so I can jump on it.”
He catches the pillow. The corners of his mouth tick in a barely perceptible smile. I realize I have never—not once—seen this man smile. His face is usually as inexpressive as his voice, which makes him doubly hard to read.
I’ve just been going by his intense stares—reading everything into those. Or maybe just his solid presence.
I jump off the bed and go to him, like I’m drawn to a magnet. Now that he’s touched me, I can’t get enough. I need more of this giant bear-man who’s always watching me. I push him down into the chair and climb in his lap, careful to avoid his injury. I guess because he can’t give me his words, I crave physical touch with him. Not even sexual—although holy hell—last night! But I’d take any contact right now.
Oleg pulls me in, molding his arms around my hips and back to cradle me against him. I lean my head against his giant shoulder, and he shakes open the bagel bag and brings it under my nose.
I shove my hand in the bag and fish for a cinnamon raisin one. Oleg cracks open the cream cheese and hands me a plastic knife.
“Mmm, this is good.” I reach for the coffee, opening a tiny container of half and half and dumping it in. “They make these too small, don’t you think?”
Of course, he doesn’t acknowledge my words. I don’t really expect him to. It’s okay, I can talk enough for two of us.
“I need, like, five of these for one coffee.” I open the other three packets that were on the table and empty them into my cup then try my coffee. Still too black.
Oleg’s brow wrinkles, like he’s concerned.
I shrug. “I’ll live. I’m just grateful for the coffee. You don’t drink it?”
“When did you even go to get bagels?” I straighten myself on his lap to spread the cream cheese. I twist to look at him and raise my brows. I swear to God, he’s going to have to start trying to communicate. I mean, he could gesture. He could draw, like he did at my apartment to let me know to move the van.
This is a problem for me. Oleg doesn’t just not speak. It’s like he’s abandoned all other methods of communication as well.
Maybe no one tries with him. He’s been written off. Or he wrote himself off. That thought sends a sharp shard of pain straight through my chest because it rings true, but I steel myself against it.