I found out what Alex was talking about when the car rolled toward an embankment. The driver cut the engine and sat back. The monument was unmistakable, because it hovered over the Moskva River like a monster. Winslow, once again, had been correct. It was huge, elaborate and…scary. Yes. Plain creepy. Like something out of Game of Thrones. Of a man on a ship. The statue was holding something in his hand, staring in the distance.
“That is…” I started.
“The tenth ugliest building in the world according to the Virtual Tourist,” Alex finished for me, sticking his head near my shoulder and grinning to catch a glimpse of the statue, too. “Peter the Great. The irony is, not only is it quite ugly, but Peter the Great didn’t even like Moscow. He changed Russia’s Capital to St. Petersburg before they switched it back. Welcome to human logic.”
Our driver started texting, making himself invisible, and it was easy to forget we weren’t alone.
“How do you know all these things?” I asked.
“I like history.”
“Why?”
“Because it gives me better tools to understand the future.”
I nodded. Alex wasn’t being patronizing or blabby. In another rare time since the first time I’d met him, he showed genuine interest in something, and was sharing it with me. It frightened me. The idea that he could be open and real. Because the very thing that held me together was the idea that Alex Winslow was, in fact, a pile of stereotypes sewn together into a persona even he couldn’t distinguish anymore. He ticked every single box: rock star, troubled, drug addict, tattooed. It was embarrassingly familiar.
I swiveled my head to the window again.
“Can we go back to the hotel?”
“Why?”
Because I want to survive you.
“I would like to call my family.”
Alex shrugged in a women-huh-what-can-you-do, catching the driver’s gaze in the rearview mirror, who returned the same international ‘man, woman’ signal.
We rolled forward.
A soft knock on the door made me snap out of my reverie. I frowned, turning off the sewing machine positioned by the drawn curtains. I stood up, knowing it couldn’t be Alex. He was never lenient, always rough and dirty, and maybe that was why my heart throbbed fiercely every time I did as much as hear something drop in the other room. I opened the door, staring back at Lucas.
“Hey, sleepyhead. Where have you been?” Lucas flashed me a tentative smile.
I took a step sideways, leaving it for him to decide whether he wanted to come in. I didn’t give a damn about Alex warning us both off, but I wasn’t sure where Lucas stood on our boss’ threat. He’d probably come here to grab his laptop, anyway. I turned around to seize it from the desk, but Lucas snagged my wrist.
“Can you tell me one thing?”
I looked up at him. His face was angelic, even while tense. Open, fresh. He was Alex’s age, but he didn’t share the same internal hardship, and that somehow made him look so much younger. Alex was wrong. There was no way Lucas could be bad or vindictive. I read faces the way bookworms reread their favorite paragraphs. Religiously. And I knew that whatever Lucas was doing, he had his reasons.
“Maybe,” I answered. “I need to know what it is first.”
He licked his lips. “If—and I’m not asking you to tell me what’s going on between you and Alex because that’s none of my business—at some point he’s too much for you, would you let me know? It probably looks like we hate each other, he and I, but trust me, we go way back.”
I stared at him blankly.
“I’m just worried.”
“For who? Me or him?” I asked.
“Both of you. In different ways. You’re a strong girl. He’s like a black feather. Less resilient than he appears.”
Pause. I stared at my feet. It looked like Lucas didn’t want us together, and I was starting to feel like maybe Alex had a good reason to think his frenemy wanted me.
“Never mind.” Lucas shook his head. “Just let me know if you need me. He thinks I want in your knickers—hell, you probably feel the same way, too—but trust me, I just want to be here for you,” he said.
My eyebrows nearly touched at this. Maybe the tour was forcing me to embrace my inner cynic.
Luc rushed to add, “You’re on the road with a bunch of blokes you’ve never met before, and your boss is giving you crap. Whatever’s going on with your family back in L.A., I’m sure it’s not easy on you.”
“It’s not,” I admitted.
“I’m here to help.” He offered me his hand.
This time I took it, unaware of the chain reaction it would prompt.
Unaware of all the secrets we held between our palms.
In my defense, Ozzy Osborne snorted ants and Keith Richards snorted his dad, so, in comparison, I wasn’t being that crazy.