“I have a table,” I mutter, grabbing a sandwich.
“Yeah, it looks nice.” Dima and Oleg follow me to sit at it.
“Chelle picked it out.” I’m both simultaneously proud of the table she picked for me and pained by the memory of it. I unwrap the sandwich and take a bite.
“So what’s going on with Chelle?” he asks.
I shrug. “She’s done.”
Turns out, I was starving. I attack the sandwich.
“She texted you five days ago asking to talk.”
I stop chewing. “She did?” I ask with my mouth full.
Dima pushes my phone in front of my face, and I read her message. The full brunt of pain returns. More than I can handle.
I shake my head. “It’s not going to work.” I resume chewing.
Dima gives Oleg a what-the-fuck? look.
“What is wrong with you? You haven’t left your apartment in almost two weeks over this girl, and now you’re not going to call her back when she asks to talk?”
“It’s not going to work,” I repeat. “She sees me as a murderer.”
I don’t want to keep chasing a woman who doesn’t think I’m redeemable. It’s not worth it.
Every player needs to know when to fold.
22
Chelle
On Friday, I call Story.
My hope withered during the week when Nikolai never texted me back.
Now this gnawing sense of panic that I’ve lost him grows stronger every day.
At least Zane came over, and we had a long, painful heart to heart about his bad choices this year. I guess the good thing is that he’s been scared back to sanity. He swears he won’t touch cocaine or gambling ever again.
I hope it’s true.
He also told me Nikolai had stayed by his side the night at the hospital, driving him home at two in the morning. Which means Shanna’s right. Nikolai cares.
Maybe he even loves me.
God, I definitely love him. I don’t know how or why I kept pretending I didn’t. Yes, I have qualms about his profession, but I actually have zero doubts about him, the person. I’ve always been able to trust him to do the right thing. He’s had my back in every situation.
Too bad I didn’t have his.
The fear that I’ve irreparably screwed things up tears me up. I don’t even pretend to believe the tale I kept telling myself that he doesn’t care. That it was just about sex. If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have let me go. He wouldn’t have sat with Zane in the hospital. He wouldn’t have killed for me.
I give Story a call from work, pretending it’s about getting the Storytellers booked at the Red Room.
“Chelle, I like you, but I’m not sure I can keep doing business with you now,” she says flat-out.
My heart starts beating faster. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m the type who’s super loyal to her friends, and at the moment, my friend is hurting because of you.”
I grip the edge of my desk for support. “Nikolai?” I croak. I try to find my voice. “He’s hurting?”
“Straight up—you broke his heart. He’s been holed up in his apartment drinking and sleeping for days. We’ve been bringing food down and checking just to make sure he’s alive. We had to call his brother to come back to deal with him. It’s not cool.”
“He hasn’t answered my text,” I tell her miserably. “Should I… do you think I could come down there tonight? Would Maykl let me in?”
Story pauses, then says, “No, Oleg says they have poker night tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”
No, not tomorrow. Every minute of the two of us being broken-hearted feels like an epic tragedy. “Where is the game?”
“That’s probably not a good idea,” Story says.
“Please. My heart is broken, too, Story. I need to work things out with him. I can’t wait another day. Please?”
There’s another pause, and then Story says, “Oleg says you’d have to come before it starts. Like eight or eight-thirty.”
“No problem. I’ll be there. Where should I go?”
“He’s going to text you the information when he gets it.”
“Thank you. So much.” I fight back tears because I hear Janette talking outside my new office. Losing it at work would be a bad thing.
It seems fitting that I’m going to the place where I first met Nikolai to start over.
At least I hope it’s a do-over and not a done.
Nikolai
I feel like shit. Even though I showered, shaved and ate, my head aches, and my body feels like it’s made of lead.
Adrian, Dima and Oleg set up for poker night at the hotel I picked last-minute while I stand at the window and look out.
I’m awash in desolation. This isn’t the life I want to lead. This sense of emptiness. Purposelessness.
I don’t know what to do with myself.
A knock sounds at the door, and for some reason, none of the other assholes move to answer it. “Who the fuck is it?” I demand, looking pointedly at Oleg.