Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 63758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63758 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
I’m not entirely sure what I’m walking into with Nadia. I try not to overthink it. I’m the kind of guy who goes with the flow–I play off others and improvise as necessary. I don’t have an agenda here. I didn’t come to get laid, but I’m also happy to be of service.
When we get back to the building, the front doors are open. The big guard dog is sitting at the front desk. The guy who hates me.
“Hi Maykl.” Nadia gives him a wave and shy smile as we come in, and his eyes nearly bug out of his head.
“Nadia,” he says in surprise. “You were out.”
I don’t like the way her face colors, and she seems disconcerted. I wonder if her anxiety might be more pervasive than I’d realized. It sounds like she doesn’t go out at all. Except that doesn’t make sense because she’s come to my shows a number of times. She definitely leaves the building.
“Yeah.” She sounds breathless. “I went to the lake with Flynn. You know Flynn? From the Storytellers?”
The giant, heavily-tattooed Russian nods without giving me a smile.
“Hey.” I lift my hand.
He doesn’t return the gesture.
Whatever.
I follow Nadia to the elevator, and she pulls out her keycard to get us on.
“Heavy security in this building,” I observe.
A shadow crosses her face. “It’s good,” she says. “We are safe here.”
I hate that she hasn’t felt safe. That security is something she clings to and needs. I want to remedy it for her, but I don’t know how, other than to keep distracting her in the moments when she’s afraid. Just like I distract my mom from her pain.
I kiss her again because it always seems to work, and she lightens up. When the elevator door opens, her laugh is breathy, and she breezes off.
“Come on.” She looks over her shoulder with a smile as she jogs toward her apartment.
I follow her in, whistling when I see the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Damn, this place is fine.” I look around as I take off my leather jacket and drape it over the back of the sofa. I’ve seen Story’s place, which is just a bedroom connected to the top floor penthouse where a bunch of the head bratva live. It has every luxury, but I figured it was because the building’s owner lives there. Now I’m thinking every apartment in the building must be pimped out. The apartment isn’t huge, but it has a large, open living area with a kitchen to the left and the living room straight ahead. The kitchen features granite countertops and expensive cabinets. “The rent here must cost a fortune.” I can’t even guess how much–ten grand a month for a Chicago high rise with Lake Michigan views?
“We don’t pay anything,” Nadia says. “Ravil gave Adrian this place when he joined the bratva.”
“Wow.” I don’t even want to think what that means Adrian must do for the guy. His soul has definitely been sold. “Ravil takes good care of his people.”
“Yes.” She drops her jacket and hat beside mine. “Want to see my room?”
I catch that hint of naughtiness in her again, and it makes me smile as I follow her into a large bedroom. It seems to have huge windows as well, but the shades are completely closed. The room is filled with fabric and a sewing machine stands on the desk.
“You sew?”
It suddenly makes sense–a lot of her clothing has that one-of-a-kind look–with special cuts or added fabric pieces. Like the leggings she’s wearing today–she probably cut the slits in them herself.
“Yes. I studied fashion design in Russia, and I used to do alterations for wedding gowns.”
I scan the bulletin board which has dozens of pictures ripped from fashion magazines, along with hand-sketched items.
My eye’s caught by a guy with a guitar. “Is that me?” I unpin the drawing to inspect it. Instead of my usual hipster casual clothing, the guy is wearing a slightly punk look–more like what Story sports to the shows. Skinny black jeans and a red sleeveless collared shirt with the collar turned up.
“Oh! Um, yes.” She snatches the drawing and crumples it up.
“Hey,” I protest.
“I want to style the band if you do another video,” she blurts, tossing the drawing in the trash. “I have ideas.”
“Yeah,” I say.
She goes still, like she hadn’t been expecting me to agree so easily. “Yes? I can?”
I shrug. “Sure. Yeah. I mean, I don’t know how much we can pay you. We’re only just starting to make a living from the shows.”
“No, nyet. You don’t pay me. I want to do it. You will let me?”
I make a scoffing sound. “Of course.” I shrug. “I don’t know when we’re doing another video, though.”
She blinks at me. “Would you wear them for a show?”
“Maybe? I don’t know–our shows are pretty casual.”