Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
22
ZOYA
As the rotors of a helicopter soar over my apartment building, a knock sounds at my door. I furrow my brows before shooting my eyes to the clock. It’s late—if you’re as old as Gigi—but I’m still shocked to have a caller at this hour. It is 9 p.m.
When they knock again, louder this time, I throw down the tea towel drying the bowl I used when I consumed cereal for dinner, before stomping to the door. Luka has probably realized why Mr. Fakher refused to fix my landline. I’ve yet to meet a building supervisor eager to assist with anything unless the requests are made by a tenant willing to fall to her knees and pay for his help with her mouth.
Since I’m disinclined to sell my body for money, I blurt out the same excuse I gave Mr. Fakher when he came sniffing for rent. “I have a job interview tomorrow afternoon. The employment agent said they’d consider an advance.”
I step back, shocked when my reply comes from the last voice I expect. “Any position offering an advance is a sham, Sunshine.” Mikhail winks and grins before he enters my apartment without waiting for permission. “Not even hookers get paid up front.” My unease weakens a smidge when the tails of his winter coat fan as he spins to face me. “And from what I’ve heard, they only offer a discount if their client comes in under a minute.”
“I didn’t say your brother only lasted a minute. I said he was—”
“Quick-winded,” he interrupts, too eager to add salt to his brother’s invisible wounds to not steal the saltshaker two weeks of whining won’t let me hand over without a fight. I doubt Andrik pined over my absence for even a second, let alone weeks, so it is only fair that I brandish invisible weapons when he’s thrust back into the forefront of my mind. “Close enough.”
I roll my eyes like I’m not loving his playfulness before I close my door and get back to drying the one unchipped bowl I own. “What are you doing here, Mikhail? How do you even know where I live?” My throat grows scratchy when I recall his worries the last time he showed up unannounced. “Did you track my phone?”
I hate having blonde hair—until I need it as an excuse for my stupidity.
How can he track a phone I no longer have access to?
A second dose of idiocy smacks into me when he dumps my phone and purse onto my coffee table before he moves to a wall of dust collectors on the far left of the living room. Don’t ask me whose trinkets they are. They were here when I moved in, and since they made the place more alive than its bland walls and stained carpets, I left them there.
When I can’t hide my shock that he found the belongings I spent half the day seeking at the many thrift shops dotted across Myasnikov, Mikhail smiles. “They weren’t hard to find. And neither were you. The number of the tire plant was in the corner of the photo you sent this morning.” He flashes me a playful look that makes his investigation skills seem more flamboyant than invasive. “I’m still waiting on confirmation about how big his rod is, by the way.” Then he gets back to the point. “And although there are hundreds of pawnshops in this region, most only accept one phone per customer per transaction.” He’d sound posh if he weren’t laughing while saying, “And no one wants a Nokia. Not even a dealer willing to trade anything to get a new customer hooked on his cooking.” He air quotes his last word.
Not in the mood to discuss the reason I’ll most likely only ever own a Nokia, I poke my tongue out at him instead. It increases his smile, which doubles the depth of the dimples in his top lip.
Their boyish charm reminds me who I am standing across from. It isn’t the man who sets my panties on fire with a single sultry glance. It is his younger and much more playful brother.
“There’s nothing wrong with being original.”
“That’s true,” Mikhail agrees. “But a Nokia?” He gags. “That’s worse than the fake ID you’re carrying around. It won’t even get you a discount card at Costco.”
My eyes widen as my throat dries. “You went through my purse?”
“No,” he instantly denies. “I flicked through it to ensure nothing was missing.” He wets his lips before rubbing his hands together. “There wasn’t much to go through. If it weren’t for the IOU slip a dick turd left that gave specific step-by-step details on how to go from Apartment 12A to Apartment 4B, I wouldn’t have known this was your building.”
I’m reasonably sure he’s lying, but since I only have a handful of brain cells to work with from a long night of tossing and turning before walking for miles since I couldn’t afford a bus fare, I act as if I didn’t notice the increase in his pitch during the delivery of his lie by drying my spoon and placing it into the cutlery drawer.