Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 86238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“It is also illegal to disconnect gas, water, and electricity without notice.” I thought the hairs on the back of my neck were standing to attention because I hate begging, but the deep voice of my interrupter says otherwise.
Alek is back in the projects—his original stomping ground.
“I also said to send me what they owe.” He steps closer to Pete, his size undeniable when he has to duck to miss the cracked light fitting dangling from the ceiling. “Are you hard of hearing? I know ways to clean out the blockage.”
Confident Pete would rather deal with me than a steaming mad Russian, I shove two twenties into his hand before promising to get him the rest by the end of the month. “But I need electricity to get the rest. I can’t work in the dark.”
Liar.
Liar.
LIAR.
None of my skills require lighting. The only ones I’ve conjured up since losing my job at The Penthouse will usually occur in a dark and dingy place.
“Okay.” Pete swallows like he’s not shitting his pants. “But only until the end of the month. Any longer and he’ll have to move on.”
“I’ll get you the money. I promise.”
I could return to my apartment when he flicks a lever in the electricity box under the stairwell, but since Alek doesn’t understand boundaries, and my father is home, I continue to the store like I didn’t give my last ten dollars to Pete.
Alek follows me but doesn’t speak a word. That isn’t unusual. When he’s pissed, he is the silent, brooding type. He’s only playful when everyone is doing exactly what he wants. That usually involved me naked in some way.
He was the happiest when his head was between my legs, and the moodiest when anyone denied him the opportunity to get me alone.
The remembrance has me snapping out with an emotion I should no longer hold around him. Jealousy. “Bobrovs short of women?” When he remains quiet, I sneak a peek at him over the stacks of bread I’d give anything to purchase but can’t afford. “You’re usually only moody when you’ve been denied.”
Jealousy stabs me hard and fast when he replies, “The Bobrovs are never short of women.” I’m saved from bending over in two and vomiting on the dirty tiles when he murmurs, “Just none that can hold my interest.”
I’m not looking at him, but I know he’s raking his eyes down my body. His gaze is as heated as the damp crevice between my legs. I’ve had plenty of ‘opportunities’ the past four years as well, but they all bored me to death. “If you’re here about your car, I parked it behind The Penthouse.” When I lock eyes with his face, my assumption that he’s drinking in my skintight jeans is on the money. “No one will touch it there since they’ll believe it belongs to Maksim.”
“I’m not here about my car.” He steps up to me until there’s no way he could miss the increase in my pulse before he leans across me to grab the biggest, fluffiest loaf of bread that almost smells as divine as him. “I’m here with a proposition.”
Since my focus is more on him instead of my hungry stomach, it takes him a little longer to make his second selection. He goes for a jar of Syrnyi Pashtet. It is made with cheese, grated carrots and garlic. It is the perfect spread for a thick slice of bread.
Aware I am not about the glitz and glamor, he snatches a plain packet of crisps from the shelf and a cucumber Sprite from the refrigerator before he heads to the cashier while spelling out his terms. “There’s a poker tournament this weekend. Twenty K buy-in.”
“I can’t gamble.” I stop before I say too much. Almost blubbering out that gambling is what got me into this mess. “I don’t have the buy-in.”
After paying in cash for his purchases, Alek hands the bag to me, then gestures for me to leave the store before him. “I’ll fund your buy-in—” My frustrated huff cuts him off. “Which you will pay back in full when you win.” I’m still not down with his proposal until he adds, “With interest.”
“How much?”
He purses his lips like he hadn’t considered our conversation going down this route before murmuring, “Ten percent.” He cuts off my scoff by adding, “Of the prize pool.”
“That could be in excess of what you lend me.”
“Exactly.” His grin hits my stomach with more than starving grumbles. “Our agreement is nothing more than a sound business investment.” That shouldn’t hurt to hear, but it does. “So what do you say? One last hoorah before you fuck off back to Sicily to laze on a private yacht with a rich schmuck overcompensating for his lack of appendage with an ugly ass boat.”
His knowledge about my past four-year shocks me, but he missed an important part. “Tommaso doesn’t own a yacht.” I let him stew for a couple of seconds before correcting, “He owns many of them.” I shrug like my next comment is nowhere near as crude as it is. “And strap-ons were invented for a reason.”