Deceitful Vows (Marital Privileges #2)

19. Zoya

19

ZOYA

“ H ey.”

I lift my chin from my chest before slowly pointing it in the direction of the groggy voice. My lips curl into a grin when I spot Nikita sauntering across the miniscule living room of her grandparents’ rent-controlled basement apartment. She looks zonked but works what should be a negative like a model does a catwalk. Her voluptuous dark locks, her soul-searing eyes, and a body that exposes she rarely sits still ensures she will never be classified as ugly.

I bury my face in her scrubs-covered stomach when she wraps her arm around my shoulders and hugs me hello. “Have you been here all night?”

Since I don’t want to portray the loser I’ve been for the past two weeks, I conspicuously peer at my watch before making out I have more of a life than I do. “I popped in on my way home from a night out to check on Gigi and Grampies.”

Nikita arches a brow in surprise but doesn’t call me out on my lie.

Since I took Mikhail’s warning that Andrik would track me down as literal, I haven’t been out since I returned home from Chelabini.

I’m a fool.

The only honest thing Andrik said last month were the words he spoke while endeavoring to buy my silence.

The public transport I took home crisscrossed the country, and I utilized the dirtbox discreetly as suggested, but I’m still surprised Mikhail’s plan worked.

I’m also disappointed, but since I’ve lectured myself enough about my stupidity, I’ll keep that to myself.

Furthermore, no matter how beaten down someone’s ego is, they should never seek a solution for its brokenness with a taken man. I know that better than anyone. The sparks just blind me anytime Andrik is in the same realm as me.

I don’t need to worry about that now since I’ve not seen hide nor hair of him in the past two weeks.

When the whistle of a sneaky breath sounds through my ears, I peer up at the only true friend I have. “Did you just sniff my hair?”

“No,” Nikita immediately denies, pulling away. “It’s dusty down here. My allergies are suffering.”

“Suffering from filling the lungs of a liar.”

She rolls her eyes but remains quiet, announcing I’m on the money.

When I follow her into the kitchen for a bottle of the vitamin water she mixes herself from out of date vitamins and a protein powder an over-muscled freak left at my gym six months ago, her inability to be deceitful weighs down her shoulders until she can no longer ignore its heaviness.

“When you go out dancing, your hair usually smells like cigarettes and sweat.” Gulps of gross water slide down her throat before she wipes away the remnants from her lips with the back of her hand. “This morning, it smells nothing close to gross.”

“That’s because your schnozz was shoved too close to vomit bags and poopy bed pans all night. With how many gastro outbreaks you’ve been handling the past few months, you’d think a colostomy bag smells like roses.”

Since she can’t deny the truth, she doesn’t.

Instead, she shifts her focus to a downfall as deficient as my love life—my employment status.

“How did your interview go today?” Her sympathetic look when I shake my head I can handle. It’s her offer after my short announcement of rejection that scorches my throat with bile. “I can lend you?—”

“No, Keet.” I stray my eyes to the box hidden under the floorboards her sofa bed covers. “That money is for more important things than my energy drink obsession.” I talk faster when she tries to argue. “Mr. Fakher also stuffed up the books, so my rent appears in advance. And I handed out a ton of resumes today. It won’t be long before something decent pops up. Fingers crossed it is weeks before my building’s owner realizes Mr. Fakher can’t do basic math.”

I could have sworn I owed two months of back rent, but when I tried to hand Mr. Fakher the two hundred dollars Dr. Hemway refused, he acted like my last payment was for a year instead of a measly week.

He seemed skittish. He wasn’t as nervous as Dr. Hemway’s brief contact during my travels home to announce that he and his family were safe and that he’d be in contact when he could, but there was something off with him.

He’s usually cockier—as rationalized as Nikita’s next statement. “Mr. Fakher is only fudging the books because he wants to do precisely that.”

Like a puppy following its new owner, I shadow her steps to the bathroom that’s as moldy and damp as the main living area. Nikita’s grandfather is in the final stages of his life. Since she wants him to live out his last years as comfortably as possible, most of her earnings as a third-year surgical resident goes toward the medication that will allow that. The rest, and eighty percent of her moonlighting job, goes toward the equipment needed to administer a pain-free existence.

It is a cruel cycle. One I want to contribute to—hence me sneaking in the leftovers from Mikhail’s generosity into the box under Nikita’s bed the day after I arrived home—but my efforts have been minimal since I don’t have stable employment.

Once I secure a job, I’ll be able to help Nikita purchase the breathing machine Grampies so desperately needs and pay back Mikhail.

The latter was on my mind when I snuck every bill in my purse into the box when Nikita went to the hospital dispensary to plead for a monthly billing roster instead of bi-weekly. As I watched Grampies’s lips turn blue as he struggled to breath, I realized he needed the money now. Mikhail didn’t.

At the time, I felt like Robin Hood—robbing from the rich to save the poor.

Now I feel guilty.

Not a lot, but enough for me to yank my phone out of my pocket and scroll through my limited list of contacts. Mikhail’s name is just above Nikita’s. Random employment agency contacts fill the rest.

God, my life is pathetic.

Nikita coughs, drawing me from my thoughts. I’m lost as to why she looks disappointed. She’s dealt with my unemployment woes as long as I have, so she should be accustomed to it by now.

I’m reminded that sleeping in an armchair never ends well when she says, “The one time I attempt a joke and it sails right over your head.”

“You told a joke?” She nods, and I stammer. “When? Where? Was it in the last century?”

She ribs me, sending my giggles bouncing around the bathroom. “Haha. You’re such an a?—”

I save her from swearing since I know how much she hates it. “Fakher. He wants to fuck her.” When her brow lifts, waiting for my critique, I twist my lips. “Your joke wasn’t bad. Especially considering how long it has been for you.”

Her groan assures me she knows what “it” refers to. “Don’t remind me. It’s been so long my uterus probably resembles a shriveled-up clam.”

“As long as it doesn’t smell like one, we’re good.”

That gets a laugh out of her.

After she washes the gunk off her face—medical goop, not makeup—she switches her scrubs for pajamas before she slowly trudges toward a bed that should have been dumped onto a sidewalk years ago. “Are you staying?”

She folds down one-half of the sheets before moving to the other side. “I’m good. I’ve got enough issues to contend with. I don’t need to add that to the mix.” I wiggle my fingers around the lumpy mattress during “that.”

When I gather my coat off the armchair I was resting on when Nikita returned from a double shift, she shoots up to a half-seated position. “You can’t walk home now. It’s dark out.”

“Says the lady who just walked home from work.”

I love how quiet she is when she’s void of an objection.

“And it’s barely two blocks. I’ll be fine.”

“Three miles isn’t two blocks.”

“It is when you’re taking the bus.” Before she can argue that public transport is worse than walking the streets of Myasnikov alone, I remind her I have impressive fighting skills. “I’m almost a black belt.” I grumble my next words, but it is obvious Nikita hears them. “I would have been if Leonard knew how to keep his dick in his pants during training.”

Leonard didn’t sexually assault me. He simply failed to announce that I wasn’t the only female fighter he was giving “free” lessons to. He was already cocky as fuck, but he hasn’t quit bragging to his minions about how good of a trainer he is since I left him with two black eyes and a busted nose after walking in on him and his 3 p.m. client.

I closed my fist that time like I should have done in the elevator with Andrik.

I move fast so Nikita won’t hear the sigh of my lie as easily as my libido did. “I’ve also got mace. If my fist doesn’t take them down, scorching-hot pepper spray will.”

Her delay in replying exposes I am getting through to her. “Z…”

If cramps weren’t announcing her sheets are one wayward roll from being massacred, I would have succumbed to her pleading eyes. Since I’m minutes from folding in two from the pain, I tell her I love her before I race through her front door at the speed of a bullet.

It is no easy feat considering it takes a bodybuilder to get her front door to budge from the lip. It’s swelled with the dampness I am anticipating to flood my uterus over the next three to five days.

I hold my arm in the air like Nikita can see me when she says, “Message me when you get home,” before I climb the half a dozen stairs to the foyer of her building.

It is far ritzier than the basement apartment Gigi and Grampies have been renting for the past several decades. It would have you believing Nikita’s family is rolling in money. That was my first thought when she invited me to meet her family years ago.

The mold spores my lungs fight to keep at bay assure me otherwise.

“Thank you,” I murmur to the doorman holding open the front door for me.

It’s cool tonight, so there’s no excuse for my slow pace down the isolated street—except perhaps the realization that I have nothing to race for.

I just walked away from the only people who have ever cared for me.

Nikita and her grandparents are all I have.

And perhaps a rascally faced marshmallow man whose generosity nudged my best friend three months closer to achieving her goal.

Remorse smacks into me when I peer down at Mikhail’s name on my phone for the umpteenth time in the past two weeks. He was nice to me—scheming but still nice—yet anytime I’ve attempted to reach out to him, I’ve let his brother’s actions persuade me against it.

That isn’t fair, and it is time for me to stop acting like a spoiled brat who’s never experienced deceit.

A grin I only ever showcase when spending time with Nikita stretches across my face when the perfect message to send pops into my head. I take a detour down a side alley so I can snap a picture of the Michelin tire plant that closed its doors several months ago.

With my smile as bright as the moon, I attach the marshmallow-looking Micheline mascot to my outgoing message.

Me:

Reminded me of you.

It’s late, so I’m not anticipating for Mikhail to reply. I’m storing my phone away when it buzzes with a message.

Mikhail:

He better have a massive steel rod under all those layers of flab or I’m going to feel insulted.

My fingers fly over the screen of my phone.

Me:

It’s hard to tell from this angle. Want me to check?

Mikhail:

Fuck yes! Unless there is actually a dude under that suit. He might not survive your grope.

With my ego desperate for a firm yet still-friendly stroke, I reply.

Me:

Too much blood deferring from your heart to your dick is dangerous for any man, but I’m sure I will make it worthwhile for him.

Mikhail:

I’m sure you will. But that isn’t what I meant, Sunshine.

Another message pops up before I can demand an explanation for his riddle.

Mikhail:

Though I am glad to learn your confidence didn’t dip in the slightest after… you know.

I do know.

I wish I didn’t, but I do.

That doesn’t mean I want Mikhail to know that, though.

Me:

After???

The vibe switches back to playful when he replies.

Mikhail:

Are we really going there, Sunshine? All right. Bruise my ego some more by making out you’ve yet to realize no other man can compete with me.

My reply is so natural I type it out before my head can formulate a single objection.

Me:

You sound just like your brother.

My eyes’ quick scan of the last word mercifully saves me from making a mistake. I move my thumb to the delete button instead of the send.

I’m partway through deleting my reply when my phone commences ringing. It is a video call request from Mikhail. I consider pretending my battery is flat since my mood is circling the drain, but that excuse flies out the window when a message pops up in the middle of the screen.

Mikhail:

Marshmallow Man’s rolls are reflective, and my phone’s zoom capabilities are the best in the country, so don’t even try to pretend your battery is flat.

Mikhail laughs when he catches the last half of my eye roll. “Some men in my industry would see that as a challenge.” He tilts closer to the camera, filling the screen. “Are you challenging me, Sunshine?”

Weeks of uncertainty slip away as I reply, “Would you call me a hussy if I said yes?”

“Fuck no.” He looks like he wants to say more, but something behind my shoulder alters the direction of our conversation. “Are you outside?” Before I can answer, he asks another question. “What time is it there?”

I cringe. “A little after four.”

“In the morning? How many buses did you take to get home?” He slants his head, draws his brows together, and then mutters, “Actually, don’t answer that.”

I hear the words he didn’t speak the loudest, and they hurt.

“He could have found me by now if he wanted to.”

Mikhail sighs while sinking back far enough for me to realize where he is. He’s sitting on the armchair Andrik placed me on before he suspended my pussy on his face. “I know. I just…” Again, he breathes out heavily. This one arrives with a heap of cusswords. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on with him. He’s acting like nothing matters more right now than producing the next…”

When my expression announces he’s discussing his brother’s downfalls with the wrong person, his words trail off.

I smile to assure him I am grateful before telling him I have to go. “My bus is almost here.”

“Bus? You’re taking the fucking bus at this time of night? I don’t care if you live in the safest neighborhood in the world—no one is safe on public transport at four in the morning!”

He tsks me when I say, “It isn’t as bad as it sounds.”

“Zoya… fuck. You’re making my hands twitch, and I’m not a man who generally uses spankings as a form of punishment.”

“Now you really sound like your brother,” I reply before I can stop myself.

The crunch of my back molars is nowhere near as damaging as it could be when Mikhail asks, “Am I meant to take that as a compliment?”

“No,” I reply honestly. “But you need to come up with your own material. You’re one infringement away from a copyright claim.”

He howls like a wolf. I only get to bask in its brilliance for mere seconds. My phone has plenty of battery. It is just no longer in my possession since it is plucked from my grasp seconds after I arrive at the bus stop—stolen along with my purse and the last of my cash.

“Hey!” I scream at the man dressed head to toe in black sprinting in the direction I just came.

I’m about to take off after him, when the faintest sob stops me in my tracks. A woman is crouched next to the scratched display banner edging a recently graffitied bench.

The remnants of the streetlight that usually keep incidents like this on the other side of Myasnikov dot her nonslip work shoes, and the camera dome is covered with more spray paint than the bench she should be seated on.

My heart squeezes when I notice her cheeks are ashen and wet. Nasty red welts circle her wrists and neckline, announcing that the perp stole more than her phone and purse. He took every possession she owned—including her sanity.

“It’s okay,” I assure her, bending down until we’re eye level.

She must have fought her attacker. Her eye is swelling with a fresh bruise, and numerous grazes scrape her legs and arms not covered by her maid’s outfit.

Her tremors shudder through me as well as I scan the area, seeking help. When my search comes up empty, I stray my eyes to the emergency assistance button at the end of the stop.

“I’ll be right back.”

The dark-haired woman shoots her eyes in the direction I’m peering for merely a second before she murmurs, “No. No police. Please.” She seems more scared now. “I-I?—”

“It’s okay,” I assure her again, understanding her apprehension. The people who are meant to be the safe option often do not prove they are. “Can you stand?”

“Yes. I th-think so,” she stammers out slowly before her work shoes crunch the shards of plastic scattered around her.

“Just take it slow,” I plead when she almost tumbles. She’s woozy, and I believe the blood seeping from the back of her head is responsible for that. “There’s a hospital?—”

“No hospital. I j-just need to get home.”

“Okay,” I repeat, even aware it isn’t the answer I should be giving. “Can I help you?” When apprehension is the first thing to cross her face, I say, “I’m here to take the bus home as well. We’re probably going in the same direction.” Her maid’s outfit announces she doesn’t belong in this area of Myasnikov any more than I do. “So it won’t be any bother.”

“Ok-okay,” she parrots, making me smile when I recall how often people do that around me. “I ca-can pay your fare. They didn’t take this.”

It isn’t the right time for either of us to laugh, but it can’t be helped when she wiggles her bus card.

Not even criminals unwilling to work for what they want are desperate enough to use public transport.