Deceitful Vows (Marital Privileges #2)

22. Zoya

22

ZOYA

A s 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.

Mikhail isn’t as eager to let bygones be bygones. “Do you often get rent reduction offers in the form of directional maps to a man’s bed, Sunshine?”

“Not often.” I ease the disappointment crossing his handsome face by murmuring, “Only at the end of every second month. No one pays in advance anymore. Not even hookers.”

His laughter rumbles through my ears as I pop open my purse to check how long my mourning should last. I didn’t have a lot of funds, but the leftovers of the severance pay from a bar that closed a few months ago were enough to get me by for a couple of weeks. I noticed its absence this morning when I purchased an off-brand cereal instead of the one with nuts I really wanted.

I’m anticipating every denomination to be minuscule, so you can picture my shock when I notice several high denominations stuffed between their less-craved counterparts.

Several thousand, to be precise.

“Mikhail…” I murmur on a groan when the truth smacks into me. He didn’t go through my purse to snoop. He garnished the limited funds I had inside with a much more impressive figure. “This isn’t mine. I had two hundred at the most.”

When I thrust the bundle, minus a handful I won’t live without, toward him, Mikhail holds his hands in the air while stepping back. “That ain’t mine.”

I glare at him, calling out his lie without words.

“It ain’t,” he says again. “This is the first time I’ve seen those bills. I swear on my mother’s grave.”

When he draws a cross on his chest, my heart sinks. “Your momma is dead?”

I want to smack myself up the back of the head. I’m not good with words, but it is worse when I am hungry. Still, that question was a doozie even for my food-deprived brain.

“I’m sorry. I lack empathy when hungry.”

“It’s all good, Sunshine. I’m not offended.” He spins back around to face the mantel full of ornaments. “It is a little hard to be when you have no clue what you’re meant to take offense to.”

His reply riddles me with confusion, so instead of continuing with my quest for him to take the money my purse has never had the pleasure of housing, I dump it and the bundle of cash back onto my coffee table before sitting on the ripped sofa.

My need to know everything ruefully gnaws at me, but miraculously, I remain quiet, leaving the floor to Mikhail.

He accepts the invisible microphone I’m offering him thirty seconds after spinning around a porcelain duck so its beak faces the wall instead of me. “My ma disappeared when I was four.”

When he shows me a duck identical to the one he just spun around yet three times dustier at the back of the stack, I shrug before signaling for him to get back to his confession instead of the stupid ornaments that hold not an ounce of sentimental value.

He places the dusty duck in front of the newer one before doing as suggested. “She was pregnant.” He scratches his head. “I’m not exactly sure how far along. It would have been a few months, as she’d learned the sex of the baby not long before she disappeared.” I’m shocked when delight is the first emotion he expresses upon announcing he was going to have a baby sister. “We have a long succession of boys in the family, so I was looking forward to having someone not related to me by blood to pummel.” My brows barely join when he commences eradicating my confusion. “She would have had boyfriends, and it would have been my job as her older brother to vet them. I doubt there would have been a better way to do that than with my fists.”

I love his protectiveness.

It makes me swoon—maternally not sexually.

My heart does its second drop of the night when he mutters, “I would have been a good big brother.”

Would have?

Mikhail must hear my silent question, because he jerks up his chin before his focus returns to the trinkets. “It’s weird to think I could have been batting you off me with a stick instead of the other way around.” His smile reflects in the mirror above the dust collectors he’s rearranging. “I couldn’t have dated my little sister’s best friend. That’s just nasty.” He treats my ornaments as if they’re his own before cranking his neck back to me. “In case you’re wondering, I have no issues accepting my big brother’s leftovers?—”

I hook a pillow off my couch and throw it in his face before he can finalize his reply.

It has Mikhail laughing like we weren’t discussing missing family members as the rotors of a helicopter hover closer than ever.