by Renee Rose
“So you have to show her that you’re still her rock,” Nikolai advises.
I hold my hands out to ask how?
“Tell her. Keep going to her show. I wouldn’t get in her face too much—you don’t want to disrespect her wishes—but prove you’re not going anywhere. Not ever again. And communicate. I seriously feel like shit that we didn’t get to know you until Story moves in. I don’t know why we didn’t try harder to draw you out of your shell. I mean, fuck. We could’ve learned sign language a long time ago.”
“Definitely,” Dima concurs. “Hell, maybe we could even get you a speech therapist. I’ve been doing some research, and it sounds like they could teach you new ways to talk.”
I want to weep with gratitude at the flicker of hope the twins sparked—not about talking but about winning back Story. I stand, and when the twins also stand, I pull them in for a handshake and man-hug, thumping them each on the back.
“Oh. Okay. Wow. You must feel better,” Dima says, chuckling. “How can I help?”
I shake my head. I already know what I’m going to do. And it’s going to work. It may be a long game, but I’m willing to play it.
I’ll play it until the day I die if I have to.
I’m Story’s rock, and she’s going to know it and believe it and feel it right down into her bones.
I love her, and I will never abandon her again.
Chapter 16
Story
“Story? Hey, it’s Mom.”
The warning bells all go off at once at the sound of my mom’s voice. It radiates with the heaviness of depression.
“Mom, are you okay?”
“Uh… I’ve been better. Sam and I broke up.”
Tears spear my eyes, not for my mom but my own self-pity kicking into gear. Like, seriously? Do I have to deal with my mom’s breakup right now when I haven’t even managed my own yet?
“Can you come over? I don’t want to be alone.”
Blinking back tears, I shove my feet into my boots and pick up my keys. “Okay, Mom. I’ll come right now. Are you at home?”
“Um… yeah. I’m at home.” She sounds lost.
I have to breathe through the spike of fear that accompanies all of my mom’s episodes. The fact that she reached out is good. Getting her help early prevents the really damaging lows. “I’m heading over now.”
“Thanks, hon,” my mom says, sounding like she’s lost in a dream. I know the feeling.
I get in my car and head over to her place, numbness taking over the anxiety.
I’ve been anxious ever since Oleg left my place Saturday night. In fact, every day that’s passed, it’s grown stronger and stronger.
It doesn’t make sense. Usually when I get that anxious feeling, I cut ties with whomever I’m getting too close to, and it immediately drops away. I consider it my gut instinct for when it’s time to move on. My relationship compass.
And I had it with Oleg. I had it so strongly Saturday.
And yet breaking up didn’t ease the sense of dread in the pit of my stomach.
And now I have this shit with my mom. Like the Universe decided that I didn’t have enough drama in my life with the whole Oleg sacrificing himself to an evil doctor and nearly getting killed and then our breakup.
I turn my phone on to call my sister Dahlia to let her know what’s going on with Mom.
“Hey sis, what’s up?” she answers cheerily.
“Eh.” It’s all I can manage. I suddenly feel like I can’t do this.
“What is it, Story? Is it Mom?”
I sniff. “Yeah. Sort of.”
I don’t know why I said sort of. I wasn’t calling to talk about my problems.
“Is she okay?” I hear the alarm in Dahlia’s voice, which I understand. We’re all dreading that call. The one where we find out Mom is suicidal.
“Yeah, I think so. She sounded depressed, so I’m heading over there. I’ll make sure she has an appointment with her counselor.”
“Good. I’m glad she recognizes when she needs help,” Dahlia says.
“I know.” I get choked up again.
“Are you okay? Do you need me to come home?”
“No, no. I’m okay. I just, um, I’m having a hard time right now, too.”
“Oh no! What’s happening?”
Tears start streaming down my face. I take my hand off the wheel to swipe at them with my fingers. “Remember that guy I told you about?”
“Oh my gosh, yes! What’s going on?”
“Dahlia, I think I might be messed up.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Like I’m broken. Maybe I got Mom’s relationship gene.”
“Definitely not,” my sister says firmly. “What’s going on? You really liked this guy, right?”
“I did,” I wail. “But then I got that anxious feeling that I usually get. You know—the sign. That’s when I know things aren’t going to work, and I should get out. Only I broke things off with him, and the agitation’s only growing.”
“Okay, wait a minute. So you think it’s a sign when you get anxious in a relationship, and it means you need to break it off?”
“Yeah. Like it’s my gut telling me things aren’t going to work, and I should stop before things get too deep.”
“Wait, wait, wait. That’s why you never date anyone for more than a couple months?”
“Yes, but the thing is, this time it didn’t work. I’m still anxious. And now I’m totally confused.”
“Story, did you ever stop to consider that anxiety isn’t instinct, it’s fear?”
That lands like a missile between my eyes.
I can’t even answer.
“What if the anxiety is because you’re afraid to get too close to someone not an intuition that it’s not going to work out?”
Huh. My tears stop falling. That feels right.
Like it could be true.
“So you pushed this guy away, and now you’re scared because you think you lost him.”
“I don’t know…”
“Maybe you do know.”
I laugh in spite of myself. “You think you’re so wise just because you’re the only one in the family who’s kept a relationship more than three years.”
“Well, Mom and Dad did. But they did it so badly it made all the rest of us think relationships are impossible.”
“You didn’t.”
“That’s because I had Joe.”
“Yep. Joe’s the best,” I agree, my heart suddenly aching with longing for Oleg.
Oleg is a hundred times better than Joe, in my opinion. Oleg is the perfect man.
What if I am anxious because I lost him not because I was supposed to leave him?
What if he’s my Joe? The one.
My forever-after?
I pull up in front of my mom’s apartment and park. She’s waiting on the front step, despite the cold.
“Hey, Mom.” I pull her into a hug.
“I kicked him out,” she says, bursting into tears. “And now... I think I want him back.”
I cry with her. “I did the same thing, Mom. And I think it was a mistake.”
Oleg
Saturday night, I shower and put on a clean shirt and jeans. I shave my face and use some of Maxim’s aftershave, and then I drive to Rue’s.
Wednesday I mailed a hand-written letter to Story. It took me forever because I typed into the iPad first to make sure I spelled the English right, but I wanted it to be hand-written not printed or emailed. It said,
Story,
My beautiful lastochka.
I failed you. I thought I was doing the right thing by leaving for your safety, but I realize now that you never wanted to be safe. You wanted to be able to depend on me. And by abandoning you, I proved myself undependable.
I want you to know I respect your wish to end our relationship, but you are my life’s purpose.
Being your rock.
Keeping you safe.
Watching yo
u perform.
These are the things I live and breathe for.
So I’m not going to stop coming to your shows. I won’t stop ensuring you get home safely. I’ll be there for you in any way you want me. To catch you when you dive off the stage or to carry in your equipment or just to sit in the corner and never make contact again.
You can depend on me.
I fucked up, but I won’t do it again. Not ever.
I’m your rock. You can rely on me.
I promise.
Ya lyublyu tebya. I love you.
Oleg
She didn’t call or text after getting it. Hell, I don’t know if she even read it. Maybe she just threw the thing in the trash. Not because she despises me—I don’t think that’s the case. But because it was too painful for her.
She’s trying to make a clean break.
That’s the biggest weight that hangs over my head as I park in the lot behind Rue’s Lounge. I didn’t come early enough to get my table because I didn’t want to piss Story off. I didn’t want to fluster her before her performance or make her think she had to talk to me.
I slip in now after she’s started her first set. The place is hopping. The Storytellers are rocking the Jane’s Addiction song, “Jane Says.” Story’s hair is back to platinum blonde, and she’s wearing a dark shade of lipstick that makes her eyes pop.
I slip in and stand against the back wall. I hope when she sees me, she doesn’t ask me to leave. I pray she’s read the letter and understands that I have to be here. I have to prove to her I am the man she believed me to be.
Annie, one of the cocktail waitresses, brings me a beer without my asking.
Story slips into one of her original songs and then another. Their performance is flawless, and yet I see the wear of the week on her. She doesn’t smile or bounce as much. She’s just smooth and professional.
And then she sees me. Her gaze lands on me and sticks, but she doesn’t falter singing the words or strumming her chords.
She expected me.
So she read my letter.
She finishes her song and paces the front of the stage. “Hey. I’ve been working on a new song, do you want to hear it?”
I clap my hands as the crowd cheers.
“It’s about this guy. You probably know him. He usually sits right there.” She points at my table where some other assholes are sitting tonight.
I go still.
“I let him into my life recently, and it was good. Really good. But sometimes we run from things in our life that are good. Because having them would give us something worth losing, you know?”
She shoots a pained look my way, and people turn to see who she’s looking at.
There he is. That’s the guy she climbs, I hear the regulars saying.
“But the real heroes are the ones who keep showing up. Even when you push them away. And that’s what Oleg does for me. He’s as solid as they come. And this song is for him.”
Story puts the microphone in the stand and positions herself in front of it, legs wide.
I know you from a distance / I haven’t had a taste.
Didn’t want to let you / cuz I only like the chase.
You are in my sphere / I am in your ear,
Then you take me home, but you won’t come in.
I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know what I’m doing,
But when I’m with you / when I’m with you-ou.
I don’t need anything. I don’t need anything at all.
I’m up against the wall / your hands tangle in my clothes
I’m kissing, I’m biting, I’m rocked down to my toes
When you show up, you show up strong.
I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know what I’m doing,
But when I’m with you / when I’m with you-ou.
I don’t need anything. I don’t need anything at all.
Set the house on fire, burn it to the ground.
The cities fall, wreckage all around
When you show up, you show up strong
I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know what I’m doing,
but I’m with you / when I’m with you-ou,
I don’t need anything at all.
And I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know what we’re doing.
But I don’t need anything. I don’t need anything, but you.
I don’t know when I moved, but when the song ends, I’m standing in front of the stage staring up at my little swallow, drawn like a magnet to her presence. Story slips the guitar strap over her head.
“I don’t need anything, but you.” She sings the last song acapella. And then she drops off the front of the stage into my arms in a honeymoon carry.
The crowd cheers like mad.
Flynn scrambles to turn on his mic as I walk with Story to the back of the room. “That was Story Taylor. I’m Flynn, and we are the Storytellers. We’ll be back after a little break, folks. Thanks for coming out.”
I hum softly—the sound I make only for her. The way I call her name. She tucks her face into my neck and hums back.
“Thanks for coming for me,” she murmurs.
Always, I want to say. I settle for humming some more.
“Does that mean always?” She reads my mind.
I nod and turn to kiss the top of her head. In the back corner, I tip her to her feet and crowd my body against hers, shielding her from view from the rest of the bar. I point at her chest, then at mine.
Her smile flickers. There’s still sadness around her. “I belong to you?”
I nod then reverse the order.
“You belong to me.”
I nod again.
“Can I move in with you?”
A smile surprises my inexpressive face with its sudden appearance.
“Damn.” She reaches up to place her palm against my cheek. “You are so handsome when you smile.”
My smile widens.
“I’m sorry. I got scared.”
I shake my head and point at myself, then give the sign for sorry.
“I know you’re sorry. You never meant to hurt me. You were trying to take care of me.”
I nod.
“I can’t promise I won’t freak out again.”
I shake my head. I won’t let you, I want to say. I point at my chest, then shake my head as I point out the door.
“You won’t go?”
I nod.
“Never?”
I shake my head emphatically.
“You’re mine?”
There’s that smile again. My facial muscles will have to adjust to the new sensation.
“I love you.”
I move in slowly, savoring every precious moment as I sip from her lips, gently at first, then moving into a possessive, claiming kiss.
Story relaxes more and more, the tension and cloud around her ebbing away.
I crook my finger, backing up a few steps to pull out a chair. Story immediately crawls into my lap, where she belongs.
Chapter 17
Story
“Catch me if you can!” I squeal the minute we climb out of the elevator at the Kremlin after my show. I take off running toward the door that leads to the roof.
I hear Oleg’s soft chuckle right behind me, but he lets me pretend I’m getting away as I run up the stairs to the gorgeous rooftop pool. The air is freezing, and steam comes off the hot tub when I roll the cover up.
“Last one in is a rotten egg.” I take off my clothes, giggling.
Oleg doesn’t rush. He slowly strips, watching me with total absorption as I drop my coat, boots, tights, skirt, shirt, bra and panties onto the pebbled deck.
I jump in before I get cold and bob up and down, bouncing on my feet, making the water splash around my breasts as they dip in and out of the surface.
Oleg finishes undressing, looking like a stallion with a boner the size of my forearm. I splash him.
His eyes crinkle. He arches a brow and points a finger.
“Uh oh.” I smile. “Is Big Daddy going to spank me?”
Pretty please.
I found out his other pet name for me—shalun’ya—means bad girl or minx, which I love. He descends into the water, standing on the first step, then sitting on the pool deck. His brows flick as he reaches for me.
Oh God.
He is going to spank me. I get fluttery and excited and a tiny bit nervous, only because last time it hurt almost as much as it felt good.
He parts his knees and pulls me across one of them, tipping me over so my hands rest on the pool deck behind him.
I let out a quavering meep.
He hums softly then smacks my wet ass.
“Ow! Oh my God, that hurts.”
Another smack, served with a dark chuckle. I dance on my feet, thrilled. Horny. Smarting. He rubs my ass, then slides his fingers between my legs. I wriggle with the shock of sensation when his fingers brush my most sensitive bits. He delivers two more swift smacks then rubs some more.
Oh God, it’s good.
So exciting. Delicious. The sharpness of the initial pain recedes as pleasure flushes through me. I don’t know why I like this. It doesn’t matter. It’s Oleg, and I trust him completely.
He goes on for a few more rounds—a couple smacks, then his middle finger circling over my clit. My arousal ramps up swiftly. “More,” I moan, even though my ass already stings.
Of course, he delivers, slapping me with seven rapid-fire spanks that make me squeal and kick my feet. And then we’re suddenly both immersed in the water, warmth burning over the winter chill on my skin. Oleg pinches one nipple as he curls an arm behind my back and draws my body against his. I wrap my legs around his waist. He uses his hand to angle his cock to prod my entrance.
The water and weightlessness make it slippery and hard for him to get in, and a few moments later, I find myself on my knees on the step, my elbows on a cushion from a nearby chaise lounge, and Oleg pounding into me from behind. He grips my hair in his fist disrespectfully, and I love it. I love it because I know this man is the farthest thing from disrespectful outside of the bedroom. He’s the safest scary I’ll ever find, and I find his power and dominance delicious.
He rides me hard, protecting my hips from the side of the tub with his forearm around my waist. I lose my mind, crooning his name, panting, begging for release. His thumb finds my mouth. I suck it hard, hoping to bring him to climax, so I can have mine. It works. He growls and shoves in deep, bucking against my ass as he comes. I climax the moment he goes off, not needing the clit-rub he provides.
