The Enforcer (Chicago Bratva #3) - Renee Rose Page 0,28
and back to cradle me against him. I lean my head against his giant shoulder, and he shakes open the bagel bag and brings it under my nose.
I shove my hand in the bag and fish for a cinnamon raisin one. Oleg cracks open the cream cheese and hands me a plastic knife.
“Mmm, this is good.” I reach for the coffee, opening a tiny container of half and half and dumping it in. “They make these too small, don’t you think?”
Of course, he doesn’t acknowledge my words. I don’t really expect him to. It’s okay, I can talk enough for two of us.
“I need, like, five of these for one coffee.” I open the other three packets that were on the table and empty them into my cup then try my coffee. Still too black.
Oleg’s brow wrinkles, like he’s concerned.
I shrug. “I’ll live. I’m just grateful for the coffee. You don’t drink it?”
“When did you even go to get bagels?” I straighten myself on his lap to spread the cream cheese. I twist to look at him and raise my brows. I swear to God, he’s going to have to start trying to communicate. I mean, he could gesture. He could draw, like he did at my apartment to let me know to move the van.
This is a problem for me. Oleg doesn’t just not speak. It’s like he’s abandoned all other methods of communication as well.
Maybe no one tries with him. He’s been written off. Or he wrote himself off. That thought sends a sharp shard of pain straight through my chest because it rings true, but I steel myself against it.
I know I’m probably nuts. The red flag should’ve been when he got shot in front of my apartment or when I saw him expertly assassinate three men in about fifteen seconds. But that’s not it for me. I don’t know, I’ve already seen and experienced some crazy things in my short life. I’ve witnessed death before. Not murder, but a drug overdose at a party and a car accident. Oh, and two friends committed suicide when I was in high school. My tolerance for trauma has been built up.
For me, the red flag is this side of Oleg. The stone-faced man who doesn’t respond to direct questions. I want the guy who makes his thoughts felt and heard, through his touch, through his energy. The guy I got to know at my apartment before his friends showed up.
I don’t know what’s going on with him. I don’t know who those men were or what they wanted from him. I don’t know what Oleg’s thinking about at all and what he plans to do. But I do know that Oleg needs to figure out how to explain things to me.
I wish I had a smartphone. We could probably find an app to translate-text to each other, but all I have is my flip phone. I’ve been stubborn about upgrading—half because I like how much it shocks people that I’m still on the earliest cell phone technology and partly because it’s an expense I don’t care to incur. My money goes to stuff for the band. I never needed a fancy phone.
I finish my bagel and coffee. “I missed you last night. At my show.” I don’t say it to make him feel bad. Only because I want him to know. He matters. We may have rarely spoken all those months, but I felt his participation and vitaly and viscerally as I felt the strings under my fingers or the mic in my hand.
His gaze holds regret.
“Where were you?”
His expression closes. Turns blank. It’s his non-answering face. Frustration wells in me. I set the guitar back in the case.
“Were you in hiding?”
No answer.
“Why were those guys after you?”
Of course, he can’t answer that one, but he’s gone dead on me, and it drives me freaking insane. I snap up the locks on my guitar case and slide off the bed. “Listen, you can’t do that to me. I know you can’t speak, but there are so many other ways to communicate, and you don't even try.”
He stares at me, eyes wide. At least I got his expression to change.
I wait, but he still makes no move. No gesture. No attempt.
“Well, I’m not sticking around for this,” I say, even though it feels all wrong to leave.
And I’m a chronic leaver.
But this would’ve happened eventually. I knew that when it started. It’s how all my relationships fizzle. This one just