“You think they bugged this place?” Boris asks as he closes the door behind himself.
I glance around, trying to determine if anything looks out of place. “No clue.”
Fuck, I’m exhausted.
I don’t know if I can sleep, though.
My body is wound up, and I keep looking around for something. I don’t know what I’m searching for until my eyes land on a notebook on my coffee table. The pages are lined for sheet music, and the notes are written in pencil.
Micah.
I want Micah.
IneedMicah.
I slump down onto the couch and pick up the notebook. This is the piece he was working on. The one he played tonight after hours of practice, hours of rewriting the notes until the whole piece flowed as perfectly as he envisioned.
My eyes start to itch.
Boris suddenly sits down next to me, and I startle, nearly dropping the notebook.
“That’s his, right?” Boris asks. “His music.”
“Yes.” I sigh and set the notebook back on the coffee table. “He’s got such a good ear for music. It was amazing how quickly he would compose music, or know how to play something based on a show we watched.”
“You watched shows with him?” Boris’s eyebrows shoot up. “I thought you said American TV was all schmalzy trash.”
“It is!” I chuckle sadly. “But Mishka enjoyed it. And he tried to explain some of the more complicated jokes to me.”
“Huh.” Boris sets his feet up on the coffee table and looks up at the ceiling. “Sounds like he played you well.”
I curl my hands into fists. “No. He didn’t play me. He wasn’t tricking me. Whatever was going on, he didn’t want to do it. That fucking pig-faced motherfucker, the cop… You saw how he had his hands all over Mishka. How Mishka cowered because of him. Mishka didn’t?—”
“Boss,” Boris interrupts. “I get it. You’re head over heels for him. But that doesn’t mean he’s into you, too.”
It really doesn’t.
My heart is heavy in my chest. “I have to believe in him,” I say softly. “If I don’t… If I don’t…”
I didn’t realize how much a broken heart could hurt.
All my life, I judged other men for being so stupid about women.
But I get it now.
I understand why they’d go to such lengths to be with a specific woman—a specific person.
I feel completely hollow.
Boris awkwardly pats my shoulder, and I appreciate the gesture despite how unfamiliar it is.
I sit there, breathing softly, staving off an even more embarrassing display.
Finally I say, “Dronov called.”
“Dronov? What’s that fuckface want?” Boris asks. He squeezes my shoulder once before letting go and scooting away from me.
I laugh at the open show of disrespect. “He said he has a spot for me. Andreyevich died. Or was killed. Whatever.”
