“Even when you were fucking her?” John asked, like his crassness was supposed to be shocking.
Oh, but the truth was more shocking.
“Especially when I was fucking her, and then I felt like a little shit because going through the motions for my own pleasure meant I was a soulless prick.”
John’s exaggerated blink confirmed my suspicions. “That’s a lot.”
“Yeah, it was.”
“But you don’t feel that with Lexi?”
Truth blurred. “Lexi is different than anyone I’ve ever met. I was drawn to her immediately. Our eyes met, and I couldn’t get her out of my head. I followed her outside and practically stalked her. I was obsessed with her. I still am,” I lied. I needed to thoroughly disseminate this story, to tell these lies to John and anyone else who would listen to cover up my quickie marriage, so the rumors of a real marriage might get back to Volkov.
And yet, the words swirled in my brain, ringing like bells.
Different.
Obsessed.
I am.
“Fortwo years?”John asked.
The spiral of lemon peel balancing on the edge of my squat highball glass toppled in, drowning in the liquor. As a blade of light sliced through the glass, tiny spots of citrus oil marred the surface of the whiskey. “It seems like I’ve known her my whole life.”
“Okay. I get it. I mean, Idon’tget it. But let’s get back to Magnus and Ryan and those other guys. They’re going to think we ducked out for one last blow job for my bachelor party.”
The strobing chandelier turned to neon streaks as I rolled my eyes. “Jesus, John. What happens in the dorms, stays in the dorms. Besides, you said you liked the taste.”
CHAPTER 12
the canary sings
DEMYAN VOLKOV
“So Nicolai Romanov is there at nightclub,” Demyan Volkov muttered into the phone, trying not to growl. “Him and new wife.”
There was a pause, a too-long pause, of silence. “Yeah, I’m trying to get video of them now, but they confiscated everyone’s phone except for John Borbón’s inner circle. I have a burner phone, though. I’ll try to send you something, but if Borbón’s Gestapo security guys see me taking pictures, they’ll shove the phone up my ass,” the male voice on the other end said.
Such babies, these next-generation children. During Volkov’s KGB days, no one would have complained or explained why they could not do a task. They would do the task or suffer the consequences to themselves and their families.
“I need proof of Romanov’s wife,” Volkov said. “If he thinks he can fool me with fake wife, with streetwalker or substandard Slovenian escort, I need to know. I need picture for face matching.”
“Why would he do something like that?”
“You don’t need to know.”
“Right.”
Because Romanov would not fool Volkov with such an easy deception. Volkov’s decades with KGB made him patient, made him meticulous, and he would not be fooled by an amateur princeling with no kingdom.
“I’ll do what I can,” the guy said.
This turncoat had called himself Canary when he’d been introduced to Volkov over the phone, not his real name. Amateurs who wanted a code name when they played at spy games irritated Volkov.
“You will,” Volkov said. “You will get me picture, and then I will pay.”
Another pause of flat silence.
