“I don’t…” She swallows hard—I can feel it against my back. “I don’t feel so…”
Blyat. I know that tone.
I spin toward the tiny bathroom, but I’m not fast enough. She makes this little hiccup sound, then—
“Sorry,” she chokes, and I feel something wet hit the back of my sweatpants.
Yebat menya.
The most dangerous woman in my world just puked down my ass.
30
Clara
“Sorry,” I mumble into his shirt, my cheek pressed against the hard plane of his back. The world spins as he moves, fast and precise. My stomach rolls again.
Oh, God.
Another hiccup escapes, and Leonid curses.
The bathroom light flickers as Leonid practically kicks the door open, nearly taking it off its ancient hinges.
The white porcelain swims in my vision, cracked tiles pressing cold against my knees. Another gag wracks my body, but nothing comes up except the ghost of vodka andpelmeni. The mushroom sauce andborschtdance at the back of my throat, threatening but never delivering.
My stomach clenches. Heaves. Empty.
Thekholodetswas a mistake. Who the fuck eats meat jelly before doing shots?
I do, apparently.
“Blyat,” Leonid mutters above me, his callused fingers surprisingly gentle as they gather my hair back. His ruined hoodie shifts against my skin—God, I can feel the damp spot where it clings to my chest. The same spot where his pants probably need to be burned.
The tiny bathroom spins, black-and-white tiles blurring like a checkerboard kaleidoscope. A broken shower head dangles sadly above a rust-stained tub. Water drips.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“M’sorry about your pants,” I groan between heaves. His grunt is the only response as he reaches around me to run the faucet.
“Arms up,” he orders, and I comply without thinking. The hoodie lifts away, leaving me in just— Oh. Right. That scrap of black lace that’s trying to masquerade as lingerie. The cool air hits my skin, and I shiver.
“It wasn’t that… bad,” I manage. Half-digestedpelmeniand vodka. Could’ve been worse—at least I made it to the toilet.
“You done?” His hand stays between my shoulder blades, ready to aim me back at the toilet if needed. “Or is there morepelmenilooking for revenge?”
My stomach rolls experimentally. “Maybe?” The matching black lace bra suddenly feels like overkill for someone hugging a Soviet-era toilet.“Gimme a minit,”I slur, my tongue tripping over the syllables like it’s drunker than I am.
The nausea rolls again. Nothing comes up, but the taste of vodka lingers, mixing with the sour reminder of everything I tried to prove tonight. His fingers brush my neck as he gathers a few escaped strands of hair.
“Ugh…” I lift my head slowly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. My hair tumbles free as Leonid’s fingers slip away, strands falling around my face like I’m starring in the world’s most pathetic shampoo commercial.
I turn—carefully, because my head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton and vodka—one hand white-knuckling the toilet bowl rim like it’s my only friend in this spinning room. The porcelain groans as I use it to pivot, my other hand sliding on the wet tile until my ass lands with a graceless thump. And suddenly, I come face-to-face with…
Jesus Christ.
My eyes cross slightly, trying to focus on what’s right at my eye level.
The gray sweatpants do absolutely nothing to hide what’s underneath, and drunk or not, I know exactly what that bulge means.
