“Who?”
“Pardon me, sir?”Now he looks up, confusion pinching his brows.
“Who sent the drink? And what was it? Smells like a can of beer made out with a box of Red Hots.”
“Red Hots, sir?”
“Sorry. American cinnamon candy. They’re…strong.”
“Ah. Here we have Zimtsterne. A cinnamon cookie we make for holidays.”After wrinkling his nose, the server swipes a damp rag over the tile, then stands.“The bartender called the drink a Kvasya. I do not see the gentleman who ordered it.”
“What did he look like?” As soon as I’m alone, I’ll look up the drink name, or—if Marina finally tells Sloane about me—ask her why it made her freak the fuck out, but right now, finding the guy who sent it to her is a hell of a lot more important.
“Shorter than you, sir. Black hair. Wide nose. Brown eyes. He was in a suit that did not fit him well. Ask Bernard. He may know more.”Pointing to the same bartender whose palm I greased earlier, he nods at the tray. “I must return this to the kitchen.”
He’s gone before I can thank him—not that I want him remembering my face—or that I asked so many questions.
Bernard doesn’t have much more to offer besides one very telling bit of information. The man who ordered the drink—and told him how to make it—had a distinct Russian accent.
“And he did not tip,” Bernard says, his mouth curving into a frown.“I provide my services to events like this every weekend. Most have two types of guests.”
“Oh?” This should be interesting.
“Those who remember what it is to work hard for a living and those who prefer to forget.”
Offering Bernard a weary smile as I tuck another ten franc note into his tip jar. “And which type am I?”
“You, my friend, are unique. A man used to hard work, but with the means to forget. Or to be forgotten.”
“Forgotten, Bernard. Let’s go with forgotten.”
* * *
Sloane
The elevator ride up to our suite passes in a blur. The disgusting odor of the Kvasya fills the small space, and memories hit me from all sides. Dimitri’s fetid breath after he had his third or fourth of the night. How once, when I angered him, he punched me hard enough to break my nose, then threw the drink in my face.
That night, I tried to sleep with toilet paper shoved up my nostrils, but that wasn’t enough to dull the sweet, cinnamon stench.
“Sloane? Look at me, sweetie?” Marina cups the back of my neck, and I meet her gaze. “We’re safe.”
I blink hard and see the cream-colored walls of our suite. Shit. I didn’t even realize we’d gotten off the elevator. My toes are sticky, and the brand new shoesBeauty and Stylesent to go with my dress? They’re ruined.
“I have to get out of these clothes.” I don’t give Marina a chance to say another word before I lock myself in the bathroom. Sinking down onto the edge of the tub, I unbuckle the strappy heels and dump them into the sink before spinning the hot water knob as far as it will go.
I’ll have to pay for those. But I don’t give a damn. Even if the brand new Louboutins likely retail for over $1000.
The dress is unscathed, thank God, and I reach under my arm to undo the hook and eye catch and lower the zipper. A few rational thoughts start to hammer away at my hysteria, and I shut off the water and open the door to a very worried Marina with her hand raised, ready to knock.
“Don’t ask. Please,” I whisper. “Just take care of the dress and get me something to change into?”
My best friend folds me into a gentle hug. “No more secrets, remember?”
“Marina—”
“Shhh. You don’t need to explain right this minute. But don’t think I’m going to be patient for much longer.” Helping me out of the dress, she drapes it over her shoulder and arches her brows. “Arms up. You know that bra is a bitch to get out of.”
She’s not wrong. The strapless number relies on adhesive to hold it in place, and Ihatepeeling it off.
