That’s the first thing he asks? Out of all the questions? I almost laugh. It’s fucking boring, and he could have asked me anything.
“Alexei Romanovich Avrorin.”
His nose scrunches. “That’s Russian, right? I tried to search the letters on your tattoo online.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s my turn.”
He closes his eyes for a second and nods.
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
“I honestly don’t know. I wanted to, but you were passed out, and I felt kind of bad calling them on you when you hadn’t really done anything. You know how animals sometimes do stuff when they’re scared, out of desperation? I kind of compared it to that.”
He felt bad? That’s why he didn’t call the cops? I pulled a gun on him, shoved him, and he’s sitting here telling me he pitied me like I was some cornered fucking dog.
I’m out of words, and that’s a rare thing.
Who actually feels bad about reporting an armed man who broke into their clinic? Kelly Mackey is not a human being. No chance. He’s some kind of robot someone forgot to program correctly.
“What happened to you that night? Why didn’t you go to a hospital?”
“That’s two questions.”
“Please.”
Fuck.
“What happened doesn’t matter. It’s being handled. And hospitals weren’t an option. I was losing too much blood. Needed the bullet out immediately.”
His eyes flick to me, then lower, scanning some of the Russian text on my arms, tracing over the patchwork ink. He stares too long at my hand tapping the table.
I’ve already given him two answers in one.
Something happened. I want it.
“Kelly.” My tongue drags across my lip.
His eyes snap to the movement, then meet my eyes.
I rub at my forehead, then just go for it. “What happened to you? Why the sudden record after a lifetime of staying out of trouble?”
His body turns rigid, and color drains from his face. “I’m not answering that. Please don’t make me answer that.”
“Thought we had a deal. Truth for truth.”
“Please take me home.”
So that’s off-limits. He won’t even look at me anymore. Irritation twists sharply in my gut. What happened to him?
I tap the table once. “Fine. You can ask me another question, then I’ll drive you home.”
His head jerks toward me, but he still won’t meet my eyes. “Are you mixed up in something? I mean, bad stuff. Crime. Because you got shot, and normal people don’t just get shot.” He frowns. “You’re not a cop, are you? Or like, I don’t know, a criminal or mafia or whatever. Like Capone.”
It takes everything in me not to react to that. That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Like I’m some stupid cartoon character with a tommy gun and a fedora.
“No. I’m not a cop.”
“But the other thing?”
