Page 26 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

Maybe she'll even be there. "Damn it," I curse, slapping my hand against the steering wheel.

I'm acting like a sick puppy looking for attention, hoping she'll be there.

The club is loud when I walk in, music pounding through the speakers and bodies packed onto the dance floor. I make my way through the crowd, nodding at a few of the regulars who recognize me, and head toward the bar.

Sharon, the blonde bartender who was with Marla the night we met, is working behind the bar, mixing drinks and chatting with customers.

I make my way over, sliding onto a barstool and waiting for her to notice me. When she does, her eyes widen slightly, and I can see the moment she recognizes me.

"Mr. Stepanov," she says, her voice a little too bright. "What can I get you?"

"Whiskey," I say, watching her carefully. "Neat."

She pours the drink quickly, her hands steady despite the nervousness I can see in her eyes. She sets the glass in front of me and starts to move away, but I stop her.

"Sharon, right?" I say casually, taking a sip of the whiskey.

She nods, her smile faltering slightly. "That's right."

"You were here a few weeks ago with a friend. Redhead, blue eyes." I pause and offer a slight smile. "Curvy."

Her nervousness increases, and I can see her trying to figure out where this is going. "Marla. Yeah, she's my best friend."

"Marla," I repeat. "She doesn't come here often, does she?"

"No," Sharon says carefully. "She's not really a club person. She mostly keeps to herself. Look, Mr. Stepanov, I don't mean to be rude, but I really need to get back to work. We're slammed tonight."

"Of course," I say, taking another sip of my whiskey. "One more question. Does she come here often? To the club?"

Sharon's eyes narrow slightly, and I can see her protective instincts kicking in. "Not really. Like I said, she's not a club person. She only came those few times because I convinced her to get out of the house."

"Those few times," I repeat, catching the plural. "How many times has she been here?"

"I don't know," Sharon says, her voice getting defensive. "A few. Why are you asking about her?"

"Just curious," I say, keeping my tone casual. "She seemed interesting."

Sharon studies me for a long moment, and I can see her trying to decide how much to say. Finally, she leans in slightly, her voice dropping. "Look, I don't know what's going on, but Marla is a good person. She's been through a lot, and she doesn't need any complications."

Before I can respond, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. I turn to see Alex walking into the club, his eyes scanning the crowd until they land on me. A smirk crosses his face, and he makes his way over to the bar.

"Russ," he says, sliding onto the barstool next to me. "Didn't expect to see you here tonight."

"Could say the same about you," I reply, taking another sip of my whiskey.

Alex's smirk widens, and I know he knows exactly why I'm here. We're both here for the same reason, and the realization is both irritating and amusing.

"Checking on business?" Alex asks, his tone making it clear he doesn't believe that for a second.

"Something like that," I say, finishing my drink and standing up. "I was just leaving."

"Sure you were," Alex says, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

I leave the club without another word, getting back in my car and starting the engine. I should go home. I should go back to my place, get some sleep, and forget about this entire fucking day.

But as I drive through the city, I find myself taking turns without thinking. It's not until I'm on the road leading out of town that I realize where I'm going.

Marla's cottage is about five miles outside the city, down a winding road that cuts through the woods. I've only been there once, but apparently once was enough for my brain to memorize the route.