Page 11

Why can’t I hire a different car?

He didn’t answer. Several question marks from me later, and still no response. The ungrateful fucker.

I could have let CPS put him in a foster home after our parents died. Instead, I’d gotten a deadbeat uncle from my dad’s side to sober up long enough to convince CPS that between the two of us, we could raise him well.

Had I been such a failure as a father figure that he could so easily cut me out of his life? Should I have let CPS take him to a family that had a clue what they were doing?

I’d done my best, fuck it. He’d been a good kid until that broad came sniffing around. From what I remembered of Yelena, she was nothing like her dad, so she had to take after her mother. She was a dainty little thing, and somehow that had flipped my brother straight into protective mode.

I took another long drag, then stashed the vape. After a heavy exhale, I felt like I could survive a two-hour drive without stabbing Zhukovsky in the neck. My nostrils flared at the memory—the thin line of red my knife had drawn there, the coppery tang of his blood still lingering on my tongue. I had never been that impulsive. I’d always gotten off on the sight of blood, but this was the first time I’d tasted it.

The disgust that had echoed on his face had been worth it, though. My grin came easily as I slid back into the car and pulled the door closed with a thud. I slipped my mask back on.

“Well, Zhukovsky, I’ve been told we don’t have much of a choice.” I turned with one knee hitched on the space between us on the seat, and his gaze dropped to my exposed knee peeking through the torn denim.

There he goes, looking down his nose at me again as if my choice of wardrobe offended him.

“I’m civilized enough to be able to share a ride with you.” He reached into the briefcase on the floor and pulled out a newspaper. “There’s no reason we must speak to each other.”

And just like that, I was dismissed.

Arty fired up the ignition, then pulled out of the parking spot. The engine hummed quietly as he navigated the car away from the airport.

Zhukovsky shook out his newspaper like some caricature of a TV mob boss. He angled it high enough to wall me off, the ultimate fuck-you without saying a word. He was so old-school it was a wonder he was able to function at all. Yet his family was one of the wealthiest in Chicago, and I was barely keeping mine together.

Outside, festive strings of red and green lights draped the terminal awnings, and a giant plastic Santa grinned down at the crowds streaming in and out. The soft sound of a Christmas carol trickled from the car’s speakers, the volume low. Outside might’ve been holiday warmth and cheer, but inside the car, it was all tension and frost.

I slouched back, bouncing one knee, then the other. My hands twitched for something to do. Tap, tap, tap against my thigh. I lasted all of two minutes before fishing out my phone. Sports highlights, maybe. Something to shut my brain up.

Except the words on the screen danced around, the commentators’ voices grated, and my attention kept sliding right back to him. He was still reading his newspaper, the rustle of pages whenever he turned them a constant reminder of his presence.

My gaze flickered over the sharp line of his jaw in profile, the way his salt-and-pepper hair lay just right about his head, shorter at the sides with the top defying gravity. He was well dressed in a suit under his cloak. His shoes gleamed like they’d been kissed by some poor bastard with a rag.

His whole vibe screamed custom-made. Untouchable. A man carved from stone.

My vape burned a hole in my pocket. My fingers itched, but I’d become too reliant on it lately to keep me calm. A notification pinged from my phone, and I grinned.

Well, isn’t this fantastic?

One of my favorite OnlyFans creators had uploaded a new video, and from the thumbnail, the participants were three men. The creator was bisexual, so it was always a guess what each new video would bring. The best thing was to wait to watch later when I could actually jerk off to the video, but I was annoyed by how easily Zhukovsky could ignore me, like I wasn’t worth his time.

Mischief curled through me, hot and reckless. I thumbed the video open and set the volume high enough that the first groan from the preview rattled through the back of the car.

Zhukovsky’s hands tightened on his paper. Just a twitch. But I saw it.

A smirk spread across my face, slow and sweet. I shifted sideways, angling the phone like I was settling in for a feature film, and scrubbed to the juicy part. The sounds filled the car—grunts, slick noises, men panting like they were dying of thirst.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“You like that? Both cocks stretching out that pussy?”

“Ah, don’t mind me.” My voice dripped innocence. “It’s just a little something to keep my eyes open. Wouldn’t want to fall asleep and not wake up from a bullet inside me.”

Zhukovsky’s fingers twitched as he crushed the newspaper in his hands.

“Oh shit.” I widened my eyes. “Look at them go. Fuck, that one’s flexible.”

The paper lowered an inch. Just enough for one gray eye to cut at me.