11. Maksim

11

MAKSIM

" D o you think you'll need any to-go boxes?" the waitress with freckles dotting her chest asks. Her tone is purposefully friendly, but she can't hide her impatience no matter how hard she tries.

I've been sitting at this table by myself for forty-five minutes. Thirty minutes ago when Anya claimed she was down the street, I went ahead and placed two orders of her usual bacon cheeseburger and fries our favorite steakhouse makes and have been sitting here letting the food cool for another fifteen.

I don't know whether to be pissed or worried.

"Uh…" I look at the door, willing my little sister to walk through, and when she doesn't, I turn back to the waitress. "Yeah, two please. And the check."

She smiles politely, relief softening her anxious eyes at freeing up a table.

With a sigh, I pull out my wallet and slide my card onto the edge of the table just as the booth rocks with my teenage sister plopping down across from me.

She shoves long, thick blonde locks over her shoulders and beams at the plate in front of her like I haven't been sitting here for forty … I check my watch … nine minutes.

I could strangle her.

"Oh, thank God, you ordered. I'm starving." She picks up the burger and takes a large bite, moaning as she lets her head fall back, her jaw working as she chews.

The waitress shows up with the to-go boxes and the check, her disappointment now on full display. She gives me a tight-lipped smile before taking my card and walking away.

When Anya sets down her burger, she goes about sucking water through a straw, all the while avoiding my eyes.

"Anya."

Finally, she looks at me, her shoulders straight but her eyes guilty. Sometimes I have no idea if she does this shit on purpose. If she's punishing me. I know that I've failed her, and I wonder if she knows where I went wrong. Because I don't.

She gulps down water then blots her lips dry with her napkin, coating the thing with pink lip gloss. When she sets it down, she swats her hair back dramatically. "Before you rip into me , just know that I'm sorry, okay? Hailey and I got caught up preparing for this huge zoology presentation we have in a couple of days, and I'm talking worth twenty percent of our grade huge. The reception at the library—that's where we were— sucks , so I didn't even take my phone out of my bag and didn't realize what time it was until, like, five minutes after we were supposed to meet. Then," she sighs like the universe has been plotting against her all her life, " of course , the Uber got stuck behind a wreck on the way here—right after I texted you—and then my phone died."

She looks at her plate while picking at a fry. "Honestly, I get it if you're mad, but it really isn't my fault that I'm late, so let's just drop it, okay?"

There's a tightness in my arms that I try to loosen by flexing, but it only seems to make my skin feel as if it's crackling. I move my eyes to a television in a corner airing a baseball game and let it distract me for a moment.

She's lying. Obviously. If I texted her right now, her phone would probably ding. I wouldn't be surprised if she pulled it out, forgetting it's supposed to be dead, and started texting right in front of me.

She wasn't at the library. Kids don't go to the fucking library.

If there's a presentation at school, she's probably paid some kid to make the slideshow. This is Anya.

And ‘Hailey'… God, I want to kill Hailey.

"Okay," I concede. What am I supposed to do?

She nibbles at fries while I stare at her in silence, trying to think of the right things to say. I wish we were closer. I wish I knew something, anything about her life that I could somehow relate to.

Enough time passes with neither of us speaking that if we weren't used to this, it would be awkward. She dives into her burger, but I've lost my appetite, so I pack mine away in a box for Elira. I wonder if this will be the thing she finally likes.

"Is it okay if I stay at Hailey's again tonight?" Anya asks before taking another gulp of water. "We have so much work to do on that presentation."

"I've never known you to be so studious," I say, unable to help myself.

She smiles, but it's anything but friendly. "Yeah, well, you've always been busy with work. You've never really known me to be anything."

Ouch.

"That's not true."

She purses her lips and nods her head in an annoying sure thing gesture, and I force myself to let it go. I really can't tell when she's baiting me versus when she's serious, but I've learned not to engage. Or I'm learning .

I look away a moment to collect myself before folding my arms on the table and leaning toward her. "So how was school?"

She throws her head back in a cruel laugh, putting her hand to her chest for effect. It's bitchy enough that it makes my teeth grind.

"Anya, I'm trying . Please, can we spend a half hour together without fighting?"

"We're not fighting. I'm just not an idiot, big brother. You don't care how school was, so don't waste my time asking."

Don't engage.

Don't engage.

Breathe. Divert. Try again.

Or not.

"If I thought you went to school, I would care how it went, Anya. I would. In fact, if I wasn't fucking afraid to hear about the things you do when you should be in school, I'd even love to have a conversation about that."

I can feel my anger getting the best of me, can feel the heat in my ears, the tightness in my chest.

Anya slumps in her seat but glares defensively. "What are you talking about?"

I lean toward her over the table, my teeth tightly clenched. "Did you have sex on my couch this morning?"

" What ?" She rears back, trying to look shocked by the question, but guilt flashes across her face.

"Did. You…" I close my eyes and take a breath, steadying myself. When I open them, I speak calmly. "I found your bra on the couch when I stopped by the house this morning, and it wasn't there when I left for work."

"So? I came and changed clothes before school. What's the big deal?"

It wasn't before school. It was at ten o'clock according to the tracking app. And she's a fucking liar.

"You changed clothes in the living room?"

"What does it matter?" She flings her hands up, her eyes wide.

"It matters because you're full of shit, Anya," I growl, unable to take it anymore. "We have security cameras. Do you really think I don't see you bringing that tattooed piece of shit into my house when you're supposed to be at school?" I lean back and wipe my hand over my face, smearing the images away.

She knows we have door cameras. It would be stupid not to. What she doesn't realize, and what I don't plan on telling her, is that there's a camera in our living room and throughout most of the house. Except, of course, her bedroom and bathroom.

"Don't call him that," she growls, her black, chipped nail polish catching my eye as she grips the table. "You're not half the man that Tanner is."

I laugh. "I thought his name was Hailey."

"Fuck you." She shoves her plate my way, knocking silverware onto the wooden table. It makes enough commotion that I look around to see we've caught the attention of a few diners nearby.

I lean in and lower my voice, determined to have the last word. "If I could stop you from whoring yourself out to low-life trash, I would. But since it doesn't seem I can, I just ask that you stay off my fucking couch ."

She stands abruptly, her perfect, ivory cheeks now a rosy-red color. The table rattles when she slaps her hand against it and leans toward me. "You don't have to worry about that because I won't be coming to your house ever again. I hate you."

Her eyes, so blue and fierce, show every bit of the hatred she claims to have for me, but they also shine with pain I know in a moment I'll regret bringing on.

As soon as Anya storms away, the waitress returns with my card, as if she knew better than to interrupt our argument. We could've used the interruption.

I follow after Anya and see her climb into the passenger seat of a raised pickup with an obnoxiously loud idle. I don't have to guess who that is.

"Anya," I yell, walking to the truck, but she slams the door shut, and the truck roars away.

"It's your house too," I say to the air, letting my shoulders sag.

But that isn't what I said, is it? My house. My couch.

I let out a sigh and shake my head before heading home, heavy with regret.

When I open my bedroom door and don't immediately see Elira, my muscles wind tight. A flicker of panic tightens my chest.

"Elira?" I call, walking to the bathroom and peeking inside the empty space. I go to the closet next, remembering suggesting to her that she hide inside. She may have heard me get in and thought I was my ‘roommate.' Having her hide in a closet is probably overkill. With the way things with Anya went tonight, she won't be back for a while. But what would I tell her if she did find Elira?

I don't want to think about it. I'd rather Elira just hide.

My breathing becomes shallow as I scan the empty closet.

Shit .

But the alarm didn't go off. How could she…?

My eyes find blankets stacked on a shelf that shouldn't be there, and I remember the chest. It commands my attention now, my head tilting as I stare at the four by three box. Jesus, she actually stuffed herself in there?

I go to it and open the lid to reveal a cramped Elira with her eyes clenched shut as if she still thinks she's hiding from me.

"Hello," I say, barely hiding my amusement.

She opens her eyes and turns her head toward me. When she speaks, her voice is a cautious whisper. "Is he here?"

"No, he's gone for the night."

She lets out a relieved sigh before slowly untangling her limbs and lifting herself out of the chest. I consider helping her, especially when her face twists with pain, but I stand still. When she's finally upright, she presses her hand to her lower back and cringes, arching backward as if her body is a glow stick and she's trying to light up the sky.

I assumed she heard me come in, but she doesn't look like she just jumped in that chest.

"How long have you been hiding?" I ask, stepping from the closet and welcoming her out with me. Even knowing my fake roommate is gone, she still seems hesitant. She isn't nearly as afraid of me as she is of my imaginary friends.

"Since three."

My face has been soft, merely curious, maybe even a little amused, but now I feel my skin tighten.

"What?"

She glances up at me while following me from the closet into my freshly cleaned bedroom. I don't know how I didn't notice it when I walked in. The floor is bare as well as my nightstand, and after a quick sweep I still don't have a clue where any of my shit went. I'm a little too stunned to care.

Three ? It's nine . She's been in there for six hours?

"You said he usually comes home at four."

"I said…"

I said he doesn't come into my room .

I don't finish the sentence. I'd be an idiot to. Am I even sure Anya doesn't come into my room? How would I know when there's no camera in here? Wouldn't it be safest not to assume these things?

It isn't as if I'm forcing Elira into a box and locking it for hours at a time. If she feels it's safest to do that all on her own, who am I to stop her?

"Well, he isn't coming home tonight," I say instead of finishing my thought.

Her arms cross over a white blouse a couple sizes too big, and it draws my attention to the oversized slacks she's wearing as well, but they don't hide the subtle curve of her hips. The wife's clothes remind me again what this girl is capable of.

Even in ill-fitting clothes, her beauty still strikes me. I don't know if it's actually her looks or if I'm imagining things after what I now know about her, but her eyes hold a fierceness to them that I know without a doubt could never be tamed. Her lips, full and supple, are either great for sucking cock or merely a cover for vicious teeth.

This girl isn't a whore. She's a vixen.

I gesture toward my bedroom door and walk that way. "Come on, I brought food."

Her feet patter after me, soft and light like a mouse (or an assassin) to the kitchen where the to-go box awaits on the bar. Elira silently slides onto a stool without needing the command and stares at the Styrofoam container with suspicious, disapproving eyes.

When I slide it to her, she carefully opens it, her eyes softening when she sees food that must look edible by her standards. I watch with a curious amount of anticipation as she picks up the burger.

I lived in Russia until I was nine years old. This is not my home country. But still, as she bites into that burger, I wait with a strange feeling as if it isn't only the food she's judging, it's me. So far, I am what she knows of America, and I do not impress. It wouldn't matter if it didn't remind me so painfully of my own experiences.

With that thought, a memory flashes that I immediately shove down, choosing instead to focus on Elira. That life was decades ago. It's over. It's done.

As she chews and swallows, she gives me no indication of what she thinks. No expression, good or bad, crosses her features, and for some reason, it irritates me.

"Well?" I ask, realizing I'm leaning toward her on the bar.

She looks up as if she's just noticed I'm still here. "Hmm?"

I splay one of my palms. "What do you think?"

"Oh." Her eyes dip to her lap while she tucks hair behind her ear. "It's, um. It's good. Thank you."

Thank you?

A little red flag waves in my mind, and I find my eyes constricting slightly. She's being especially polite this evening.

"Of course," I say through my growing suspicion.

I watch intently as she eats the burger like the good girl I know she isn't, just waiting for some kind of snarky remark to come from her. But it doesn't, and not knowing what has caused the sudden change in demeanor makes me uncomfortable.

My eyes lower to her tits. "I liked the dress better."

Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she looks down at the blouse, baggy in the chest.

"This is umm…" I wave my hand at her while I pretend to be thinking of a word. "Less than flattering."

"Oh…" She crosses her arms over her chest, apparently finished with her food. "I'll wear it tomorrow for you, then."

I'll wear it tomorrow for you, then .

What the fuck is she doing?

"I'd rather you wore it now. Or nothing at all." My voice is cold and reprimanding, as if she did something wrong by looking anything less than the sexy piece of ass she's supposed to be. I only mean to poke, to test, to tug that fiery girl out of her just to make sure I still have her figured out.

But my cold words, the thought of commanding her to take her clothes off, the thought that she may one day listen, heats my blood. Desire starts to crackle inside of me as I watch her, waiting for the fireworks to go off.

She looks at me with an expression as cold as my voice. She looks pissed. Her eyes hold a contempt that brings a comforting ease to my confusion, revealing that she was merely forcing herself to be polite. Maybe she's gotten smart. Maybe she isn't trying to be the manipulative little minx I know she can be.

I can't help but smile.

But then, as one corner of her lip crooks upward, my smile falls. She stands like she's about to call my bluff.

Her eyes never leave mine as she unbuttons her slacks and lets them fall off her hips into a puddle on the floor. I try to hold her stare, but my gaze betrays me and wanders to her long, slender legs. Her white, cotton panties are simple, as I guessed they would be. On another woman, I might like a thong, but it wouldn't look right on her. She's… I don't know. Different.

She lifts the blouse over her head next and tosses it to the floor before standing straight and peering into what I'm sure to her must look like weak, hungry eyes.

I am not this man. I abhor men who could let something as abundant as pussy bring them to their knees, but I'm ashamed to say my knees are shaking.

Fucking. Bitch.

"Is this what you want?" she asks, her voice silk. She's proud of herself. She'll lock herself in a box for six hours to avoid being fucked by a man she's never seen, but for me, she'll strip to only her panties as a way to tell me to go to hell. Strange, isn't it?

I don't answer. My voice would be even weaker than my eyes, so instead, I just take her in, looking over her perky tits outlined with a bikini top tan. She must've swam hours and hours in the Adriatic Sea to get that hourglass figure.

She's looked confident up to this point, but as she walks to me she's cautious, and the triumphant gleam in her eyes fades. She pauses in front of me, inches away, and says nothing, just stares at me, waiting. Waiting for me to make my move.

I do.

My hand, having a mind of its own, reaches out to caress a lock of her soft, dark hair. When I drop it, I move the back of my fingertips to her ear, down her neck, over her collarbone, her shoulder, then dip it part way down her arm.

I breathe in her scent, leaning in without thinking about it, and let my hand brush across her chest.

My cock strains against my pants, begging, demanding to take what's mine. What appears Elira is offering.

When I look at her face, my eyelids drooping, I see her eyes closed and her lips shut tightly. I can't tell if she's afraid, but I'd guess she's more expectant than anything. Then again, I'm not sure what she expects. I'm not sure what I expect.

I've never had a whore, never wanted one. The type of man who desires to own another human being is the type of man too weak to stand on his own. How pathetic it is to need to have full control over someone in order to have influence.

How pathetic it is to have to own a woman in order to get her to fuck you.

Surely, I can do better.

I look away, a breath stuttering past my lips as I let my hand skate down her side before I pull it away.

"That's better," I say, taking a small step back and clearing my throat. "You could stand to eat more. You're a little far on the thin side, but getting rid of the frumpy clothes is a good first step."

She opens her eyes, and I grin in anticipation of seeing her anger, but it isn't there. Her brown eyes go wide before they drop to the floor, and she covers herself in what looks like shame.

Fuck, too far.

She turns and scurries toward the hall.

"Elira, wait."

I stride after her, and when I take her shoulder, she spins to face me but doesn't meet my eyes. "I'm teasing . I'm sorry, I… I don't know why I said that."

She shakes her head, still not looking at me. Her cheeks are bright red. "I'm your whore, Maksim. You're allowed your preferences."

"No, you…" I look up, searching for words, not quite sure why I'm explaining myself. Maybe it's because of my night with Anya. Maybe I just can't take being this big of an asshole in interactions too close together. "I was trying to get a rise out of you, Elira. I like it sometimes when you're fiery, that's it. You're not too skinny."

"You said you…" She closes her eyes a moment as her fists ball in frustration. "You said you wanted me to be good."

"I know." I nod. "And I do."

"But I…" She looks down and gestures at her naked chest. When she looks back up, she has a desperate gloss to her eyes, and her lips are parted. "I don't understand what you want from me."

When she blinks away moisture that her lashes collect, my words catch in my chest.

What do I want from her? Honestly?

Nothing.

"Maksim, please," she cries, stepping toward me and clinging onto my shirt. My eyes widen with confusion. This is a side I've yet to see from Elira, and I've seen her in much more desperate situations. "Please, just tell me what you want me to be."

Putting my hands up, I try to coo. "Okay, calm down."

She takes several deep breaths, but they seem all but calm. I glance down at her chest before removing my shirt and handing it to her. She pulls it over her head in jerky movements.

"I am sorry about the skinny comment, okay?" I say with regret.

"I don't care about that!" Her eyes pop like her head is exploding, sending me back a step. "I was standing in front of you naked , and you still didn't want me. What am I supposed to do differently? Please, I… I'm so confused."

I stand with my head tilted for a moment, trying to process that.

Did she want me to fuck her?

No. No, I'm certain of that. The tightly closed lips, the clenched eyes… No, she didn't want it.

So what exactly is the problem?

"What do you want, Elira?" I ask, just as confused as she is.

She shakes her head. "I'm the whore. It doesn't matter what I want."

"It does if I say it does."

She narrows her eyes. Once again, I'm the enemy. "Fine, then I want to go home." Her eyes soften. "Please."

"No," I automatically say. "Not that. Obviously not that."

Her shoulders slump as if she really believed she had a chance, but it doesn't work that way. If it did, I wouldn't be here either.

She closes her eyes, and after only a few moments, opens them with a new strength straightening her shoulders. "I want your protection."

From? I almost ask, but it's unnecessary. My imaginary roommate is the least of her worries.

When it comes to the Bratva, yes, she needs me. Her life would be worse off without me being in it, but my boss has locked that into place for her, so she need not worry.

But that organization… They will come. I would bet my life Daniel had security cameras just as I do, and his associates will be tracking us soon enough. When that time comes, she'll need me to not give her up, which would be my get-out-of-whore-free card that has not slipped my mind.

Now I understand the politeness, the eagerness to please, the desperation.

I must take too long to answer because her eyes leave me, and she purses her lips.

"You have no idea what this is like," she whispers, pushing hair out of her face with a shaking hand. "To you, this is one big joke. You can tease me as you call it and mock me, but you have no idea what it's like to be at the mercy of another person. You have no idea how terrified I am, all the time, and still, you joke…" She shakes her head, then angrily swipes a finger beneath both eyes.

I take her hand and gently put it back at her side before stepping within inches of her. She cranes her neck to look up at me.

There are so many things I could say. So many lies I could tell. I don't know this girl. Before a few days ago, she was nothing to me. She didn't exist. And if I'm honest with myself, if she had never tried to kill me, if she hadn't piqued my curiosity and earned my respect when she revealed herself to be a fighter, she would still not exist to me.

But she does exist to me. I see her. I see her pain. And as much as she'd never believe it, I do care.

"I know what it's like."

She blinks, then furrows her brow with confusion, but I don't explain further. It's been a long day, and I'm tired, too tired to dig up old wounds just to prove to her I know what pain feels like.

I allow my gaze to linger on her for a few more seconds before I pry myself away from her questioning gaze to go to my room, shower in mind, surprised when Elira doesn't follow.