Chapter 13

Iwrap my arms tightly around Mikhail as he rides through the desert, the world tinged yellow as the sun rises. We left the compound via a secret entrance at the back. When Mikhail brushed his thumb onto what looked like any other part of the wall, a section of it made a mechanical whirring noise and moved away. Then we walked a short distance to a garage, and now we're riding free.

Clutching onto him tighter, I can hear my laughter within the helmet. Mikhail isn't wearing one; there was only one in the garage. His hair has come loose, wildly fluttering in the wind. He laughs, too.

"What's so funny?" he yells over the rushing wind.

"Ask yourself that. You're the one laughing!"

We both keep going, laughing like precisely what we are—lust- and love-drunk people who have had almost no sleep and a double dose of stress. After another ten minutes, Mikhail pulls up outside a gas station. "Let's get some breakfast," he says.

"Okay. I need to use the bathroom, too."

Mikhail looks down at me, his jaw tight, his eyes searing into me. I know what he's thinking without having to ask.

"I won't make a run for it."

His lip twitches. "I never said you would."

"You didn't have to."

The gas station is deserted except for one employee sitting behind the glass window. The road is empty. Maybe that's why I feel comfortable stepping forward and throwing my arms around him, standing on my tiptoes and leaning so close I can feel his warm breath on my face. "I don't want to run away from you."

Even if, maybe, I should. Even if falling for the Sokolov spare was never part of the plan.

"You risked your life to save a stranger," he says. "You're a good, pure person, Mila."

"Uh … thanks?"

"What I'm saying is …" He gives me a quick but extremely hot kiss. "… you've got every reason to want to run."

"Trust me," I tell him. "I won't be long."

"Meet back here, then," he says, kissing me again.

When he walks away, it's with that tight, almost angry posture. I know he's thinking about returning to the bike and finding me gone, but he's giving me the benefit of the doubt. He's trusting me, and that means a lot.

I go to the restroom, which isn't as gross as I feared. After laying a bunch of toilet tissue on the seat—I may not want to be a princess, but this is fair, I think—I sit down and get to my business.

I'm flushing the toilet when a man's low, weirdly aggressive voice comes from the main part of the restroom. This is the ladies' room, so hearing the voice instantly has me on alert.

"Anyone in here?" he grunts. "Cleaning staff. Announce yourself!"

Reminding myself that he's probably just a guy sick of his job, I reply, "Yeah, I'm in here. I'm coming out now."

He sighs heavily as though this is the biggest inconvenience he can imagine. When I walk out of the stall, he's leaning against the sink, his fist wrapped around the wooden handle of his mop. If I had to guess, he's around thirty: tall, wide, and slightly overweight. Heck, not that I'm judging.

When habit takes me to the sink, he snaps, "Really? Jesus Christ."

I turn away from the sink on instinct, just like when Dad snaps something at me, just like all my life, when aggression has meant swallowing what I want, what I need, my feelings, my desires, and putting his first. So I turn back to the sink and start washing my hands, taking my time about it. When I walk over to the hand dryer, he grunts, "Ha, ha, ha, got a comedienne here, folks."

"Who are you talking to?" I snap, making for the door. "The only people that find you interesting? The people in your head?"

I walk toward the exit, but he suddenly darts into my path. I'm rethinking my smart words as he leans over me, his eyes narrowed. He looks exhausted and angry and ready for something to happen. "Missy, that ain't a very intelligent thing to say now, is it? For all you know, my wife left me last week. For all you know, some uppity bitch like you put a bunch of foolish notions into her head. For all you know, I could be looking for a chance to make this right. I could just be waiting, waiting, waiting for my shot. Is that what you want to be, girl? Do you want to be my shot?"

Glaring at him, I try to persuade the fear to leave me the hell alone. But it twists through me, trying to close my throat with nerves. The sleeplessness helps me, I think, and so does the fact I'm just sick and tired of this crap.

"You can take your shot," I tell him. "But just know, the second you try any crap, I'll scream, and my boyfriend will be in here like that."

When I snap my fingers, the man snorts. "Missy, I've tousled too often in my life to give a single hot dang about a thing like that. I'm too damn tired, and you've been too damn rude."

"You were the one rushing me for no reason!"

"I got twenty of these shitters to hit before noon. No reason? You on crack or something?"

"Just let me go," I snap.

He moves into my path with a cruel, familiar smirk. If he had wave upon wave of sweat dripping down his face, he'd look exactly like my father. "Not until you apologize. Too many folks these days think they can go anywhere they want, saying any damned thing to any damned person they want. Not anymore."

"I've got nothing to apologize for," I say, relieved when my voice doesn't shake.

"Then we'll be here for a while unless you're gonna scream."

He snorts out a laugh as if he isn't afraid. I try to walk past him again, moving along the way, but he moves his wide body into my path.

"Do you really want to do this?" I ask.

"Just say sorry. That's all, doll."

"I'm not doing that, and I'm not your doll."

"Then you better get comfortable. Or bring your man in here so I can bust his nose wide open. I'm a dangerous man. I'm not somebody you want to mess with. Believe me."

"And my boyfriend is?"

"Mila?" Mikhail calls from the doorway. "Are you okay in there?"

Lowering my voice, I tell the cleaner, "Just move out of my way."

The man's smirk gets wider. If I could see his code, I bet it would be something like: This girl's scared. She knows I'm going to hurt her boyfriend. She knows I'm going to win. My bitch wife left me. I won't be disrespected anymore.

"She's not okay, buddy!" the man yells.

Right away, Mikhail bursts into the bathroom. When he sees the man blocking my path, he darts forward and grabs the man by the shirt, then spins and shoves him up against the wall so hard it's like the entire bathroom trembles. Mikhail is slightly shorter than the man—which is saying a lot—but even so, he lifts him off his feet with two hands buried in his shirt.

The cleaner's entire demeanor changes as he kicks his feet uselessly. He grips onto Mikhail's forearms, staring down at him in disbelief.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, pal?" Mikhail says, his loose hair flowing wildly. "Hmm? Speak."

"I-I …"

"He was being a jerk," I tell Mikhail. "Trying to rush me. When I washed my hands anyway, he started talking about his ex-wife. He wanted to bully me so he felt better about her leaving him. Who cares? He's not worth it, Mikhail."

Mikhail nods as I speak but never takes his eyes off the cleaner. Slowly, he lowers him to his feet but keeps his hands on his shirt, staring at the man like he's ready for a fight.

"What were you going to do if I didn't come in here? Or let's say I did, but I was smaller, weaker, and scared. What were you going to do, tough guy?"

"I-I-I'm sorry," he says.

"Don't apologize to me."

He turns to me. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm just, jeez, I'm sorry."

It's like he's suddenly woken up to find himself in this situation. There's just something about Mikhail beyond his size, beyond his strength, beyond the fact he lifted this man off his feet without hesitation.

Mikhail glances at me. "Mila?" he says.

"Yeah?"

"What do you want me to do with the prick?"

Mikhail's tone turns darker, flooded with fury, and I know right away, without a doubt, that he'll do whatever I say. He'll always stand by his woman.