All the Lies We Tell (Quarry Road #1)(4)

He wasn’t interested in being anyone’s front or back piece, either. Him and relationships? No, thanks. He’d done that already, all serious and committed and monogamous, and look what had happened. The sour sting of that experience still lingered. Probably always would. And why? Because he’d done his best to love Allie and be good to her, and in the end all he’d done was make a mess of things. That was all he was good for: screwing up.

He couldn’t blame her for it. Their relationship had been doomed from the start. Tumultuous and emotional and stupid. It had ended as abruptly as it had begun; he’d come home one day to an empty house and a note telling him she’d moved back across the street into the house her parents had left behind when they moved to Arizona. There’d been no counseling, no “working it out.” Ten years and it was over, yet they were still a part of each other’s lives and would likely always be. They were family.

They’d once filled an empty space within each other, one that nobody else could ever understand.

Maybe that was why he’d been an * and tried to come on to her this morning, he thought as he stood in the shower under water still too chilly for comfort. Because, despite last night and Amber, all Ilya had was a still-empty space. He pushed those thoughts away because, damn, it was too early for self-contemplation. Hissing at the sting, Ilya twisted the faucet handle sideways, to get beneath the water so he could scrub his armpits, still rank from the night’s acrobatics and not helped by his morning exercise. The showerhead had come off a few years ago, and he hadn’t replaced it, which meant the water shot out of a single pipe sticking out of the wall with enough force to abrade him in every tender place if he didn’t stand at just the right angle. He winced at the scratches along his back and sides. Next time, he told himself, he’d make sure to pick up a woman who didn’t have talons.

He heard the muffled sound of the landline ringing again but didn’t bother to get out of the shower to answer it. The only calls that came through on that number were solicitors or scams. Or his ex-wife, he thought, calling to chastise him about naked front-lawn yoga. He took his time scrubbing and rinsing, then stepped out of the water and rubbed his hair dry with a towel that smelled faintly of mildew—shit, he needed to do laundry. Again. What the hell was up with that?

Ilya tossed the damp towel toward the basket and went, still naked, down the hall into his bedroom, where he dug through another pile of clothes to give them a sniff test to determine whether they were clean enough to wear a second time. He was going to be in his scuba gear most of the day, anyway, or a pair of trunks and a T-shirt, so what difference did it make that he picked out a pair of grass-stained cargo pants and a tank top with a hole in the side? He wasn’t entering a fashion show.

His phone buzzed from on top of the dresser, then went silent, which meant he’d missed a call. A moment later, the landline rang again, sounding louder this time, since there was still a handset hanging in the hallway outside his bedroom. Pulling up his briefs with one hand and hopping on one foot, Ilya headed for the doorway. His shoulder connected with the door frame hard enough to bounce him backward, and he let out a curse of pain as he managed to unhook the phone from its cradle, but then dropped it and kicked it out of reach when he bent to lift it.

Behind him, on the dresser, his phone buzzed again.

“This better be important!” he barked into the landline when he at last was able to snag it.

“Mr. Stern?”

“Mr. Stern’s my dad,” Ilya said, ever the smart-ass, and unable to stop himself. His father had died when Ilya was two. He didn’t even remember him. “Who’s this?”

“Ummm . . . I’m trying to reach Ilya Stern?” Whoever it was pronounced the name as “Eye-lah” and not “Ill-ya,” which set him directly into telephone-solicitor territory.

“Wrong number.” Ilya slammed the phone back on its cradle, hard enough to shake it on the ancient screws barely securing it into the plaster.

His cell hummed with another call, this time adding a few beeps to indicate a voicemail. Damn, he was popular this morning. Throwing on his pants and tugging his shirt over his head, he thumbed in the code to listen to his messages. There were three. Two from a number he didn’t recognize, with nothing but the empty hiss of air for a message.

The third was from his brother, Nikolai. He hadn’t heard from Niko in a couple of months—nothing unusual about that. Niko had been living overseas for the past few years. Niko hadn’t been stupid enough to get married too young. He’d been smart enough to get the hell out of Covey County and see the world instead.

Without listening to more than the first few words of Niko’s message, Ilya thumbed his brother’s number instead. “Yo. What’s up?”

Silence.

“Niko?”

“Ilya . . . you didn’t listen to the message, huh?”

“No.” Ilya paused his search for a pair of shoes. He straightened. “What’s going on?”

“The nursing home’s been trying to get hold of you for like an hour, man. They finally got me on my cell, but that was a lucky shot. I just happened to be taking a break from work and checked my messages.”

Ilya sat on the rickety chair in the corner, knees suddenly weak. “You sound bad. What is it?”

“It’s Babulya,” Niko said with an edge in his voice. “She’s . . . they say she doesn’t have long to live. You need to get over there right away.”