All the Lies We Tell (Quarry Road #1)(57)

“Are we a couple? Or are we just screwing?” Alicia asked bluntly.

Nikolai didn’t smile. He did reach to twirl a strand of her hair around his fingers and tug it to get her to move closer. “I don’t know.”

Frustrated, she wasn’t going to push him for more. Besides, it wasn’t like she knew what the hell they were really doing, either, she told herself as she pushed up on her toes to press her mouth to his. The kiss deepened. His hands roamed across her back to settle on her ass, pulling her closer to him.

“You should go,” she said against his mouth. “I have work to do.”

“Right. Sure. Of course.” He looked at her, but if there was something else he meant to say, he was keeping it to himself. “I’ll . . . so, I’ll see you? Later?”

She sat in her chair to study him. “I guess we’ll see about that.”

He didn’t say anything after that. He gave her one of those slow, smoldering smiles tinged with just the right amount of smugness to make her want to pinch him someplace tender. Kiss him first, then pinch him, she thought as Nikolai gave her a little wave on the way out the door.

This was going to hurt like hell, she thought, but she was going to keep doing it anyway.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX


Then


All Ilya wanted to do was see her, one last time.

He thought he’d have the chance. Everything he’d ever seen about funerals on TV or in the movies showed a satin-lined casket, the deceased with hands folded on the chest. Like they were sleeping. That was what he expected to see today, but they went and closed the lid on the coffin. They trapped her inside.

He was never going to see Jennilynn again.

From his place toward the back of the room, Ilya had a clear view of the black casket up at the front, but his vision was anything but clear. He’d been drinking vodka since nine in the morning. First from the bottle. Then from the water bottle he filled before they left the house. Niko had to help him with his tie.

Now the room threatened to spin, but screw that, he wasn’t going to let it. He was going to stand up. He was going to walk up there. He was going to open up that lid. He was going to see her so he could say good-bye. So he could say he was sorry.

“Sorry.” The word muttered out of him aloud.

Too loud by the nasty look he got from one of the old ladies sitting near him. Slowly, deliberately, Ilya took another long pull from the bottle while making eye contact. She looked away first.

His mother sat closer to the front. Theresa beside her. Barry next to Theresa. Niko, however, was in the back with Ilya.

“I wanna tell her I’m sorry,” Ilya said.

Niko frowned. Good little brother. Always thinking of the right thing to do, right? Except he wasn’t so good; he was no better than Ilya. Niko had done his share of shit. He just never seemed to get caught.

“We should go outside. C’mon.” Niko grabbed Ilya by the sleeve of his dress shirt. “Be quiet.”

Outside the funeral home, Ilya paced. He drained the bottle and tossed it with a curse into the bushes. He bent, hands on his knees, waiting to puke, but even though he wanted to—he wanted to sick up everything inside him—nothing happened but a few heaves and a strand of thick drool.

“Get yourself together.” Niko pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and tucked one between his lips. He lit it.

Ilya staggered upright. “Since when do you smoke?”

“Since the girl across the street was found dead.” Niko’s reply was flat, but broken after a second by the coughing and hacking he did when he took a drag on the smoke.

“*.” Ilya’s grin peeled back from his teeth, making him a snarling dog.

Without thinking about it, he stepped forward. One, two. His first punch connected directly with his brother’s face—a lucky shot. The next missed as Niko shouted and turned, and Ilya staggered forward. Fell on his face.

He rolled onto his back. The sky was an ugly shade of gray. The first spatters of rain hit him in the eyes, and he wanted to close them, but he couldn’t seem to do anything but lie on the ground and let the clouds cry for him.

Later.

Darkness. Mouth tasted like shit. Head pounding, he swam up from desperate dreams but couldn’t seem to wake. He was in the attic, his cheek pressed to the thin mattress of the army cot. A bucket by his head, though he still couldn’t seem to puke.

He heard them. Soft murmurs. The shuffle of blankets, a zipper, the creak of a mattress. He knew what was going on, but he couldn’t see anything. Still too drunk to react.

Later.

Ilya woke to the stab of morning light spearing him through the attic window. Niko snored in the sagging double bed, alone. When Ilya sat up to look around, everything came slamming back to him, everything that happened, and his stomach revolted. He retched into the trash can for what seemed like years and then fell back onto the cot with a groan.

His brother pressed a glass of clear, chilly water into Ilya’s hand. “Drink this.”

He did. Puked again. It hurt less this time, but the taste lingered long after. He tried to wash it away, but it wouldn’t go.

He looked up. “She’s gone, man. She’s really . . . gone.”

“I know.” Niko sat next to him. Shoulder to shoulder, his warmth welcome in the attic’s chill. “I know.”