Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(12)

“And you were incapable of calling?” It’s not even anger in his voice now. It’s ice.

“My cell phone battery died.”

“Of course it did,” he mutters, picking up his glass and swirling the clear liquid around, his jaw visibly clenched. “Why is charging your phone battery so difficult for you to remember?”

She sighs, like she’s tired. “I don’t know, Viktor. But I’m here now, at your demand.”

He butts his cigarette out on a plain white plate sitting on the table. And then his hand shoots up and slaps her cheek so fast that I almost miss it. It’s not a big slap—more of a sharp tap—but he does it, all the same. “Thirty minutes late.”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat as I watch this domestic scene unfold in front of us. If anyone else is bothered by it, they’re hiding it well, carrying on their own conversations.

She hesitates and then, when she speaks again, it’s with a more contrite tone. “Yes, Viktor. I know. I’m very sorry.”

“You complain that I don’t spend enough time with you, and then when I ask you to meet me somewhere, you make me wait and accuse me of being demanding.”

A gaudy diamond band sparkles on her delicate hand, catching my attention as she touches her long, straight hair. The color makes me think of Boone’s giant tub of peanut butter back home, as odd as that is. “Do you like it?”

“No, not particularly.”

I can’t keep my eyebrows from jumping at that one. I may be only twenty-four, with minimal relationship experience, but isn’t there a golden rule that you lie with these kinds of questions if you want to get laid?

“Do I look fat?” “No.”

“Am I ugly without makeup?” “No.”

“Are you attracted to my friends?” “No!”

Viktor takes a sip of his drink and then, staring at the liquid within, murmurs, “What am I going to do with you, my beautiful wife?”

Five long seconds pass, where I watch her watch him without blinking, her right hand balled into a white-knuckled fist on the table, and then Viktor leans in and lays a slow kiss on her lips. Despite her stiff demeanor, I feel the air shift around me with the affection, as if she just avoided a catastrophe. Hell, I feel like I just avoided a catastrophe.

His finger twirls a strand of her hair. “At least you did not cut it.”

She gives a half-hearted smile and then shakes her head. “Just wanted to try something new.”

“Viktor . . .” The thick-necked blond guy to the right nudges him, covering his phone with one hand while he spews off a bunch of words in a foreign language. It allows his wife’s attention to flicker over the other faces at the table. Striking reddish-brown eyes suddenly land on me. They rest there for one . . . two . . . three quick seconds, before she shifts her gaze to the vodka bottle in front of her.

And I realize that I’ve been staring at her for way too long. I quickly swing my attention to Rust and Boone’s conversation.

“How much longer before I can start running the garage?” Boone asks.

“Not until you learn how to balance a tire properly,” Rust throws back. “Don’t think I didn’t hear what happened with the Cayenne.”

“Ah, f**k. That wasn’t my fault! Miller distracted me with . . .” I wonder how long it’s going to take Boone to figure out that Miller is gunning for him. He knows that Rust has no use for two managers. Once Boone’s ready, Miller’s out. The forty-eight-year-old—who’s as abrasive as a Brillo pad against your cheek—is in no rush to let that happen.

Either way, I’ve heard this story before and I don’t need to hear about Boone’s dumbass mistake again. My eyes drift back around the table. The guy to Viktor’s right is off his phone now and leaning in to tell Viktor something. I can’t hear what they’re saying but both of them look agitated, Viktor’s finger tapping the table repeatedly. His attention seems fully occupied.

Maybe that’s why I hazard another glance at his wife.

Maybe that’s why I find her blatantly staring at me.

Her expression is hard, disinterested. She’s probably bored, sitting in this booth with a bunch of men and no one to talk to, no drink offered, nothing to do but twirl that flashy wedding band around her finger and fiddle with the top of her sparkly blue dress. She certainly put effort into her appearance, a dark layer of blue swiped across her eyelids and bright red lipstick painting her full lips. She has perfect, high cheekbones. The entire package looks impeccable and rich, and yet also somehow cheap.

A sudden hand on my shoulder makes me jump. I look up to find Priscilla hovering behind my chair. “Did you want another drink?” She obviously hadn’t even checked the glass in my hand; otherwise she’d know it’s full and that question was stupid. Given her eyes are on Viktor, it’s safe to say I’m only an excuse for her visit here, anyway.

“No, thanks. Can I grab my check when you get a chance?” I’d like to say “close the tab and get me the f**k out of here ASAP,” but with my employer here, I hold myself back.

“Priscilla,” Viktor calls. She managed to grab his attention, after all. To his wife, Viktor utters an abrupt word in that other language, pushing her out of the booth with a hand on her slight upper arm.