Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“Who’s there?” I called out. The television light of the muted sitcom reached the air hockey table.
“Me.” Pop’s reply held the usual Russian growl but lacked the strain from our arguments.
“You happy?” I asked.
With a huff, he strolled over, holding a carton of Cookie’s & Cream. “I know nothing. You were texting; I respected your privacy.” He pulled out two spoons from his sweats pocket.
I plucked one from his hand. “Thanks.”
“For the ice cream or the privacy?”
“Both.”
He sat down on the couch beside me and roughed a hand over his face. “Am I turning into my father?”
“Don’t know. Only met Anatoly once. Yes—”
“Yes?” His eyes snapped in my direction, square jaw stiffening. Dang. Pop resembled a superhero even during a minor meltdown.
“Well, yes, if you considered him the world’s greatest father.” I played with the huge diamond chain Pop always handed to Vadim before the cutman prepped him for a match.
The tension in his shoulders drained, and I smiled, body jittering while another cry overcame me, my hand gripping the diamond cross that was now mine. My dad wrapped me in his arms. Perhaps I didn’t crave Lachlan’s hug? I just needed the love of a man whom I could trust. After a while, my parents surrounded me on both sides.
When cries turned to sniffles, Momma shooed Dad away. “Time for a girl chat.”
“Nyet, Zariah. Moya doch’ needs me.”
“Listen, I get it. You’re a Russian man in touch with your feminine side.” She cupped his jaw. “But you gotta go, baby.”
He relented and grumbled every step of the way to the wrought-iron stairs.
Mom cupped my face, her thumbs soothing my tears.
“It hurts, Momma.” The words wobbled out.
“I know, baby, I know.”
“H-how do you f-fall out of love with someone?”
“You don’t fall out of love, girl. You grieve the love. Mourn what it meant. Bury the expectations. The hope that you cannot re-orchestrate. You let yourself cry it out until the ache dulls into a memory, and you can breathe without feeling like salt water is bursting your lungs.”
The melody of her tone poured into my soul, soothing the aches and pain. Soothing the wounds so the scars wouldn’t run too deep within my heart.
24
LACHLAN
Glendale, AZ
As the sun set, a crisp breeze tugged at the mesh walls of the batting cage, cold enough to make me wish I’d worn sleeves. Quiet enough that the swoosh of the pitching machine cut the stillness.
Woosh.
A white blur rocketed toward me full force. Crack.
My bat connected—clean, solid, with a slight upward angle. The ball jetted toward the back of the cage.
Line drive. Pure contact. One of my better hits tonight. Not that it mattered.
“Where are you, Lach? It’s so loud.” Number Seven’s voice came from my AirPods.
“Jake, I gotta be moving my hands. Increase your cellphone volume. Gimme answers.”
He groaned. “It’s a weeknight. Tomorrow, I’ve got clinicals and my professor’s a sadist on Wednesdays.”
“Count this toward your psych hours. I’ll pay you a crap load more than you get while practicing.”
Another ball zipped toward me. I pivoted and drove it high. The thud of the ball against the netting echoed like a heartbeat.
Jake sighed, voice lowering into that calm psychologist tone he used on clients. “Look. She’s not answering because she’s not ready to process with you. She’s in self-protection mode. What happened—”
“Didn’t happen, Baby Jake.”
“Whatever she thinks she saw—tripped a trauma wire. It’s not personal. It’s primal. She’s not stonewalling. She’s retreating.”
“If she would just talk to me …” I muttered.
Crack. Another ball. Another release of tension. My tether to sanity tonight? A maple-wood baseball bat.
The phone vibrated in my pocket, indicating another incoming call. Instinctively, I reached for it, dragging it from the cargo pocket on the side of my pants just as a ball screamed toward me.
I dropped, landing hard on my backside. My bat thudded beside me.
The ball slammed into the netting a breath too late.
“Gotta go, Baby Jake.”
“I’m not a ba—”
I clicked over to the new call. Her.
Heart pounding, I crawled backward, out of the kill zone, resting against the opposite fence. The machine whirred, spitting balls that banged against the netting with the force of my bridled fury. Natasha’s father had tried to kill me, and then he ripped us apart with childish antics.
“Tash?”
Her voice emerged soft, as if buried under a pile of tears. “Hey, Lachlan. I’m sorry … I’ve ignored your calls and texts. Just needed space.”
“Fair enough.” I closed my eyes, wishing last Friday hadn’t just gone up in smoke. “Don’t know that woman or why—how she found me, Natasha. You gotta believe me.”
“I trust you.”
My eyes snapped open. “You … you trust me?’ Oh, thank God. “I’m gonna come to LA on Friday, okay.”
“Alright, but …” Her voice faded. I struggled to hear over the clang of balls against the cage.
Was that … mariachi music? Number Seven was right. I should turn off the machine.