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)
And Vassilievich … trusted me.
Does a broken leg hurt? Fourteen-year-old me had asked an eleven-year-old Vass as he lay in bed, leg in a cast. Of course, the garage jump went horribly wrong.
Da, he’d said.
So, this was not good. And another thing? He’d responded to my text too soon. He should be in class. No matter how drunk we got, leave it to Vassilievich to sit in front of his professor at UC San Diego, ready to engage.
I scrutinized his text. A subtle scream that came from the pain of holding my secrets. Why had I told him? He’d invited me to hang. And being Russian, we drank. A lot.
And I got too chatty. Told him what I’d told Lach. The big reveal had started with a tipsy question as to why Lachlan had another woman meet him at his Airbnb. And then I’d laughed and said, No, she was crazy. Probably crazy. So far, it had sounded like I was conversing solo, while his dark gander tracked sleazy Sorors.
But the thing about Russians?
The instant a serious topic arose, that eat-grass type of drunk was obliterated and rendered one instantly sober. Being half Russian was no exception. Guess twice a week cognitive behavior therapy wasn’t enough. Dr. Vashone had given me a list of sexual assault group sessions too. But still, I blabbed to my kid brother?
He’d kicked everyone out of the frat house, brothers in togas included, and Borya, who’d sat in the corner nursing the same shot. Vassilievich had grilled me in a way Lachlan hadn’t.
“I’m sorry for telling you!” I’d shouted.
“You are moya sestra.” Nostrils flared, Vass’s voice turned into ash and gravel. “You didn’t. You didn’t speak with the authorities?”
“Just Lach. Then Dr. Vashone. But Lach …” I’d tried to steer the conversation toward my fragmented love life.
Vengeance had burned in Vass’s eyes, molten lava. “We need to figure out who did this, Natasha,” he’d said. No, Cutie Pie, or other words of affection, to which I could annoy and call him Boobie.
“I’m sorry I told you, brat,” I whispered into the quiet of my massive bedroom. He shouldn’t have to carry my pain.
After a hot, abusive shower, I dressed and thumbed through my calendar app while shuffling down the sweeping staircase—the same staircase where I’d once threatened to move out during a meltdown with Pop.
Across the open living room, Borya leaned against the far side of the kitchen island, sipping tea as he gazed out the window.
“Don’t try to sneak up on me, Tash,” he muttered without turning.
“Was not.” I was.
My phone vibrated in my high-waisted jeans. I tugged it out. LaShawn. I sighed and answered, “Hello?”
Lachlan’s agent’s smoker’s rasp hit instantly, like a vinyl record skipping straight to the truth. She had that Whoopi Goldberg from the nineties vibe: same sharp eyes, same knack for saying what nobody asked for. She even resembled the actress. “The publishing house needs you in an hour.”
“What?” Deep down, I knew this day was inevitable. The day I’d see Lachlan again. Sure, we talked. Still texted. But this wasn’t a highlight reel. It would be in person. Regardless of my composure, seeing him would ruin me. And I wanted Lachlan MacKenzie—with every breath, every bone, every aching half of me.
The Dodgers kicked off the regular season with more wins. They must keep that momentum.
Unaware of my discomfort, LaShawn snorted. “The publisher wants you to take a couple of shots of that nepo baby. The one with the garbage Clippers contract. Doubt his memoir will be better if he doesn’t throw his Basketball Hall of Fame daddy under the bus. Anyway, the photog we booked came down with bronchitis. So guess what? Another nepo baby steps in to save the day. Only difference is—you’ve crap loads more talent.”
Hold up. Did this heifah— “Did you call me a nepo baby?”
“What do you say? One money shot of the NBC—”
“What?”
“The Nepo Baby Clipper, and your name gets tied to the sports industry. Could lead to Lachlan’s best seller.”
I sighed. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
“That’s my girl. Hey? You still live with your dad?”
Rolling his eyes, Borya handed me a cup of coffee. Now was not the time for him to tell me that Russians preferred tea.
I muttered, “Yes.”
“Put your father on the phone. I’ll talk him into a memoir too. Mention his glowing UFC career, ju-just his uh, sports career. Boom! Six-figure advance.”
I caught the hitch in her voice, too afraid to mention what always remained unspoken. The bratva. “Sports should be the focus of your discussion. You’re a sports agent. And no. Pop won’t talk. If another UFC OG trash-talks him, you’ll get your viral scandal—”
LaShawn moaned. “Love it! That Twitter incident from back in the day scored your old man the highest pay-per-view purchases for UFC at that time. Now, Natasha, we need you in an hour. I’m texting you the address. Bring your stuff, don’t bring it—I don’t give a damn. The real photographer shipped their gear days ago.” The call went dead.