6.2 The Dealer
Nicholai's well-tailored frame manages to take up most of the doorway. Despite the fact that it's not yet ten in the morning, he looks fresh off a magazine cover, eyes scorching and hair slicked back.
We stand there, holding vigil at opposite ends of the bar, gazing at one another with a mixture of surprise, suspicion, and confusion. It takes several moments for the pain in my hip to register.
At least the hangover is gone. Who knew pain and blackmail was such an effective hangover cure?
Nicholai clears his throat. "Amara."
A little thrill runs through me at the name—my name in his mouth. I shake it off. "This is getting out of hand. Do you want a key to the place?"
"That would be convenient, yes."
"Yeah. No. That was a joke." I glare at him. "Are you going to keep showing up unannounced?"
"I was in the neighborhood," he offers lamely, approaching the bar at a steady, even pace. As if he expects me to bolt.
I roll my eyes. "Liar."
"We need to talk. And I thought I might find you here."
"At this hour? You're more likely to find me in bed." I slam the register drawer. Angry at myself. Angry at Hot Rod. Angry at him.
"And yet." He spreads his hands. "Here you are."
"What do you want?" Best to keep the conversation short and sweet.
"Who was that man?"
"What man?"
"Amara."
"What?" Suddenly, my name sounds far less charming—cheap, dirty. The name of a foolish girl who's made several foolish decisions in her lifetime...foolish decisions that have landed her in a lake of debt that will surely drown her.
Rather than press the issue, Nicholai examines the room with a slow, thoughtful eye. Irate, I grab a bottle of disinfectant near my feet and spritz the counter, determined to do something useful. For once.
Ugh. Self-deprecation is not a good look. The observation only serves to further my dark mood.
"Who is Pete?"
I glance up at the question, halting my furious spritzing. "What?"
"Pete's Seaside Dive." He stares over my head, at an old photograph of three men buckling beneath the weight of a swordfish, foolish grins on their faces. "Who is he? The owner of this establishment?"
"No," I say curtly. I don't much feel like playful banter. If I can't get Hot Rod that money...if he comes back, seeking collateral...
Will Gabby and TJ pay the price for my mistakes?
"That man..." Nicholai starts again, apparently unsatisfied by my short, unhelpful answers.
"Drop it."
"No."
We glare at each other. He shoves his hands in his pockets, as if he has all the time in the world. As if my bad temper isn't clouding up his otherwise sunny morning.
My eyebrows pinch together. "Why do you want to know?"
"I like to ensure the safety of my staff."
"That's it?"
I'm not buying it. He sought me out at this ungodly hour for a reason, and keeping tabs on his staff isn't one of them. If that was the truth of it, he has other resources at his disposal, men who can trail me on his behalf.
He falters beneath my skeptical gaze. "I was outside. And I may have overheard—"
"Overheard?" I shout, surprising us both.
He takes a step back, raising his hands in what he probably feels is a placating gesture. "Amara—"
"Nicholai," I say, much more calmly. "I'm going to strangle you."
I rack my brain, reliving the unpleasant conversation with Hot Rod. There was mention of money. Idle threats—
Not idle. Not idle at all.
But Nicholai doesn't know that. I straighten, trying desperately not to think about what Gabby told me last night, out at sea: You're a terrible liar. "It's really none of your business. But for your information, he's an ex of mine—"
"Do you often date drug dealers?"
Seething, I cross my arms. "Why ask questions if you already have the fucking answers?"
He smiles. He actually smiles. "Well. That one was a guess, actually. But a good guess, I wager?"
Ignoring the embarrassed warmth creeping up my hairline, I turn away from him, scrubbing absently at a sticky spot on the backbar that's been there since my first shift. I refuse to give Nicholai the satisfaction—
"If you tell me the truth," he says, mildly amused, "you can join me at the party my father is hosting next week. As my guest, of course."
"Party?" The word is out of my mouth before I can stop myself. I try to regain control of the situation. "What party? Are you trying to bribe me with a good time?"
"That depends. Is it working?"
I keep scrubbing at the mysterious spot on the counter. "Maybe."
"It's a birthday celebration," he elaborates. I peer over my shoulder and almost laugh at the look of consternation on his face. "Alexei is turning twenty-two. He insists on blowing the entire thing out of proportion. Father will use it as an excuse to network, as he usually does."
I look away again, mind spinning with possibilities. I don't care much about the party. Not really. But if it puts me in Nicholai's good graces, there's a chance I might be able to re-work the terms of our contract. Nix the flashy new car in favor of a cash bonus large enough to get Ganza Grease Stain off my tail.
A long shot. But I have to try.
I shrug. "Fine."
"You'll go?" I swear I hear something like relief in his voice.
"I'll go." I pin him with a look. "But I'm not telling you anything. Not," I say, raising my voice at the objection in his eyes, "until we're at this party of yours."
After a moment's consideration, he dips his chin. "You drive a hard bargain." We stare at each other a moment longer, contemplative. He's the first to track, eyes flitting to his watch. "I really must—"
"—be going, yes."
"Will you join me?"
"I—" It's not what I'm expecting to hear. "Right now?"
"If you're able. I'd like to finalize a few details with you, regarding your work." There's a heavy pause. Heavy enough to make me look at him more closely. But Nicholai is staring at the grimy windows, refusing to make eye contact.
"Uh. Sure," I say, because I can deny this man nothing. "Nicholai—"
"Mr. Ivanov," a familiar voice calls from the doorway. My stomach lurches as Gabby saunters inside the bar, her hazel eyes roving over every inch of Nicholai's fitted suit. "Is there anything I can help you with?"
I don't miss the innuendo. I shoot her a look over his shoulder, but he merely smiles, shakes his head, and bids her farewell. "I'll be waiting for you in the car," he tells me. And then he's gone.
"Gabby," I hiss, momentarily forgetting my guilt over the fiasco with Hot Rod. "Will you stop that?"
"Stop what?" The question is marred by a heavy yawn. "Why are you here? It's way too early."
"Couldn't sleep." I pin her with a look. "And you know exactly what you're doing. What would Matty think?"
Her smile falls. I immediately fold my hand over hers. "We broke up," she tells me quietly.
I squeeze her fingers, heart constricting. "What happened?"
"Nothing," she says, miserable. "I just...I didn't care about him. Not the way I used to. It didn't seem fair to keep stringing him along."
"You did the right thing," I insist. My annoyance over her not-so-subtle passes at my new boss fade entirely. Well. Almost. "He'll find someone new. And so will you."
"I guess." She smiles at me, some of her old spark making a reappearance. "Wanna grab brunch?"
Our age-old tradition. Nothing mitigates a tough breakup or an embarrassing sexcapade quite like a round of mimosas and a hearty stack of pancakes. Gabby needs that. Hell. Maybe I need that, too.
You have work to do, Amara. Brunch can wait.
I sigh. "I do. But Nicholai..."
Her smile gutters. "You have work?"
"It won't take long."
She turns, wrapping her arms around her middle. "Okay. See you around."
"Gabby," I murmur, reaching for her.
She slips out of my grasp and marches outside without a backward glance.
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