Page 8 of Vegas Baby

Sebastian nods slowly. “Time is funny. It seems to move too slowly through the worst times and too quickly through the best.”

I huff a dark laugh. “Very true, and it would explain why I feel like I should be eighty-six, not twenty-six.”

“I feel that way sometimes too,” he replies.

My eyes snap up to meet his. “Why?” I ask, curious. He seems so … settled. Calm. Steady. None of the things I am. None of the things I’d associate with hardship.

But then, such is an ocean. Seemingly serene and soothing, even while powerful currents tear through its depths. And likewise, such are people, I remember as I look at him. You never really know what’s underneath the face they show you. Usually not until it’s too late.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Sebastian offers, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest, making me all too aware of his powerful physique. In another place, with another man, I’d feel threatened. Yet here, with Sebastian, I don’t.

“What kind of deal?”

The corner of his mouth tips up. “I’ll tell you my story, then you tell me yours. Or as much of it as you feel like sharing, anyway.”

I weigh his offer. It seems fair on the surface, but I’m not used to opening up. Even if I want to. And I’m surprised to find I do want to.

“I can … try,” I respond.

He studies me for a moment, and I try not to squirm, to show weakness.

“That’s fair,” he finally agrees, gesturing toward me. “Go ahead. Ask me anything.”

6

SEBASTIAN

The night brings a lot of things I haven’t experienced in a long time. Possibly ever. Kira is a quiet person, but maybe that’s what makes it so easy to talk to her. I don’t get the judgmental feeling I get from most people when I talk about my youth. About growing up poor and surrounded by all the wrong kinds of opportunities. About getting arrested multiple times as a teen for stealing, drinking, and worse. All before figuring out it’s not what I really wanted and finally, at twenty-nine, feeling like I have my shit together. Well, together enough anyway.

But my story is nothing to Kira’s. I know she holds back a lot, but what she does give me blows my mind. What she’s been through, what she’s survived is next level horrific. And I’ve seen a lot working emergency services in Vegas.

The other side of listening to her talk about these things in her simple, to-the-point way, with an un-fucking-believably sexy accent is exactly that: sexy. I hadn’t fooled myself into thinking I wasn’t doing this at least in part because I feel attracted to her. But I haven’t thought with my dick in a very long time, and it’s not why I decided to help her. Unfortunately, the reality is I’m even more beguiled by her with every passing minute.

She’s the exact opposite of every stereotype of a woman who is being controlled by the man in her life, even though he’s apparently not technically her man anymore. She’s strong and willful. She’s opinionated and stubborn. Plus, she’s dryly funny and even though she’s extremely cynical, it’s with an edge of realism that’s strangely refreshing.

Kira Luan. Even her name is intoxicating. Or I may just be stupid tired, since it’s four o’clock in the morning and I’ve been trying to get to sleep after talking to her all night, then seeing her to bed.

Not in a sexual way, of course. She tried to do everything herself tonight, but I saw the pain in her every movement. And I stepped in gently where I could, including standing outside the bathroom door listening for signs of danger, just like I did when she emerged before dinner. Thankfully my apartment is small, so I could get away from the door before she realized what I was doing.

She’s strong. Which is good because she’s going to have to be. I can tell she’s ready — albeit begrudgingly — to break the cycle with this Andrei fucker. And I want to help her, for all the reasons, right and wrong. I’ll just keep the wrong ones to myself, keep things simple, keep it about her. I hope.

* * *

I’m woken by a series of thuds that have me springing off the couch and running.

“Shit, shit, shit,” in a Russian accent comes from the bathroom.

I knock sharply, despite my concern, not wanting to abruptly invade her privacy.

“Kira? Are you okay?” I call.

“I’m … no,” she replies, her voice laced with frustration. “Can you please help?” She chokes out the words like it’s the hardest question she’s ever asked. And my stomach drops, knowing she must be really hurt.

I take a quick breath, switch to paramedic mode, and open the door.

The room is filled with steam from the running shower. The shower curtain and rod lay askew, half in the tub, half out. And Kira is splayed in the end of the tub, completely naked.

I avert my eyes, noting her cervical collar on the counter.

---