Page 39 of Hating the Bratva

“What time are you getting back?” Mikhail asks.

“We’ll be back by six.”

“So do I need to feed that demon cat again? I’m leaving your place now.”

I chuckle. “No, she should be fine until we get there.”

“Where the hell are you anyway?”

I look around at the crowded beach. Surfers paddle out to the waves. A hot dog stand is close by with a line of ten or so people. I shouldn’t tell anyone where we are, considering I’m not supposed to be here, but I trust Mikhail. I trust he’ll keep his mouth shut unless Gavril asks him directly. Then he’ll be obligated to tell. That won’t happen. Gavril doesn’t even know I’m gone.

“Miami.”

A beat of silence passes. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

“Gavril will have your balls if he knows you’re in Miami territory with all the shit that’s going on right now.”

“That’s why he won’t find out.”

Mikhail lets out a frustrated breath. “Why the fuck would you go to Miami?”

“I can’t tell you that.” I look over at Delaney in her bright pink bikini. She’s lying on her back with one arm shielding her eyes from the sun. Her flat stomach moves up and down with each breath she takes. That long black hair is covered with bits of sand, and I smile when I think about how frustrated she’s going to be when she has to get that shit out.

“Your death sentence, man.” He hangs up, and I make my way back over to our towels. Delaney removes her arm from her eyes as I approach. She sits up, and I sit behind her spreading my legs so she can lean her back against my chest. Her skin is warm against mine, and she smells like saltwater and strawberries. I wrap my arms around her waist to keep her close to me.

“You think I can get tan in two hours?” she asks.

I chuckle. “You can try, but if anyone asks…”

“I know, I know. This never happened.”

I land a kiss on the top of her head.

“I feel like I’ve known you my whole life, but I still don’t know that much about you,” she says.

“What do you want to know?”

She thinks about it for a moment, and I wait patiently for her response. “What’s your favorite color?”

“Black.”

She shakes her head. “Doesn’t count. Black isn’t a color.”

“Fine then. Red.”

“What’s your favorite movie?” she asks.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve watched a movie.”

“You’re bad at this, ya know?”

I laugh.

“How many women have you been with?”

The question stops my laugh dead in its tracks. “It doesn’t matter.”

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