Page 54 of Deceitful Vows

“Hey.”

I lift my chin from my chest before slowly pointing it in the direction of the groggy voice. My lips curl into a grin when I spot Nikita sauntering across the miniscule living room of her grandparents’ rent-controlled basement apartment. She looks zonked but works what should be a negative like a model does a catwalk. Her voluptuous dark locks, her soul-searing eyes, and a body that exposes she rarely sits still ensures she will never be classified as ugly.

I bury my face in her scrubs-covered stomach when she wraps her arm around my shoulders and hugs me hello. “Have you been here all night?”

Since I don’t want to portray the loser I’ve been for the past two weeks, I conspicuously peer at my watch before making out I have more of a life than I do. “I popped in on my way home from a night out to check on Gigi and Grampies.”

Nikita arches a brow in surprise but doesn’t call me out on my lie.

Since I took Mikhail’s warning that Andrik would track me down as literal, I haven’t been out since I returned home from Chelabini.

I’m a fool.

The only honest thing Andrik said last month were the words he spoke while endeavoring to buy my silence.

The public transport I took home crisscrossed the country, and I utilized the dirtbox discreetly as suggested, but I’m still surprised Mikhail’s plan worked.

I’m also disappointed, but since I’ve lectured myself enough about my stupidity, I’ll keep that to myself.

Furthermore, no matter how beaten down someone’s ego is, they should never seek a solution for its brokenness with a taken man. I know that better than anyone. The sparks just blind me anytime Andrik is in the same realm as me.

I don’t need to worry about that now since I’ve not seen hide nor hair of him in the past two weeks.

When the whistle of a sneaky breath sounds through my ears, I peer up at the only true friend I have. “Did you just sniff my hair?”

“No,” Nikita immediately denies, pulling away. “It’s dusty down here. My allergies are suffering.”

“Suffering from filling the lungs of a liar.”

She rolls her eyes but remains quiet, announcing I’m on the money.

When I follow her into the kitchen for a bottle of the vitamin water she mixes herself from out of date vitamins and a protein powder an over-muscled freak left at my gym six months ago, her inability to be deceitful weighs down her shoulders until she can no longer ignore its heaviness.

“When you go out dancing, your hair usually smells like cigarettes and sweat.” Gulps of gross water slide down her throat before she wipes away the remnants from her lips with the back of her hand. “This morning, it smells nothing close to gross.”

“That’s because your schnozz was shoved too close to vomit bags and poopy bed pans all night. With how many gastro outbreaks you’ve been handling the past few months, you’d think a colostomy bag smells like roses.”

Since she can’t deny the truth, she doesn’t.

Instead, she shifts her focus to a downfall as deficient as my love life—my employment status.

“How did your interview go today?” Her sympathetic look when I shake my head I can handle. It’s her offer after my short announcement of rejection that scorches my throat with bile. “I can lend you?—”

“No, Keet.” I stray my eyes to the box hidden under the floorboards her sofa bed covers. “That money is for more important things than my energy drink obsession.” I talk faster when she tries to argue. “Mr. Fakher also stuffed up the books, so my rent appears in advance. And I handed out a ton of resumes today. It won’t be long before something decent pops up. Fingers crossed it is weeks before my building’s owner realizes Mr. Fakher can’t do basic math.”

I could have sworn I owed two months of back rent, but when I tried to hand Mr. Fakher the two hundred dollars Dr. Hemway refused, he acted like my last payment was for a year instead of a measly week.

He seemed skittish. He wasn’t as nervous as Dr. Hemway’s brief contact during my travels home to announce that he and his family were safe and that he’d be in contact when he could, but there was something off with him.

He’s usually cockier—as rationalized as Nikita’s next statement. “Mr. Fakher is only fudging the books because he wants to dopreciselythat.”

Like a puppy following its new owner, I shadow her steps to the bathroom that’s as moldy and damp as the main living area. Nikita’s grandfather is in the final stages of his life. Since she wants him to live out his last years as comfortably as possible, most of her earnings as a third-year surgical resident goes toward the medication that will allow that. The rest, and eighty percent of her moonlighting job, goes toward the equipment needed to administer a pain-free existence.

It is a cruel cycle. One I want to contribute to—hence me sneaking in the leftovers from Mikhail’s generosity into the box under Nikita’s bed the day after I arrived home—but my efforts have been minimal since I don’t have stable employment.

Once I secure a job, I’ll be able to help Nikita purchase the breathing machine Grampies so desperately needs and pay back Mikhail.

The latter was on my mind when I snuck every bill in my purse into the box when Nikita went to the hospital dispensary to plead for a monthly billing roster instead of bi-weekly. As I watched Grampies’s lips turn blue as he struggled to breath, I realized he needed the money now. Mikhail didn’t.

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