Page 103 of Dirty Grovel

“Right,” I mutter immediately, deflating like a punctured balloon. “Sorry, ma’am.”

Smiling, she turns to the door. “Come on, we need to get your wedding registry sorted. Otherwise, you’ll end up with all sorts of useless junk.” She stops at the threshold and glances back over her shoulder. “I’m glad we can get along, Sutton. That will make everything a lot easier.”

I’m inclined to agree.

31

SUTTON

There are times where I feel like maybe I can kinda, sorta pretend I belong in the Pavlovs’ world.

Then there are times like this, as I struggle to keep up with Oksana strutting down the sidewalk between twenty-thousand-dollar baby strollers and women in head-to-toe haute couture, when I realize I very much do not belong here at all.

We’re surrounded by money in every form imaginable. Lamborghinis and Bentleys valet-parked on the side of the road, storefronts bearing logos for Gucci and Prada and things I cannot possibly pronounce.

The people we pass have all perfected their upper crust sneer. They see me and they know at once that I’m not one of them.

Even the purebred dogs look at me like I’m shit on their metaphorical shoe.

My phone vibrates, distracting me from the gut-churning panic that I’m about to get dragged out of here by the Anti-Peasant Police.

I pull it out to see several text messages from Sydney.

SYDNEY:Sutton, I need your help. I’m desperate.

SYDNEY:I’m desperate.

SYDNEY:I don’t know who else to ask.

SYDNEY:Please.

I lag behind. A few yards ahead, Oksana is engrossed in a phone call of her own.

So I dial my sister and press the phone to my ear.

“Sutton,” Sydney gasps, her voice a hoarse, broken whisper.

“Sydney, what’s going?—”

“It’s Paul,” she says. “He’s passed out in the bedroom now. I have maybe an hour before he starts responding to light and sound. You have to come get me, Sutton. I’m so scared. I-I-I don’t know what to do…”

“Take a deep breath. It’s going to be okay. Tell me what happened.”

“He came home last night in a rage. I’ve never seen him so wild, so out of control. His eyes were bloodshot and he… he… God, he smelled so bad, Sut. It was like?—”

“Never mind what he smelled like, Sydney!” I exclaim impatiently. “What happened?”

“H-he… killed two of his men.”

My blood runs cold. “In front of you?”

“Shot them dead in the middle of the living room.”

“But… God, why?”

Her breathing is frantic. “I… I don’t know. I can’t— I mean, he said a lot, but I don’t remember any of it. I think I w-w-was in shock.”

“I think you’re still in shock, Syd,” I tell her. “Are you hurt? Did he hurt you?”

---