Page 112 of Dirty Grovel

While Sydney drifts off, I stare out the window, chest tightening with guilt as I try to compose an adequate apology.

Sutton was telling the truth the entire time. There had been no schemes or plots to entrap me.

She never broke our contract and she had been telling the truth when she told me about her involvement with Drew.

There’s only one thing on my to-do list when we land in Palm Beach.

And that’s to beg, grovel, and plead for Sutton’s forgiveness.

34

SUTTON

“What did he say exactly?” I demand for the third time. “I want verbatim quotes. Don’t you dare paraphrase.”

Artem sighs with the patience of a saint. “They touched down. They’re on their way here. He sent the text a while back, so they should be here soon.”

“‘They’?” I clarify. “As in him and Sydney?”

“The text doesn’t mention your sister by name but he said everything went well in Nevada. That has to mean that he has Sydney.”

“Speculation, but I’ll allow it.” I dig the heels of my hands into my tired eyes. “Did he say anything else after that?”

“Only that they touched down.”

I jump off the bar stool and start pacing.

I know I’m being a pain in the ass—I can feel every millimeter of how annoying I’m acting—but I can’t turn it off. It just keeps pouring out of me, unchecked and uncheckable.

“Did he say what happened to Paul?”

Saint Artem’s patience continues. “No. But if I had to guess, I’m guessing he’s worm food.”

My nose scrunches. “Morbid, Artem.”

“It’s the circle of life.” He grins unapologetically, then starts singing fromThe Lion Kingsoundtrack.

“You don’t have to wait with me, you know,” I tell him, taking another anxious lap around the kitchen. “I’m okay to sit here and vibrate with nerves all by lonesome.”

“Right,” he snorts. “If I take my eyes off you for one second, you’re gonna pace right through a plate-glass window, and then Oleg will skin me and turn me into a lampshade. Will you sit the hell down and take a breath?”

“I’m nervous.”

“You’re panicky,” he accuses. “And I don’t see why. Oleg’s got this. He made you a promise and he’s going to deliver. I know he is.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because he’s Oleg fucking Pavlov. He’s the motherfucking Beast.”

I’m about to roll my eyes at Artem when I hear the rev of an engine. “Oh my God! That’s them! It has to be, right?”

“Wait right here. I’ll check.”

Ironically, for all my pacing in the last hour, I can’t seem to get my legs to cooperate now. I stand there uselessly in the kitchen, rooted to the floor, waiting for Artem to come back.

This has to be a dream.

There’s no way it’s really happening.

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