Page 169 of Dirty Grovel

Oleg.

53

OLEG

There’s a special place in hell for the men that survive while their loved ones die.

The first time I learned that lesson, I was eighteen, lying flat on the charred deck in front of a flaming yacht, knowing that somewhere in the recesses of that vessel, my sister and girlfriend were burning.

The ocean was a bitch then.

The ocean is a bitch now.

And today, she’s hungry.

Debris floats around me like broken dreams as I cut through the churning water. My vintage boat is now nothing but a skeletal frame, bobbing around in the water aimlessly.

I’ve had this boat since before Elise and I got together. Oriana and I sailed it countless times as teenagers. I learned to sail on this boat. The last meal I had with my father was on this boat, back when she went by a different name.

And yet, despite the numerous lives I lived on it, it’s striking to me how little I care.

The only thing that takes up space in my head is Sutton.

Sutton and my baby.

I’m wading through a mental minefield that could destroy me if I let it. But Sutton needs me to stay focused. Sutton needs me to be strong.

I try to push back the old memories that threaten to sink me. I ignore how my old scars are blazing with heat, as though they’re on fire all over again. I tell myself that this explosion is not like the last one.

But I can’t trust that until I see her.

My lungs burn as I dive into the ocean again and again until I feel as though I might collapse. The currents are strong enough to give me some resistance.

But I swallow the burn and keep diving.

I have to find her.

I have to find them…

And then—finally—after the fifth dive, I hear something: her sweet voice carried over to me by the wind.

It sounds like she’s calling for me.

I spin around and dive again. This time, I spot her legs, flailing wildly against the currents. Half-drowned and exhausted, but she’s still fighting.

“Oleg!” she cries before her head disappears under a swell of water.

“Sutton!” But my voice is drowned out by the scream of the wind.

I throw myself back into the water and swim towards her as fast as I can. When I come back up again for air, she’s mere feet away.

“Oleg,” she calls again. Her voice is the single sweetest fucking sound I’ve ever heard in my life.

I reach her in three strokes, pulling her against me as though I have the power to fly her out of the watery graves we find ourselves in.

“I’m here,” I assure her. “I’m here, baby.”

She’s shivering, hair plastered against her face, teeth chattering without pause. “O-Oleg,” she keeps repeating as though my name holds power.

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