Page 22 of Dirty Grovel

“Of whom?”

I pick at the scabs on my palms. “You know who.”

I see movement in my peripheral vision and cringe back instinctively.

But he ignores that, running his fingers across the bruise that’s still left an echo of pain on my skin.

“Drew,” Oleg murmurs. “He did this to you.”

I’m on the verge of another explanation. I desperately want to deny that we were ever “in cahoots,” as Oleg seems to think.

But I stop myself at the last second.

He doesn’t deserve my explanations.

He wouldn’t believe them anyway.

Oleg drops his hand. “Why didn’t you just come to me?” he asks.

A powerful snort whistles through my nostrils. Despite my earlier resolve, I meet his eyes, anger burning in my own.

“You’re kidding, right?” I shake my head, going back to the scab on my knuckles. “What makes you think I was any less scared of you than I was of him?”

He stiffens, his eyebrows pinching together to carve a deep crease in his forehead. “I never meant to scare you.”

“What did you mean to do then, Oleg?” I demand incredulously. “Because kicking a girl out of your home when you know she has nowhere else to go isn’t exactly conducive to feeling safe.”

His mouth falls at the edges. “I’m sorry, you know.”

My head spins in his direction. “Huh?”

He doesn’t blink.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, clear as day. “I was angry, yes. I felt betrayed. But I never meant to terrify you. And I certainly would never have hurt you. I would have been willing to hear your side of the story?—”

I let out another noisy huff of disbelief.

Oleg readjusts his position to face me. “Okay, you’re right. I handled the whole situation poorly.”

“On that, we’re in agreement.”

“I understand why you ran back in Palm Beach. But why the fuck did you run from me here in Nassau?” His frustration burns through the frown on his face. “You’re a foreigner here, with no money, no friends, no sense of where you are. You had no idea who you might have run into or where you would have ended up. No to mention that you were in a goddamn bikini!”

“You were talking to the cops!” I cry out. “In hindsight, it seems silly. But I was tired and panicked. I assumed you were going to hand me over to the authorities and I didn’t want to be arrested.”

“Arrested?Sutton, do you know who I am?”

“Well, I don’t exactly know what you’re capable of, Oleg. I wasn’t willing to stick around to find out either.”

He exhales. “I see.”

“I’ll admit,” I mutter, “it seems stupid now…”

I brace for him to rub salt in the wound. Instead, he grabs a bottle of water from the mini-fridge built into the bottom of the seat and hands it to me.

“Drink up; you need to stay hydrated. Doctor’s orders.”

I accept the bottle of water and pop the cap. “Thank you.”

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