Page 63 of Dirty Grovel

“It’s because of the accident, isn’t it?”

Faye sighs. “It’s the only reason I give him a pass sometimes. Because that accident robbed him of so much. He blamed himself to the point that he decided to punish himself. That’s why he can’t open up to you, Sutton. It’s because he feels he doesn’t deserve to be happy.”

I chew on my lip. I want to believe Faye, but believing her means risking more heartbreak, more disappointment.

“Has he spoken to you at all?” she asks. “About fatherhood, about the baby?”

“The only thing he’s really discussed with me is the paternity test. He wants to meet with his attorneys soon to discuss a custody arrangement for the baby. That’s all I know so far.”

Faye is perched on the edge of her seat. “Are you serious?”

“Uh, I mean, yes. We really haven’t discussed very much else. In fact, we’ve barely spoken in days.”

“That… that is… outrageous!” she storms, slamming her glass on the table so hard that half its contents come spilling out.

“It’s okay, Faye?—”

“It isnotokay!” she explodes, leaping to her feet. “You should storm into his office and demand a proper conversation. He can’t be allowed to dictate your whole life. Or the baby’s, for that matter.”

“What can I do, though?”

“You can shout until he listens,” she says firmly. “You have a voice, Sutton. It’s time you used it. This is your life, too. All those decisions he’s making need your input. Don’t let yourself be sidelined. If you do, you’ll spend the rest of your life regretting it.”

I sit with that for a long time, my heart expanding and contracting painfully. As moonlight dwindles andThe Water Stargets closer, I realize that Faye is right—as usual.

I have opinions.

It’s time for me to start whacking a few balls into Oleg’s court.

20

OLEG

I’ve stared down the barrel of a Glock 94.

I’ve ridden a motorcycle away from men who wanted me dead.

I’ve suffered third-degree burns on half my body and the nightmarish memories that came along with them.

After everything I’ve endured, who would have thought something as simple as a six-year-old’s birthday party would be the thing that does me in?

In all fairness, it’s not just any party. It’s a costume party.

When I’d argued with Sutton that I was just the host, not an actual guest, and therefore shouldn’t be required to wear a costume, she pointed out that as the host, it was incumbent upon me to set an example.

I only have myself to blame. My mistake was giving her one of my black platinum credit cards and telling her to “go nuts.”

It was my way of saying,I’m trying to make you happy.

Her new and evolving requests appear to be her way of saying,It’s nowhere near enough.

I’ve spent the last three hours playing pirate, courtesy of the costume Sutton so kindly picked up on my behalf. That’s three hours of swinging kids around by their arms, acting like a pretend monster while the little ones run away screaming.

I’m allARRR’ed out.

That’s game, set, and match for Sutton Palmer.

Was there a time when I thought she might not be cut out for the Bratva wife's life? Because right now, I’m thinking she might be the secret weapon I never knew I needed.

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