Page 10 of Unspoken

Vlad ignores Alexander’s attempt to rattle him and says, "I have pressing matters to attend to, Mr. McKenna." He glances at his watch as if time itself owes him obedience. "You are hired. Ivan will discuss the logistics with you—payment, schedules."

"Understood," I reply, every muscle tight, ready for the challenge Vlad’s brother presents.

"Good." Vlad tips his chin, then motions for me to follow him out, completely dismissing his brother.

The last thing I catch before the heavy door shuts behind me is Alexander’s posh British voice muttering, "Fucking daft prick."

The spoiled rich kid is still in denial about getting me as his sitter. Oh well.

We’ll see about that two-week bet he made pretty much with himself.

The night is a blanket, heavy and suffocating, as I step into the hollow silence of my apartment after spending the entire evening running a whole lot of errands. The place feels like a mausoleum for a life I once knew, an eerie reminiscence harboring feelings of desolation and longing for better timeswhen my existence meant something more than just being someone's brawn.

With an impatient jerk, I yank at my tie to uncoil it from around my neck. Then I shrug out of the trappings of professionalism. Jacket first, followed by the shirt, tossed into the washer.

I'm indecisive for a moment before grabbing a beer from the fridge.

My new gig starts tomorrow and I want to be fresh and ready in the morning when I square off with the little shit I’m to protect.

After spending precious minutes wearing down my living room carpet and pacing aimlessly, torn between self-regard and temptation, I finally give up and allow that single salvation beer that won't cause any significant harm.

I’m on my couch, taking my second swig, when my phone rings. The shrill cleaves through the quiet of my apartment. The intrusion is sudden, unwanted. Connie’s name flashes at me from the screen as I glance at it.

I don’t want to talk to her. It’s strange—being friends these days. Still, I answer.

"Logan?" Her voice is a warm flicker in the dark, too bright for my mood. "Hope it’s not too late."

"Hey, Connie. No, I just got home."

"How’s your mom doing?"

I need a second to conjure a response that won’t have Connie worrying and running over with casseroles and other offerings of goodwill from her and Curtis. "Surgery went well. We decided to do another round of chemo to be on the safe side."

"You need anything?"

"No, we’re good."

"I can stop by her place. I’m sure she could use some help around the house."

"No, don’t worry. She’s still in the hospital. And I already hired someone to be with her when I’m not around."

"Are you sure?"

"I’m sure, Connie. But thank you for the offer. I’ll keep you in mind."

"Okay." She clears her throat. "Did you get the invitation?"

"Yes."

"Are you coming?" Her tone is hopeful, but laced with an edge of something else—trepidation, maybe.

"When have I ever gone to these things?" I try to sound nonchalant, but I’m not certain I’m doing a good job. I’m tired. Being in one room with Solovey brothers turned out to be more exhausting than I thought. I just want to be myself tonight—a lonely, angry-at-life man in his thirties who’s hiding among the shades of gray.

"It’s a big number. Fifteen years, Logan," Connie says.

"I don't know if I'd be... welcome."

"Of course, you would be," she insists, but it feels like putting a Band-Aid on a bullet wound.

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