Page 46 of Wrong Number. Right Don.
“And what if she can’t handle it?” I ask, my voice low.
Sasha considers this for a moment. “Then you’ll drink some top-shelf vodka and get back to business right away,” he answers without a hint of irony. Vodka is our go-to therapist. “But you can’t worry about how she’s going to react if you refuse to ever actually tell her. If I’ve learned anything about women in my thirty-seven years, it’s that they dislike secrets a lot more than they dislike difficult news.”
“Where did you learn all this about women?” I tease. “You’re even worse at relationships than I am.”
“Ah, yes,” he agrees. “But I sleep with a lot more women than you do. So I’ve picked up a lot of useful information.”
“Is it yelled at you as you’re sneaking out the door?” I joke.
He laughs. “Sometimes hurled at me with my clothes.”
Neither of us speaks for a while after that. We sit in comfortable silence, each lost in his own thoughts. Finally, he speaks again.
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re going to break her by telling her the truth, Sergei. But you might break yourself if you keep pretending she doesn’t deserve to know who you really are.”
I shake my head. “It’s all very new. I don’t even know why we’re talking about any of this.”
“She’s special,” he responds simply. “I can see it. Hell, even Mom can see it. You two are the ones who can’t seem to get your shit together.”
I consider this for a moment. Maybe we’re both scared and it’s getting in the way of something that could be really exceptional. Or, maybe, we’re both right to be cautious. There’s so much I don’t know about her, and clearly so much she doesn’t know about me. If she ever found out the truth, there’s every chance that she would bolt and never speak to me again.
That’s one risk I’m just not willing to take.
19
NICOLE
My bedroom door bangs open, startling me. I whirl around to find Sergei standing in the doorway, chest heaving, blood smeared across his hands. Sasha slumps against him, barely conscious, his face a mess of bruises and dried blood. His shirt hangs in tatters, and he clamps an arm around his ribs like every breath knifes through him.
“What the hell?” I scream, trying to process the scene in front of me. “Oh, my God. What happened?”
“Help me get him to the bed,” Sergei demands, his tone clipped.
I don’t hesitate. I move on autopilot, relying on the precise training drilled into me in the ER. I rush forward, take Sasha’s other arm, and guide him to the edge of the bed. He groans in pain as we gently set him down. As soon as he’s seated, I dart to my closet and dig through the bottom drawer where I remember stashing an emergency medical kit.
I yank the kit from the drawer and rush back to Sasha, snapping on gloves and laying out gauze and antiseptic to tackle the visible wounds first.
“Sasha,” I say, keeping my voice calm as I examine his face. His left eye is swollen shut, a deep gash slices across his cheekbone, and his lip is split. “Can you hear me?”
“Mmhm,” he mutters faintly.
“Can you tell me what hurts?” I ask, gentle but urgent.
Every second counts. He needs a full workup in a hospital. He could be bleeding internally, but I clamp down on the panic and patch him up as best I can.
“Everything,” he groans, which doesn’t help me at all.
I glance up at Sergei. He stands ramrod straight, every muscle coiled, anger and concern twin shadows across his face.
“What happened?” I demand. Any information would help, but he’s infuriatingly tight-lipped, just like his brother.
Sergei doesn’t look away from Sasha.
“I can’t tell you that,” he says, voice flat.
“Can’t or won’t?” I demand.
His eyes flick to mine, hard and unreadable. “Both.”
