Page 21 of Beautiful Trauma
I fought the tears that pricked my eyes. “Low.Fucking.Blow,” I whispered.
Regret filled Dima’s face. “Mila, I–”
Ignoring him, I threw open the door and hopped out. Without another word to him, I slammed the door and started making my way down the sidewalk.
Dima’s voice echoed through the piece in my ear. “Dammit, Mila, would you let me apologize?”
Turning back to the van, I met his gaze through the windshield. I dug the piece out of my ear before shoving it in my purse. After extending the middle finger at him, I then started jogging down the sidewalk.
His words had pierced my skin the same as the sharp point of a knife. I could’ve taken those words from Aleks or Anton or fucking anybody else.
But not Dima.
Each and every time he sided with our father wounded me, and the sting remained.
When I reached the club, the line wasn’t too long. I’d barely taken my place in the crowd before a hulking bouncer did a slow sweep of my body. With a flick of his pointer and middle finger, he said, “Inside.”
I plastered on a grateful smile while ignoring the jealous sniping of the women in front of me. After flashing my ID to the doorman, I headed inside. The thumping bass rumbled through me the instant I walked through the door.
Since I knew Dima would be losing his mind, I took the earpiece out and put it back in. “I’m inside,” I said.
His relieved breath echoed over the line. “And I’m fucking sorry.”
The sliver of softness that remained within me bloomed under his words. Although small, it somehow reigned in the raging bitch within me. That side of me wanted to tell him he could stuff his apology up his Bratva loving ass.
But I didn’t.
Sometimes from that small sliver, I could almost hear my mother’s voice begging me to keep fighting for him.
When I didn’t respond, Dima asked, “Mila?”
“I’m here.”
“Are we okay?”
“You owe me.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Good because I’m going to grab a drink on you before getting in place at the bottom of the VIP stairwell.”
“Copy that. From hacking the security cameras, he’s still in his office.”
I snorted. “Copy that? Are we playing at being cops now?”
“Shut up,” he replied, but I heard the humor vibrating in his voice.
“Copy that, Big Brother. The Happy Hooker is about to grab the best vodka these Irishmen carry.”
At Dima’s chuckle, a smile curved on my lips as I made my way through the crowd. I ignored the appreciative male gazes that drifted over me. When I reached the bar, I flagged down a bartender outfitted in nothing but gold lame shorts. Gold glitter flickered across his bare chest and arms.
“What can I get you, love?” he asked in a perfect Irish accent.
“A shot of your most expensive vodka.”
A sexy smirk spread across his cheeks. “You need a little Irish in you, not Russian.” He winked. “Let me get you some strong Irish whiskey.”
I’m sure most coeds would’ve creamed their panties over him, but I wasn’t in the mood. I took a crisp hundred out of my purse and waved it at him. “If you want a tip, sweetcheeks, you’ll cut the bullshit and get me vodka.”
