Page 6 of Beautiful Rush
“No. I was saving it for you.”
He stuck out his chin. “You think I deserve it?”
“Probably. But I’ll restrain myself. This time.”
“No more street racing. If I find out you’re still—”
“What will you do?” I lifted the glass of vodka to my lips and closed my eyes as the liquid slid down my throat. I reveled in the burn. It tasted like fire and all the tears I’d never shed.
He pried the glass from my hand and sniffed the vodka before he drank. I watched the Adam’s apple in his throat bobbing as he swallowed and wondered how the strangest things could be so sexy. “You’re drinking straight vodka now?”
I shrugged one shoulder. He leaned forward and set the glass down on the small table next to my chair. I’ve never been a big drinker or partier. I only drank Beluga Gold Line once a year to commemorate the anniversary of Sasha’s death.
“My first boyfriend was Russian,” I said as if that explained everything. It explained nothing. I’d used the term boyfriend loosely. Sasha and I had been occasional fuck buddies. And he had been my best friend. Myonlyreal friend in Miami. He had understood my life better than anyone. Our fathers were kings of the underground. But, unlike me, Sasha embraced that lifestyle and wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps. On his nineteenth birthday, Sasha was abducted. His captors had demanded money in exchange for his safe return. His father had paid up. Ivan Petrov would have given them every last cent he had. Ripped the beating heart from his own chest to save his beloved son. But it was too late. Sasha was already dead. They dragged his lifeless body out of a swamp in the Everglades and Ivan Petrov had retreated into obscurity.
“Sasha drank a lot of vodka.” It was true. He drank too much, but I’d never seen him drunk. He said it was in his genes, that vodka flowed in his veins instead of blood. “His name was Alexander Petrov. His friends and family called him Sasha.”
I saw the flicker of recognition in Deacon’s eyes. He’d probably read about it. The story had been all over the news for weeks. I had to read about it from afar. The day after my high school graduation, before we knew whether Sasha was dead or alive, my father had whisked me and my mother away on a grand tour of Europe. He’d purposefully extended the trip so I wouldn’t be able to attend the funeral. The day they found Sasha’s body, I was sailing somewhere off the Amalfi Coast.
“What happened to Sasha?” Deacon asked, although I suspected he already knew the answer.
“He was killed.”
“The cross you wear around your neck. It’s from Sasha?” Deacon asked. It was tucked inside the collar of my T-shirt like it always was, but Deacon must have noticed it before.
I nodded. The black and gold Russian Orthodox crucifix was gaudy, not really Sasha’s style, and hung on a thick gold chain. It was his good luck charm. A talisman against evil forces. When he took it off his own neck and put it around mine on my eighteenth birthday, I knew he would regret it. Sasha wasn’t generous, not with his heart or his feelings or his possessions but for some unknown reason he had given me his cross. He used to say that we were alike, two sides of the same coin. But I never wanted to believe him. “He gave it to me five months before he died. Sometimes I think that if he hadn’t, he would still be alive.”
“Keira.” That was all he said, his voice soft as he took my hands in his and pulled me out of my chair. “You don’t believe that.”
He studied my face as if it was vitally important to him that I didn’t believe it. He probably wasn’t the superstitious type. Logically, I knew it wasn’t true. A religious icon couldn’t protect the wearer. Still, I clung to my superstitions.
“Of course not. It’s just a silly superstition.” My tone was breezy and dismissive. I could tell that Deacon wasn’t fooled, but he let it go.
“How’ve you been?” he asked, sounding as if he genuinely cared. I thought maybe he did. Our lives were weirdly intertwined. Deacon had saved Killian’s life in a shoot-out. Dramatic, I know. He’d also saved Connor a few years back. Instead of busting him for drug possession like he could have, Deacon had called Killian who had gotten Connor into rehab. My brothers weren’t easily impressed by anyone but to hear them talk, Deacon Ramsey was a superhero. They not only respected him, they felt they owed him a debt of gratitude they could never repay.
“Same old, same old. Currently nursing my melancholy with ice-cold vodka in the light of a full moon. Come back later and I’ll be howling at it.”
He laughed and turned my hand over so he could read the words inked on my skin. Goosebumps pricked my arms and warmth spread through my body as he traced the letters with his fingertip like I’d done so many times. He was so close I could smell his subtle spicy scent. Something warm and woodsy. Cedar and citrus. Bergamot, maybe? It didn’t matter. He smelled good. So good that I wanted to burrow my face in his neck and breathe him in. As if reading my thoughts, he tugged me closer. His eyes flitted to my mouth. Maybe he was remembering the feel of my lips against his.
I flattened my palms on his hard chest and leaned into him. Heat rolled off him, making my body feel flushed. I could feel the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his T-shirt, his heart beating a steady rhythm under my fingertips. Deacon was the calm to my storm. The kind of man you could rely on to be there for you, to keep you safe and protect you. It confused me that I’d want that from him when I’d never wanted it from anyone before.
I wanted him, but I didn’twantto want him.
“I shouldn’t be here.” He wrapped his hands around my wrists. He had good hands. Strong and capable-looking with thick veins. I bet when he held a gun, they didn’t even tremble. I bet they were sure and steady, and he didn’t so much as break a sweat.
“And yet, here you are. Why are you here?”
“I’ve missed your funny face.” He made slow, lazy circles on my inner wrists with the pads of his thumbs. The softest touch was often the most powerful.
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“Miss me?” he teased.
More than I should have. “You never crossed my mind.”
“You crossed mine. Hundreds of times.” His voice was low and rough, seducing me with his raw honesty.
“Hundreds?” I laughed. “I didn’t take you for the kind of guy who uses hyperboles.”
