Page 87 of A Master's Destiny
“You look like a peasant…
“And you smell like one, too.”
I force a laugh, wondering if this is Durov’s idea of a joke. When I start to close the door, he holds out his hand for a tip.
“Really? It wasn’t that good.”
He shrugs. “Look, man, they don’t pay me enough to even buy lunch.”
I grumble as I look for my wallet and pull out five bucks. Handing it over, I tell him, “I highly recommend you find another job.”
Taking the cash, he holds out the balloon.
“Keep it,” I mutter, shutting the door.
Moments later, he knocks at the door again.
Unwilling to be conned out of more money, I refuse to answer it, but the guy won’t let up and continues pounding on my door.
I reach my breaking point and yank it open to find Durov standing there, holding the balloon, a grin on his face.
I laugh. “What are you doing here?”
“The cattleman called and told me he was leaving early and needed someone to spoon feed you so that you get enough to eat.”
I burst out laughing and smack him on the shoulder, causing the balloon to escape and float up to the ceiling in the hallway. “Youdoknow I am capable of feeding myself.”
“Not according to the cattleman.”
I open the door wider and invite him in.
Durov gives me a bear hug, then says accusingly, “What’s this about a graduation I wasn’t invited to,moy droog?
“It’s nothing. Seriously, it’s not worth your time to show up.”
He shakes his head. “Are you kidding? I feel like a proud papa. My little Thane all grown up and a big, bad Dom now.” When he tries to pinch my cheek, I smack his hand away.
“I didn’t invite anyone because it’s just going to be a five-minute ceremony.”
He looks at me thoughtfully. “Moments like these need to be celebrated with a shot of vodka. Don’t you agree, comrade?”
“Just one. I’ve got to drive in a few hours.”
Durov heads to my kitchen and starts riffling through my cupboards until he finds the Russian-sized shot glasses and vodka.
My phone vibrates and I pull it out to see a text from Anderson.
Happy Graduation, buddy! Is the Russian keeping you fed?
I smirk as I type.
Vodka being poured even as I type this—pickles soon to follow.
I slip the phone back into my pocket and watch Durov pour a generous amount of vodka into each glass before handing one to me.
Lifting his glass high, he proclaims, “Here’s to your future,moy droog. May you out-Dom the rest of the peasants.”
I chuckle, clinking glasses with him before downing the shot, but I quickly realize we don’t have pickles. Heading to the kitchen, I dig through my cupboards for the unopened jar. Cracking it open, I hand it to him first.
