Page 60 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

“Like I said, he’s not sure. All I know is, I’m sick and haven’t been getting better. Can’t even go into work.”

I put my hand on the ground to keep from tipping over, not caring about the mud or Chowder squirming around.Stay calm. Just. Stay. Calm. I take in a deep breath and find my voice. “How long have you been off work?”

“A month.”

Oh, God. She hasn’t taken more than three days off per year in my entire life. “Mom …”

“Now, this is exactly why I didn’t tell you! Honey, you know as well as I do that we can’t afford a real doctor. That preliminary visit alone cleared me out. Now I’m behind on rent. I’ll just have to have a bit of extra tea and hope it clears itself out.”

A bitter smile hurts my mouth. Mom and her tea. She saw some tea documentary back in the eighties and has been a believer ever since.

I open my mouth, then close it. What can I even say? What can I do?

“Joy?”

“It’s okay, Mom,” I force myself to say in an even voice, “I’ll come visit soon. I have to go now, but I’ll be in touch.”

“I’m so glad to hear from you. And, honey?” The hyper-cheery tone is back. “Don’t worry about the coughing thing. It hasn’t gotten any worse and the landlord agreed to let us stay another month while we figure stuff out, so the rent isn’t an issue yet either.”

I try to wrestle my voice into something convincing. “That’s great, Mom. I love you. Goodbye.”

“I love you, too. Goodbye—and be careful, wherever you are!”

“I will.”

I hang up, breathing hard. The tears come and keep coming. I’m slumped in the phone booth, on the ground like the wreck I am, glad that no one’s close enough to see.

Not that it would make much of a difference. My life is over. My mom … my mom is …

Dying. Will be dead. Maybe she has months, maybe even less. But if she doesn’t go to the doctor … My fists ball with unspoken emotion and a low sob rips out of me. Chowder is at my feet, head low.

“Why? Why me? Why her?”

Hasn’t my mom been through enough shit to last her a lifetime? To last her ten lifetimes? Why, when I can barely take things as they are, why this?

My mom is dying and there’s nothing I can do.

I finger the last two quarters in my hand, gripping them tight in my palm so I won’t chuck them at the pay-phone door.

Hold on.

My mom may be dying, but there’s not nothing I can do. There issomething. Something I rejected minutes earlier. Something I wouldn’t even entertain before. Something that I didn’t realize the full potential of, until now.

I call him up with the number on the chrome card I tucked in my pocket without even realizing.

“Hello?” he answers. Even in my state, what that low, rumbly, seductive voice does to me …

“It’s me,” I croak. “I’m in.”

Silence.

God, did I misjudge things? Wait too long? But it’s only been hours and he said …

“Excellent.”

Gavril’s tone is pure satisfaction, but stupidly, I feel like I have to explain myself. “My mom has lung cancer. I want her taken care of.”

“Ah.” I like that he doesn’t say he’s sorry, doesn’t even feign sympathy. He just gets right to business. “I meant what I said: anything you want.”

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