Vadim
I walk into the Desert Rose spa and approach the front desk.
Cream paneled walls, recessed lighting, and a feature wall of living stacked travertine behind the front desk give the place a calm quality people who come to a place like this expect.
It makes me think we need to up our game with the day spa at the casino.
It's nice enough, but it hasn't had a proper update in over a decade.
The young receptionist greets me with a friendly smile, giving me a quick once-over. "Hi. How can I help you? Do you have a booking?"
"No, actually, I've come to see one of your therapists."
"Oh, okay. What's their name, and I can see when their next available appointment is?"
"I don't want a massage, I just want to see him. Now, if possible. His name is Preston Miller."
The smile drops off her face. "Oh, um. Preston isn't in tonight."
"Why not? Where is he?"
"He's, um, he's sick."
"When will he be back?"
"Probably not for a while. Would you like me to pass on a message?"
"No. It's fine." I rap my fingers against the counter. "Thank you."
Back in my SUV, I tap the console in search of the best deli in Reno.
I map out the route to a nearby place with rave reviews that I vaguely recall Marek going on about a while ago and pull up out front.
Inside, I order chicken soup, a plain bagel with butter, and crackers, and I pick up some ginger ale since I don't know what type of sick Preston is.
While I wait, I run through some options in my head.
Marek was right yesterday, I do have to take care of this situation.
Preston will most likely fight me on it, but I need to take some measures to ensure his safety.
If Farkas figured out where he works, it won't be long before he tracks down his home address.
And that house has less security than an honor system farm stand.
I pay for my order, and after a short drive, I'm knocking on Preston's front door. It opens as far as the latch will allow.
Ellie's scowling face fills the small gap. "What the fuck do you want?"
"To not have to deal with assholes like you."
"You've got some nerve coming here."
"What the hell is your problem?"
"My problem is having to spend last night in the hospital with Preston."
"Shit." So he's really sick. "What's wrong with him?"
"He met you."
I'm confused. "I just stopped by his work. They said he was sick." I lift the takeout bag up to my face. "I bought him some food. I just want to talk to him."
"Yeah? Well he never wants to talk to you, or see you, ever again. And if you don't get off my property in the next ten seconds, I'm calling the cops."
"Ellie?"
Preston's voice filters from behind Ellie, but he misses it since he's got his hearing ear aimed toward me.
"Preston is behind you," I tell him.
Ellie turns around. "What are you doing out of bed? I'm getting rid of him. Don't worry."
"It's okay. I can talk to him."
"Are you sure?"
I don't hear anything, but I assume Preston nods because a few seconds later, Ellie presses his face into the gap again. "Just so you know, I'll be in the next room. And I have a gun. A big one."
"Great." I honestly don't care. I'm over him and his bullshit. I just want to see Preston and make sure he's okay.
The door shuts with more force than needed. The latch slides off, and then it swings back open slowly. Ellie moves out of the way.
That's when I see Preston, his face swollen and bruised, purpling around his eye and jaw, a split lip that hasn't fully closed, and a butterfly strip holding a cut together above his cheekbone.
He manages a feeble wave, his hand barely making it up. "It looks worse than it is."
"No, it doesn't," Ellie mumbles, death-staring the ever-loving heck out of me.
I drop the bag onto the floor and stride over to Preston, unable to process what must've happened to him even though it's pretty fucking obvious. His face looks awful, so different from the version I've been seeing over and over in my mind since we met.
"Tell me what happened."
He looks past me to Ellie. I don't bother turning around, I can't take my eyes off him. Rage floods through me. If Farkas is behind this, I swear to god I am going to tear him apart, limb by limb.
"Let's go into my room," Preston suggests.
I pick up the takeout bag and follow Preston into his bedroom. Again, there's no overhead lighting, just the same two salt lamps providing a soft pinkish-orange glow. The pile of clothes on the floor that looks like it's grown since last time I was here.
"What's that?" he asks, closing the door, pointing at the bag.
"I brought you some takeout."
"Why?"
"I stopped by your work to see you. They told me you were sick, so I stopped by a deli to get you some food."
He comes closer to me, and Jesus, the dim lighting somehow makes his face look worse, all shadowy and raw, every bruise deeper than it was in the light. An unfamiliar ache burns in my chest.
He smiles then winces, his split lip stopping him short. "That's very kind of you. What did you get?"
I hate this, tip-toeing around the elephant in the room. I want him to confirm it was Farkas so I can unleash my fury on him. But he's been through an ordeal because of me, so I go with it.
"I didn't know what you had, so I got a few things. Are you hungry?"
"Not really."
He blinks a few times, his moss-flecked eyes an island surrounded by bruises. Seeming unsure what to do, he clears a few things off his bed and sits down on the edge.
I pull out the bottle of ginger ale. "Thirsty?"
"Sure."
I unscrew the cap and hand him the bottle, watching as he takes a small sip. I get the feeling he isn't actually thirsty and is just humoring me. Something about that doesn't sit right. He's done absolutely nothing wrong. I'm the one who should feel bad.
I do feel bad.
"Was it Farkas?" I ask softly.
"Yes." He screws the cap back on and lowers the bottle onto the floor.
"Do you want to talk about what happened or would you rather not?"
He shifts, turning his body forty-five degrees to face me, crossing his bare foot over his knee. "What would you like to know?"
My chest has never felt this heavy as I lower myself next to him. "Everything."
He takes a deep breath and recounts the horrific experience at the day spa before a colleague rushed him to the ER. They did a CT scan, no signs of fracture. Mild concussion. The cut above his cheekbone didn't need stitches. He concludes by dropping his head and saying, "I look horrible."
"You don't." I ghost my thumb along his jaw, across to the butterfly strip above his cheek. "You could never look horrible."
He stares into my eyes. I don't know what he's thinking, but a tangle of anger, guilt, and something I can't describe gnaws at me. He's hurt because of me. For the first time. And the final time.
I'll be damned if I ever let anything like this happen to him again.
I'm about to discuss the preliminary security arrangements I've come up with and would like to implement when, out of nowhere, my stomach grumbles.
He chuckles, his lips barely moving. "Are you hungry?"
I was flat out at work this evening with an entitled high roller asshole causing problems on the main floor so I missed dinner. "A little, yeah."
"Let me get you some silverware."
"No. Stay. I'll get it."
"You realize Ellie is probably pointing his big, bad gun at the door, just waiting for you to come out?"
I shake my head. "He doesn't even have a gun, does he?"
Another chuckle. "What gave it away?" Preston gets up. "Stay here. It's safer for you. I'll be back in a sec."