6. Tate
Tate
I have no idea where Roman is taking me next.
We loop down into a parking lot at the bottom edge of campus and Roman stops in front of a giant, sleek black Escalade. He takes out a key and manually opens the passenger side door in front of me, then goes around to the driver’s side.
“Nice ride,” I tell him as I slide onto the cream leather passenger seat.
“Not my usual style. I normally like European cars, but the Escalade was a gift.”
“Damn, nice gift, then.”
“My cousin is very kind.”
His accent comes out as he says it. Sometimes his Russian influence sounds strong, and other times it’s barely audible. It seems like while his mind is occupied with other things, he’s less capable of holding his standard American accent.
I look over at him in the driver's side seat. “Can I ask you something?”
“Ask it. You don’t need to keep getting permission.”
“Did you grow up in the States?”
He turns the key in the ignition and the car’s engine roars to life. There’s some sort of metal playing over the speakers, but the music is turned down low.
“Yes. Mostly grew up in America.”
“I like your accent, when it comes out.”
“You like my tattoos, my car, my accent. My size.”
“Never said I liked your size.”
“Mm. But you do.”
He grips the wheel as he reverses the car, looking at the rearview mirror.
Christ, he’s so fucking hot.
The muscles of his forearm are prominent beneath the dark lines of his tattoos. Most of them are abstract, just looping lines or patterns on his skin, but I can make out a few small birds, a coin, and a date written in numerals.
He pulls out onto the road, gripping the steering wheel harder, but he says nothing as he eases the car onto the cobbled street that leads out of campus.
Soon we’re surrounded by dense trees, the light filtering down from overhead in mottled shadows.
“I was in Russia until I was five,” he says. “Then my family moved over here. All of my family speaks Russian with me, and I still default to it. That’s why I sometimes have a little accent. I don’t really hear it, but others do.”
Damn.
Progress.
For Roman Petrov, telling me that much information at once feels like he’s suddenly showering me with details.
I look closely at his hands under the passing shadows, and I notice scars along many of his fingers. A couple of them have tattoos inked over them that only accentuate the raised skin of the scarring. He makes a left turn and his thick torso turns a little with the movement.
Why does he have so many scars?
As the car drives deeper into the forested roads, a new, cold fear slides down my spine, hitting me all at once.
It occurs to me that I haven’t actually spoken with my brother since I got to campus.
I was too angry at first, and then… I got busy.
I just took Roman’s word that he was hired to protect me. For all I know, he could have been lying.
He could be kidnapping me as we speak.
His eyes are narrowed as he looks out onto the road ahead. A calculated stare. We drive further onto a road in the middle of a forest that I’ve never been on before.
I don’t know where I am…
And I don’t know him.
I shift on the leather seat, suddenly aware of how fast the car is going down a winding road with no stoplights. I couldn’t open the door and just hop out. I trusted what Roman said blindly.
Maybe I am as naive as people think I am.
I slide out my phone to text my brother.
Tate
Could have told me you were hiring me a bodyguard.
Luke
I’m sorry. I knew you’d hate it. I was going to tell you, you know. Roman said he’d be subtle, and my friend who referred him swears by him. Said he’s loyal.
It’s okay. Overkill, but okay.
How is Crimson? I wanted to let you get used to it before I asked too much.
I miss the city.
Upstate isn’t so bad. You’ll get used to it. Or you’ll hate it… but you’ll be safe.
Lol, fuck off.
Miss you. I’m going to visit as soon as the start of football season calms down. Lot of press lately.
Miss you too. All the time.
I don’t tell him about the memento left at my door. Or the man who apparently wasn’t Roman who followed me for a while last night.
But I don’t need to worry Luke any more than he already is. The New York Reapers are relying on him this season, and I know he has so much on his plate.
“Okay. I’ll only be a second,” Roman says as he takes a turn off the main road and onto a long, private gravel driveway.
He makes another smooth turn and suddenly we’re in front of a big, modern, beautiful house, with wood and glass, right in the middle of what seemed like forest land.
It’s like a small mansion.
Very impressive, for whoever lives here.
“Whoa.”
“Stay here. I need to speak with my cousins, and I’ll be right back.”
He gets out of the car, leaving the air on for me inside. He walks up to the front and keys in a code before opening one of the big, glass front doors.
I roll down my window a little bit and listen to the sound of the air.
It’s nothing like it is in the city.
I can hear the breeze blowing through all of the trees, the sound of an occasional bee buzzing past, and even the sound of a squirrel who patters by on the gravel, running fast.
I close my eyes for a moment, letting it wash over me.
The wind in the leaves is almost like the sound of the ocean. Everything smells like cedar and pine.
Maybe this is why people live here.
It’s… nice, I guess.
My phone buzzes, and I glance down at it.
Your Guardian Fucking Angel
It will be at least ten minutes.
Tate
Still not going to tell me why we’re here?
He doesn’t respond.
After a few minutes, I start to hear fragments of a conversation floating through the air, through the open window of the car. At first, I can’t make out much, and I realize that Roman and his cousins must be talking with one another in the backyard.
Then I see two figures at the side of the yard. They’re far back, tucked behind a hedge.
Two short men.
And I get curious.
I quietly open the passenger side door, stepping out. I let the car door gently close, leaving it open a crack so that it doesn’t slam shut.
I tiptoe forward, ducking so that I’m hidden by trees and hedges in the front driveway, and step closer to the side of the lawn.
I can hear the whole conversation clearly now.
“You like it up there?” Roman’s asking someone.
I peek past the leaves, seeing that there are actually five men there. Roman and two men who resemble him, probably his cousins. Then there are the two other, shorter men. One of them is bald, the other has close-cropped red hair.
One of the short guys is nodding at Roman. “I like it. Like my own place in the city much better, though.”
“Then I’m sure this isn’t your favorite place, either,” Roman says.
“I’ve enjoyed it so far,” the short guy says. “Just got into town about an hour ago.”
Suddenly, their conversation falls silent.
Pin-drop silent.
I don’t understand why.
But I see Roman exchange a glance with one of his cousins, while the other cousin gets a crazed look in his eyes.
“Is that right, John?” Roman says. “Because Noreen at Capp’s Diner says she saw you here, at six o’clock this morning. That doesn’t make it sound like you got here an hour ago.”
The air falls silent again, but this time it feels deafening.
I shift on my feet, a twig snapping under my shoe, and I wince, hoping no one heard it.
But none of the guys are moving an inch.
My heart stops when I see one of Roman’s cousins hold out a gleaming silver gun, pointing it straight at the bald man.
“Who the fuck were you meeting with in town, liar?” he says.
The other guy glares at him. “Get that out of my face.”
“Gentleman, we’re only here to talk,” the redheaded guy insists.
“We’re done talking,” Roman tells them. “Answer Yegor’s question. Now.”
“Fuck you,” the bald guy says, spitting on the ground. “I’ll never rat.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Roman’s cousin Yegor shouts louder now, taking a step forward and jamming the barrel of his gun onto the guy’s head.
My heart slams harder in my chest, adrenaline surging through my veins.
Holy fuck.
These guys are serious.
They’re actually going to fucking—
“I said three words, and I meant them. I will never. Fucking. Rat,” the bald guy says. “What are you going to do, Petrov prick? Shoot me in the skull?”
A loud bang hits the air and I stumble backward onto my ass as I see the man’s head lurch backward.
Red spills from a hole in his forehead.
Roman’s cousin just shot someone.
Shot them dead, point-blank, in the backyard.
My stomach lurches, and I almost puke, heaving over in the gravel behind the low shrub. I hear the argument continue, my ears still ringing from the sudden shot.
“On the ground,” Roman says in a deep voice, clearly talking to the redhead. “Yegor, you should not have shot that man. What is going through your head? We needed to negotiate a little longer.”
“Fuck negotiating,” Yegor shouts. “He disrespected us. He lied.”
“Shit. Get back here—”
I look up to see the redheaded man taking off, getting a head start and darting off through the side yard.
He’s running straight toward me.
I get up off the ground and cold fear spreads through my body as I look both ways, wondering where the fuck to go.
I take off toward the other side of the front road, but my shoe slips on the gravel and I come down hard, my knees and palms slamming into the rocky ground.
It hurts like fucking hell on my already injured palm.
“Fuck,” I whimper. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
I glance behind me and the guy is right there.
“Are you another Petrov spy?” the redhead says. There are tears streaming down his face, and he reaches into his pocket, brandishing a gun and holding it up at me.
A moment later, Roman bounds around the corner and tackles him onto the ground.
A gunshot rings out, but it misses, hitting one corner of the house and missing me by many feet. I scramble up, running back toward the car and taking cover behind it, peeking around the corner.
Yegor walks over, leveling his pistol at the redhead.
“He’s going to kill you all for this,” the redhead is blubbering now. “You think this is going to work out? You’re so goddamn wrong.”