I stopped breathing.
“Her name is Angela, and she’s a friend of mine from college. I called her first thing and she’s going to meet us at the police station, okay? She’s really nice.”
I nodded but didn’t speak. Couldn’t.
With a sigh, Laney let me go.
In the living room, I paced up and down, feeling caged, but not sure where to go. Paranoia was making me tense, my skin itching and feeling like I’d explode. I loathed that I was too afraid to walk outside Laney’s front door, seeing Bratva everywhere. My heart was racing, pulse jack-rabbiting.
One thing always calmed me. I needed to dance.
I found Laney’s phone and scrolled through her play lists.
I didn’t care that the space was small. I didn’t care that audiences were a lifetime away. I danced because I had to, because right now, I’d lost everything but this.
It was jazz, it was ballroom, it was salsa and hip hop—it was everything and nothing and pure. I danced with no one watching. I danced because my body needed motion, like I needed it more than air to breathe.
Faster, spinning, bending, lunging for a future just out of reach.
Quiet applause broke the spell and I whipped around to see Laney watching me, admiration shining in her eyes.
“That was . . . I don’t even know what that was,” she said. “But it was amazing. Just . . . beautiful.”
I dipped my head, resting my hands on my hips, breathing hard.
She wasn’t supposed to see me, so I didn’t answer and didn’t look at her.
I think that made Laney feel awkward, like she’d spied on something private, because she changed the topic immediately.
“Are you nervous about this afternoon?”
I frowned and nodded slowly, still avoiding meeting her eyes.
“That’s understandable,” Laney said softly, patting my arm. “But remember—you’re a survivor. You’ve been through worse than a police interview, okay?”
I grimaced and wanted to argue, but when I turned around, I realized that she was wearing just a thin robe. I saw her skin flush as my eyes trailed over her body. Even that faint contact of her hand on my arm sent a shiver through my body that wanted to settle in my cock, a low tug of arousal, heated by her closeness.
I stopped immediately, shrugging off her hand and cursing myself, turned to walk away and stare out the window.
“So,” Laney said, her voice sounding tight. “Let’s go out for brunch: breakfast pizza! That’s a great Chicago tradition.”
I forced a smile. “Sure, that sounds . . .” Horrible.
My stomach kept trying to climb into my throat, and the image of Sergei pointing a gun at me, those crazed eyes promising sudden death—it played like a horror movie in my head.
God, it made me want to claw my eyes out.
“Can I use your phone?” I asked abruptly. “I need to call . . . home.”
“Oh, of course! I’m so sorry! I should have thought of that before. Of course you can.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll go get dressed,” Laney murmured, hurrying out of the room while I made my call.
It was mid-afternoon in Europe and the chances were that Luka would be busy, but he answered on the second ring.
“Damn, Ash! I’ve been getting ulcers wondering where the fuck you are! You didn’t reply to my emails. How are you? Where are you?”
He was shocked when I filled him in, but relieved I’d got out of Las Vegas. It was a relief just to speak my own language, but after a few minutes I started to worry about how much the call was costing—and he asked too many questions about Laney. I ended the call, promising to keep in touch from now on.
When Laney walked back into the living room, she was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt and not wearing any makeup. It was strange to see her walking around. It made me feel even less of a man. At least when she was in her wheelchair, I could help her with getting around.
The thought made me feel like a jerk.
“Everything okay?” she asked, a worried look on her face.
I gave her a tight smile.
“I guess. It’s going to be hard not having ID. Your dad said he’d call my Embassy, but . . .”
“Of course he will,” she said sharply.
“Because he cares?” I asked bitterly. “Just more cheap Eastern European labor. I haven’t met an American yet who’d even heard of Slovenia.”
She looked away guiltily, and I sighed. I was insulting her father, her country, annoying Laney—and she was trying to help me.
I changed the subject.
“You’re walking really well today.”
Laney gave a bright smile that made her eyes crinkle.
“I know! What a relief. Flare-ups usually pass quite quickly for me, but sometimes it can take a couple of weeks.”
I wanted to ask more about her illness, but Laney didn’t give me the chance.
“Come on, let’s go for breakfast—or brunch—whatever it is. My treat.”
“I’ll pay you back when I can,” I muttered.
Laney sighed. “Ash, you tied my shoelaces.”