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Chapter ThirteenMiaAnton gives his uncle a wary look before introducing us.
“This is my uncle, Jerry Dixon, but everyone calls him Dix. And Uncle Dix, this is Mia. You either treat her right or I’m putting you out to pasture.”
Dix grunts in response to Anton and then turns to me.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mia. Hopefully you have more respect for the elderly than my nephew does.”
“I told her about you,” Anton says.
“Lies, all lies.” Dix waves a hand in response.
He’s thin and wrinkled, a few lonely white hairs combed back on his scalp. I’m pretty sure Anton was exaggerating about how insufferable he is—Dix seems like a nice old man who probably just wants some company.
“Call or text if you have any problems,” Anton tells me.
“We’ll be fine.”
He gave me a tour of the apartment when I got here at 5:30 a.m., before Dix was awake. After getting ready to leave for practice, he helped his uncle to the bathroom and into his favorite recliner.
I couldn’t say no to Anton’s job offer. He’s paying me almost three times what I made bartending, even with tips. The money will allow me to help Anita and also save money for a divorce, though that’s going to take a while.
But still. I have hope now. I can keep going to school, too. And all I have to do is take care of Anton’s uncle, who’s slow moving due to a couple strokes he’s had and cranky when he doesn’t get his way. It requires some overnight stays when Anton is traveling, but he said I can bring Dre to his apartment with me anytime.
I already know that this will be a much better situation than the similar job I had when I was a teen. I talked to my grandpa when Anton made me the offer, and though he didn’t know who I was, he said it sounded like a good thing.
Anton gives Dix a warning look as he grabs his gym bag.
“We’ll be fine,” I repeat. “Have a good workout and practice.”
He finally leaves, and I take a deep breath as I look around his apartment. It’s spectacular—dark hardwood floors, lots of space and walls of windows overlooking the lake. The furniture is all dark leather and the walls are plain white, but there is a bookcase. I take in the books in English and Russian, and several framed photos, which give his place a little more character.
He and Alexei are smiling little boys in one picture, an ice rink in the background. Anton’s hair was a lighter blond as a boy. The way he has his arm around his brother tugs at my heart—there’s love and pride in his tight hold.
“Ready for some breakfast?” I ask Dix. “Anton said you like oatmeal.”
“I like bacon and eggs better.”
“I can do that.” I move into the kitchen and take a package of bacon out of the fridge.
Dix looks surprised. “I like you.”
“I like you, too,” I say, laughing. “And what about dinner? Any requests? Anton didn’t tell me to make it, but I think I’ll order some groceries from that place he has an account with and make something for you both.”
“Fried chicken,” Dix says.
“Oh, my grandma made the best fried chicken.”
“Nothing compares to homemade fried chicken. I’ll take that and potatoes and gravy.” Dix reaches down to pull his blanket up to his lap. “And a six pack of cold beer. Not the cheap shit.”
“I’m thinking Anton won’t care for this idea. He said you’re supposed to be on a heart healthy diet.”
“You know what makes a man’s heart healthy?” Dix says sharply. “Happiness.”
“Bacon’s your source of happiness for today. I’ll make salmon for dinner.”
Dix makes a sound of disgust. “Gross. That shit smells like a dirty pussy.”
My lips part with amusement and surprise. So this is what Anton meant. But I’m a Southside girl—I’m not easily offended.
“I’ll make some steamed veggies to go with the dirty pussy, sound good?” I say with a grin.
Dix is taken aback. He mumbles something about doing whatever I want and focuses on his TV show.
I check out Anton’s kitchen as I wait for the bacon to cook. He has lots of cooking stuff and it’s all super organized. His refrigerator is loaded with fruits and veggies, all of the labels turned to face forward.
Wow. I have one tiny bedroom to keep straight, and it’s sure as hell messier than Anton’s kitchen. But in my defense, I don’t have a cleaning person who comes in weekly like he does.
“Breakfast is ready,” I call over my shoulder as I pour two glasses of orange juice for me and Dix.
“My TV tray is right here.”
I look over and see he’s pointing to a folded-up tray leaning against the wall. I frown at it. My grandma always had a rule against eating meals in front of the TV.
