I come around the bar and grab ahold of Pyotr’s collar.
“The babyismine,” I growl. I’m not sure why I’m reacting this way to someone I didn’t even know, but I can’t stand to hear any bad words about Annika.
Pyotr studies me with calm, narrowed, drug-addled eyes, and then laughs.
“Right, man,” he says in way of apology, bringing the joint to his lips again. “As long as I don’t have to take care of it, I don’t really give a shit. In a way I should be thanking you. Because of your wandering dick I don’t have to marry a woman I don’t know anymore.”
I glare at him for another moment, then let out a gruff laugh as I release Pyotr’s collar, then roughly ruffle his hair.
“Well, you’re welcome I guess,” I reply, then take a seat beside my brother.
“You gonna apologize for hitting me at the hospital now so we can be buddy-buddy again?” Pyotr asks, looking at me sideways.
I roll my eyes, but concede.
“You did deserve it, though,” I add with a rueful smile afterward.
Pyotr shrugs, takes another gulp from his already half-empty bottle of vodka.
“Yeah. Maybe. Guess I did let my temper get out of bounds there for a minute.”
“It’s alright,” I assure him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. It really is. We both have issues controlling our tempers at times, and I’m sure that it is only through age and experience with leadership that I've only just learned to better handle my own. I hope in time, as Pyotr matures, he will be able to show the same restraint.
“So now what do we do?” Pyotr asks.
“We control the story people hear. I don’t know what we’re going to tell people yet but I’ll work on it with my advisors. Make sure you and Annika both come out of this looking free of blame. Then, if you want, we can look for another wife for you,” I explain, ending on a chuckle.
Pyotr chortles.
“No, thanks,” he says, “I’ll take all the freedom I can get.”
I smile at Pyotr, relieved that we’re no longer fighting. I enjoy these rare times, when I don’t have to play wrangler and can just be his brother.
“I do want you to be happy, you know,” I tell him. “I know whatever Mom put you through couldn’t have been easy, and I just-”
“Don’t talk about Mom,” Pyotr says, turning his head to look me square in the eyes. There’s no venom in his voice as there hadbeen at the church, but the is a stern warning, almost a plea, in his deep voice.
I press my lips together, nod, and clap him on the shoulder before I stand.
“Right. Well. It’s been a hell of a day. I’ll let you get back to your headache music and parties. Just don’t drug and drive, okay?”
I know I have control over it, but I have to ask anyway. As much as we fight, I don’t want anything bad happening to him.
“You could stay, you know,” Pyotr says, looking almost hopeful as he stares up at me. He then smirks, holds up the bottle of vodka. “We’ve never partied together before, and we finally have something mutual to celebrate. You’re going to be a father, and I don’t have to get married.”
I laugh, but shake my head.
“I don’t think I’d fit into your crowd very well,mladshiy brat,” I reply, “And I have a lot to do. I’m getting married in a few weeks, after all.”
A flicker of disappointment moves through Pyotr’s eyes, but it quickly passes and he merely smiles and nods.
“Sure. I get it. The boss is always busy.”
“Sadly, that is true,” I agree. “See you soon, little brother.”
“Bud' zdorov, bol'shoy brat,” Pyotr replies.
Chapter Eleven
