“Levi Lincoln?” She whistles. “Hot. And scary. Figured he’d be the old guy.”
“He was a little intimidating, I guess.”
Lola stares at me like I told her I was planning to mop up Lake Michigan later. “Alittle? That was the most menacing man I’ve ever seen, Carina.”
Lola isn’t scared of anything. I don’t know what it says about me—that the only time I’ve been scared of Lev was before I saw his face in that pool.
So, I bend down, pick up the damp paper towels and empty cup, then finally continue toward the restroom.
It’s not until I’m washing my hands that it occurs to me that I’m no longer nervous to walk onstage. I’m not sure if I should be grateful or angry about that.
(FALSE) CONFIDENCE
Ten Years Earlier
Isuck in a deep breath, not halting the inhale until I picture my lungs popping like overinflated balloons, then allow all the air to release in a long gust. Tap the plastic key above the door handle, waiting for the beep and flash of green, then enter with what I hope is a projected aura of (false) confidence. Turn after passing the closet and abruptly freeze, barely aware of the distantclickas the door swings shut behind me.
Lev says something in Russian. Rapid and low. A swear, if I had to guess at a rough translation.
The gun is lowered. Set on the mattress.
I don’t move. Ican’t.
I’ve barely processed a deadly weapon was just pointed at me. There’s no relief my life is no longer in mortal danger because I’m preoccupied by disbelief. I didn’t duck. Or run. Or scream. My reflexes—at least around Lev Sokolov—suck.
He curses in English this time, a husky, “Fuck,” that has the hairs on the back of my neck lifting.
I was nervous—excited—about coming, and now I’m too flooded with adrenaline to focus on any singular emotion.
I know I should move away as he approaches, but that’s beyond my legs’ current abilities. I’m still too stunned to move.
“What are you doing here?” Lev demands. The question seethes with irritation.
Some outrage seeps in, unlocking my muscles. “Youtoldme to come.” I wave the room key around like a lit sparkler. “The Peninsula. Eight p.m.Remember?”
Lev frowns. I’m not sure if his annoyance is linked to my poor imitation of his accent or not. “I told the woman at the desk to?—”
“There’s a man down there.”
His exhale is heavy. “I am sorry?—”
“About pointing a gun at me?” Surprisingly, my voice stays steady. I have Caruso blood in me, I suppose.
“I was not expecting …” His voice trails, expression steeling for a few seconds.
I scrutinize him closer, noticing the bulge beneath his shirt for the first time. How pale he appears.
“What’s wrong?” Forgoing any attempt at self-preservation, I step closer. Reach out.
His hand closes around my wrist before I can make contact. “No, Carina,” he says sternly.
My chin lifts, and I hold his gaze defiantly. He wants me to leave, and that’s a directive I wouldn’t need to be told twice from anyone else. The man warning me away is undoubtedly the one whose direction you heed. He’s not making a suggestion. Lev is surrounded by an air of authority and certainty and … something darker.
Yet I linger—for some absurd reason.
I glance quickly at the bed, then ask, “Were you shot?”
Amusement ghosts across his face, passing faster than a shadow. He wasn’t expecting that question. I’m proud of surprising him.
