Page 17 of Floodgates

“Sit still,” he ordered sharply, one hand on my upper thigh, the other on my knee.

I froze, and when I did, I realized how warm his hands were and the strength in them as he maneuvered me off him back up to a sitting position.

When he bent close I caught a whiff of cloves and citrus and something woodsy. I inhaled deeply, and he turned his head and caught me.

“Sorry,” I said fast, biting the corner of my lip.

“No,” he said gruffly, his ice-blue eyes lifting to mine. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

That close, all I could do was stare.

Dimah Mashir had sharp, sculpted features from his high cheekbones to a strong angled jaw. His long straight nose was gorgeous, and he had a full bottom lip and a thinner top one. The scar under his right eye and the small missing section of eyebrow over it gave me the idea that at some point he’d been in a knife fight. I imagined a battle to the death over some woman who had, of course, rewarded him when his opponent lay dead.

I had a pretty active imagination.

“You will tell me from the start as we drive to Menshinstvo for dinner.”

Menshinstvo was his bar off of Sixth Street, close to Market and Folsom. It was kind of local and divey, small, with a kitchen that one of his uncles cooked in only when he felt like it or if Dimah was going to be there. There were always big guys in suits sitting out front, and no one who didn’t speak fluent Russian had any business even loitering anywhere near the place.

Slouched in the back of the car, I explained what happened, the abbreviated version, and Dimah didn’t grill me or try and make me remember more than I did.

“I have already spoken to Kirill.”

I knew he hated to do that. Ever. Dimah had spent his life separating himself from his brother and his brother’s world. “You didn’t have to.”

“I did,” he contradicted me. “He had to let those who wanted his attention know that they have mine instead.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yes, and everyone is fortunate that you are.”

“It’s not your job to take care of me.”

“You are my partner. If not mine, then whose?”

Once we got to the bar, the five of us poured out of the Hummer and walked in the front door.

The strong aroma of garlic and pepper hit me as soon as I walked in, and when we all filled up a table in the back, the first thing I got was a half-full tumbler of vodka.

“I need a soda, or I’m gonna fall asleep.”

“Drink,” Dimah commanded.

I threw it back, and he poured me another, but a woman brought a pitcher of ice water and several glasses, so I at least got to hydrate.

Dimah made everyone speak English, which was nice of him, and when the pickle plate was brought to the table, I started in on the cucumbers and mushrooms.

“Do you want soup?” he asked me.

Since I got stuck eating borscht the last time I was there, I said no as strongly as I could without offending him. I had barely choked it down.

“No soup this time.”

Thank God. “Okay.”

He went back to talking with the others and sitting there, drinking, while everyone smoked around me. I started to get really sleepy. When I put my head down on the table, no one said a word to me.

The conversation changed. I heard the English give way to Russian, and after a while, someone’s voice was in my ear.