Page 73 of The Agreement

“I’m not,” he replied.

They both knew he was lying. Marky didn’t know what Roman was trying to hide to call him out on the lie, but there was obviously a noticeable change in him, and his friend pointed it out more than once. One negative of having the man working with him in Chicago considering Marky knew Roman better than most.

“Well, you are,” Marky returned, but at the arch of Roman’s brow, the man shrugged. “I can’t help but say it when I see it.”

Roman wished he wouldn’t.

It had been a week since that night at the restaurant when Roman discovered what Karine’s future was set to hold. The same night he learned that touching her was like catching the worst kind of addiction. It was all he kept thinking about, running those minutes over and over again in his head until the images were permanently imprinted behind the backs of his eyelids. He saw her, wet, in his arms, legs parted for him, ready to ask for more.

Why couldn’t he get that out of his head?

Knowing what he did, he should.

The same night Masha had handed him the piece of paper with his sketch and name on it—clearly drawn by a child. Yet another thing that kept bringing in his attention when it was better spent literally anywhere else. Roman really was a sucker for punishment in more ways than one. His obsessive nature was going to get him into trouble.

That much was clear.

So, it had been a whole week of Roman being clueless about what the fuck was going on in the Yazov mansion. At the same time he tried to pretend like he didn’t know anything was going on at all because what did it matter. Even if something was up—who was he to say so?

Yeah.

He was a little off his game.

People noticed.

Unfortunately.

“At least, you seem settled here, man,” Marky said, breaking through his thoughts.

Roman had to admit that it was good to have a friendly face in the shop with him—the face of someone he could actually trust. Marky was going to be there for a week or a little more to help him with the next haul.

A fifteen-car gig that was coming up in the next twenty-four hours. Marky had it all planned out—to the very last detail—and they were supposed to be going over it. Except, Roman was off in lala land.

Like a useless fuck.

“I don’t know about being settled,” Roman answered, “but it’s a decent scene. Work-wise.”

“You been going out?” Marky asked.

“No. Obviously not. I’ve been careful with that.”

“Staying out of trouble.”

Roman nodded.

Marky’s grin came out to play in a flash. “Shit, I’m here now. We could make good use of a bag of blow and a few pairs of tits.”

Roman joined his friend’s laughter, and took a swig from his can of beer. Thing was—his heart wasn’t in it. Correction, his cock wasn’t interested.

There was no use denying the fact that it had everything to do with Karine. She occupied his every waking thought. If it wasn’t something less than innocent on his mind, then he was worrying about her for one reason or another. He was sure he was even seeing her in his sleep. And that damned dress with the slit down her leg so he couldn’t take his eyes off her pale, smooth thigh.

Fucking hell.

There he went again ... Roman grinded his molars in an effort to get his thoughts in another direction. She was what made up every red blooded man’s wet dreams, though. No point in denying it.

“There something on your mind, or ...?” Marky asked.

There were too many chunks of silence between them, and Roman was too stuck inside his head to keep up with his false pretenses.