Chapter 7
“You’re no better than anyone. Curb your ambitions.”
My eyes snapped open.
The trigger phrase that had surfaced in my dream sent a surge of adrenaline through my body, waking me up, and so did my headache.
I squeezed my eyes shut and took a deep breath. I gritted my teeth as the throbbing in the back of my head intensified, and leaned back. I hadn’t expected, having encountered an obstacle, that I’d turn around with great difficulty and freak out.
At first, I couldn’t even believe it. Déjà vu, damn it. Waking up next to this girl for the second time, not really remembering how I’d gotten so excited to be in bed with her.
Irritably rising to my feet, I looked around for my things, but found nothing. Rubbing my temples, I headed toward the bathroom, where I was stunned for the second time, seeing Veronica’s clothes and underwear on the heated towel rail.
I wanted to curse so badly, but I couldn’t bring myself to unclench my jaw because of the new wave of pain in my head.
Somehow refreshing myself, I pulled on my underwear and pants and returned to the room, staring at the bed.
What the…
Anger exacerbated my already unenviable state.
The seditious thought of pushing the girl out the door as she was—in the towel she’d slept in—brought me a dark satisfaction for a full second. And then I grabbed the edge of the blanket and aggressively threw it at her, watching as it fell in a jagged zigzag across her small body, covering her all the way to her shoulders.
And I was furious at my own action. Reflexive and far too inappropriate in the current situation.
The overprotective bitch.
In the kitchen, I found the accomplices of last night’s revelry already awake, actively eating breakfast and chatting. Judging by their expressions, I was the only one drinking.
“Kai’s alive,” they confirmed my guess with their chuckles.
I silently walked to the headset, pulled out an aspirin and mineral water, and downed every drop.
“Oh, no, everything’s fine,” Max announced. “The ice boy has reverted to the factory settings: ignore and disdain,” followed by another round of muffled laughter. “There must have been a rare power surge last night, the fuses blew…”
What followed was a frenzy of sparkling—in his immodest opinion—banter, which the audience really enjoyed. I silently glanced at each of them with an impassive gaze, trying to remind myself why I was still hanging around with them.
He grabbed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the table and walked toward the small loggia, or rather, smoking room. Mom hated the smell of tobacco smoke in the house, but she hated watching family members “poison themselves” even more, so when designing the house, Dad carved out a small space for himself so he could enjoy smoking without being seen by his wife, who couldn’t hide from his wife’s displeasure on the porch in front of the panoramic windows of the kitchen and living room.
Wood, leather, the smell of various cigars, and silence—all in all, the perfect setting for a room full of kharcho soup.
“You smell like crap,” Azamat appeared, opening the window to let in the frosty air and collapsing into the second seat, further from the entrance. “Have you come to your senses?”
I nodded. Of course, very slowly.
“So what was that?”
He lit up too, squinting at me. Aybazov smoked extremely rarely; he was an athlete, after all. But he smoked with such a thrill that I even envied him a little. For me, a cigarette between my fingers is pure mechanics.
“Did the boss bend you over?” my friend shot right at me.
My only friend, by the way. Since school. Despite our diametrically opposed views on life.
I was immediately smashed with a clipping from a conversation two days ago:
“You want me to waste my time… running errands for a judge? As a secretary?” I was thoroughly stunned by the news that Dad wasn’t going to make it any easier for me to find a job.
“Have you grown so big that secretary isn’t a job title for you?
” “You know that’s too petty…”
“I think you’re forgetting yourself, Kirill,” he said in a harsh tone, after which all arguments were pointless. “You’re no better than anyone. Curb your ambitions, son. If you’re not going to agree to my terms, then forge your own path. After all, I didn’t get anything from heaven either…”
I pressed the bridge of my nose, returning to the present, and said briefly:
“I blocked all avenues to the prosecutor’s office. And sent him to arbitration.
” “And why the hell are you even trying? You could have tucked in for a year. I’m patient,” Azamat liked to proclaim that his father had conditioned him to get a degree in international relations, otherwise sport would no longer be a part of his existence.
“So I agreed. And then I found out that… I’m getting a job as a judge’s secretary.
” “Drawing protocols isn’t your thing, is it?” he said, not missing the opportunity to tease.
“A waste of time,” I thrust my chin forward stubbornly. “At least as an assistant… I could somehow resign myself to it.
” “Humiliating for you, huh?” my interlocutor persisted.
Fuck, yes. Yes! Humiliating! When your parent has the means. And when you’re capable of more. Much more! As everyone knows. But… such a handout.
“Do you want me to hook up Dad?”
I looked at him with eloquent skepticism, conveying: that’s how you solve your problems. Aybazov laughed, letting out gray clouds.
We fell silent, finishing our cigarettes.
It was odd that I didn’t share my father’s love of cigars. Although, then again, we had plenty of disagreements…
“What about Nika?” Azamat suddenly nudged me very quietly.
I tensed, sensing something new in his voice.
As if he genuinely cared about Veronica…
