My phone buzzes, and I open my eyes to stare at it for a long second before picking it up.
Nolan:
You awake?
I sit up, forearms braced on my knees, and type back.
Yeah.
The reply comes instantly.
Nolan:
Alexei wants confirmation for this weekend. Friday night. His place.
I rub my thumb over the edge of the phone, pulse steady despite the weight settling on my chest.
Okay.
Across the room, Adriana cracks open a bottle of water and groans dramatically. “I really feel like I might die today.”
I snort quietly despite myself just as another message comes through.
Nolan:
Good. Be ready.
My jaw tightens. I picture a place I haven’t seen yet—Alexei’s world here in Russia. My skin crawls just thinking of the kindof home he has here. What poor fuckers are trapped there and working for him every day.
I type back before I can overthink it.
Got it.
I toss the phone onto the table, face down.
Adriana watches me from the kitchen, eyes sharper now. “What?”
“Nolan texted about the weekend shit,” I say flatly.
Her mouth twists. “Already?”
“Looks like it.”
She exhales through her nose, leaning back against the counter. “He doesn’t waste time.”
No. He doesn’t.
I stand, stretching my arms over my head. I realize something then. I don’t know what I’m doing next unless someone decides. I suppose that should scare me. Instead, there’s a strange calm in it. Relief, almost. Like if I don’t have choices, I can’t make the wrong ones. I’m a character in a video game who’s being controlled by some little fucking asshole with anger issues.
Adriana watches me cross the room, her gaze lingering. “You good?” she asks, not unkindly.
I nod. “Yeah.”
It’s a lie. But it’s an easy one.
The suite has been silent all day. Adriana passed out again not long after forcing down a bottle of water, muttering something about her head before locking herself away in the bedroom and pulling the blackout curtains tight. I ordered pizza from roomservice for whenever she wakes up, so neither of us has to worry about it. I hate the bitch, but less so when she's not hungry.
I sit on the floor in front of the couch, my back against it, the guitar resting across my thighs.