Chapter17
GEORGIA
The morning after vodka shots and illicit dance parties with Russian mobsters, I lie splayed out on my bed feeling like something the cat dragged in. Then chewed up and spit out.
At eight on the dot, the door opens, and Piper enters my room pushing a cart.
“Good morning,” she announces cheerily. “Natalia has other things to attend to, so she asked me to help today.” When she spies me flat out on the bed, she chuckles. “Rough night?”
“That obvious,” I say, pushing myself up to a sitting position. I warily eye the plate of eggs and toast that she places on the table. “I don’t think I can stomach solid food at the moment.”
“Hope you at least had fun,” she says with a teasing smile.
“I’m not sure fun is the word. It wassomething,though.”
Something, indeed.
My heart stumbles a beat when I think of Andrei, all menacing and growly, when he caught us wasted and dancing up a storm in the living room. Was he jealous that I was dancing with Daniil? His brother is a flirt, but it’s not like we were grinding all over each other. At least I don't think that’s what we were doing, but it’s all a blur now.
Perhaps the Kozlov brothers had ulterior motives for getting me drunk.
I shouldn’t have let my guard down around them. Though if I hadn’t believed that Andrei was out on a date with another woman, I probably wouldn’t have needed those ten thousand shots to drown my sorrows.
His words from last night come back to me, flooding my insides with warmth.
He can’t stay away from me.
Did he really say that, or did I dream it in my drunken haze? In the cold reality of morning, his words mean nothing. Or at least they shouldn’t. No matter the heat that lies between us, Andrei’s made it clear he’s not interested.
Why I’m torturing myself, lusting after a man that I should run far away from, is beyond me. I must be a glutton for punishment.
Andrei is my enemy. My captor. I won’t forget that next time.
“The Russians have a great hangover cure,” Piper says, intruding into my spiraling thoughts. “Come here and I’ll show you.” She beckons me to the small breakfast table. As I take a seat, Piper offers me a glass of a suspicious-looking liquid. I take a sniff and nearly lose my lunch, or more accurately, yesterday’s dinner.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t drink that.” I grimace and push the vinegary smelling substance to the far end of the table. She pushes it right back at me.
“It’s pickle juice,” she says. I give her a questioning look, expecting her to yell out that I’m being punked, but she doesn’t. She’s dead serious. “A few shots of this and you’ll feel good as new, trust me.”
“You’ve been working for these Russians for too long if you’ve already picked up their disgusting hangover remedies.”
“Must be,” she says, not quite meeting my eyes.
I'm sure the pickle brine shooter will have the opposite effect than Piper is promising, but what do I have to lose? Well, except the contents of my stomach. I plug my nose and down the shooter, much like those smooth vodka shots from last night.
“Ugh,” I roar, slamming my glass down as the vinegary brine stings my throat.
“Well done.” She pats my hand and hands me a pastry. “To wash the taste away.”
“Thanks.” I take a huge bite, grateful for the rich carby pastry. Just what the doctor ordered. Looking up, I watch as Piper tidies up the room, making my bed and picking up the dress I discarded on the floor at some point last night.
“I can do that.” I stand, chagrined that someone else would have to clean up after me.
She just smiles and shakes her head. “It’s my job. You need to worry about curing that hangover. I’m sure you have a busy day ahead of you.”
“Don’t remind me,” I whine, sipping my coffee.
She stops for a moment and sits on the bed, watching me closely. “What are you training for?”