Page 57 of Maksim

But I know what she means.

She turns back to the window. “Is Chicago like this?”

“Chicago?”

She nods. “One of your cities. Am I saying it right?”

Chicago. So many memories in Chicago. I spent nine years of my childhood only two hours away from the Windy City but didn’t set foot in it until Anya and I ultimately called it home at age eighteen, her a tiny three-year-old. My first home as a free man, but freedom came with the brutal price of poverty and the unknown territory of surrogate fatherhood.

But the memories that assail me aren’t all bad. Some are good.

“Yeah, I know Chicago. I’m just wondering why you care.”

She glances at me a moment, something indiscernible in her eyes before turning back to the window.

I stop at a light and watch a group of women wearing hats with dicks flopping from the bills run across the street, ushering the center of attention wearing a pink sash I can guess says something like ‘bride to be’ on it.

“No, Chicago is much more serious than Vegas. And the winters are too cold,” I say.

A shiver spreads over my shoulders, but I shove down the memories pushing to the surface, reminding me why I prefer the suffocating desert to the mere sight of snow.

Elira doesn’t seem to hear me as she intently watches the bachelorette party, her eyes wide with curiosity. I suppress a laugh and drive on.

When we make it off the strip and are on our way to Hugh’s, she relaxes into her seat.

“So you’ve been?” she asks, making my brows raise.

“To Chicago?”

She nods.

“A few times, on business.”

“Business?”

I give her a crooked grin and speed the car up instead of answering. The engine roars, drawing her attention, and when the car accelerates to sixty-five, she starts to look nervous.

“Should you slow down?”

I gun it to seventy-five. “Why do you want to know about Chicago?”

Her eyes flick between me and the road. “What are you doing?”

“Asking you a question.”

I slam on the pedal again, pushing it to eighty and veering around several cars.

Elira presses her back into the seat, her chest rising and falling quickly, her head turning to look behind us.

“Maksim, slow down,” she says, her words clipped with panic.

“Why do you want to know about Chicago?”

“I’m serious!”

I laugh and slow only to take a corner at a speed that has Elira falling into me, her scent sobering me a moment. It’s like a string that attaches to a piece of something in my chest and tugs me in her direction.

“Okay!” she yells. “Okay, I’ll tell you!”