Page 60 of Maksim

He blinks, looking at Maksim for answers, but when he doesn’t get them, he shakes my hand.

“You as well.”

Hugh pulls away and speaks to Maksim in clipped Russian, which feels a little rude but unsurprising. When he’s finished, he addresses me with a half-hearted smile. “Enjoy the party.”

When he’s gone, Maksim turns to me. “Thirsty?”

“What did he say?”

His eyes blank. “What?”

I nod at Hugh’s back. “What did he say about me?”

Maksim chuckles nervously. “Nothing. He was telling me something about work. Don’t worry about it.”

“Is it time to leave yet?” I turn longingly toward the gate, my lips dipping into a frown.

I hate these people. Hate them.

“Elira?” a new voice, feminine and unfamiliar calls.

I turn toward a woman in a tight black skirt short enough to reveal all if she so much as bent over a sink and a shirt with so many holes she may as well have just stuck with the hot pink bra she displays beneath. Her eyes are like raccoons with dark makeup, and her hair is gathered on top of her head in a bundle of brunette curls, except for a few pieces streaked pink that she lets frame her face.

She fits in with the other women here—and this city for that matter—just fine, but she strikes me as unique, flashy, bold in a way that makes me wonder how bland Maksim must think me. Not that I should care.

I cross my arms protectively over the simple yellow summer dress I bought while shopping with Anya and raise my chin in acknowledgement.

The woman beams.

“Cherish, zdravstvuyte,” Maksim says before turning to me and gesturing to the woman. “Elira, this is—” She throws her arms around me before he can finish, making me stiffen.

“I’m Cherish.” She pulls back with her hands on my shoulders. “Sorry to interrupt,” she bashfully says to Maksim, but he waves it off, bringing her attention back to me. “I’m Zinovy’s girl. He told me you were new to the country and a…” She glances over her shoulder, and I follow her gaze. Hugh stands with Zinovy, the skinny man who treated Maksim’s stab wounds. Hugh must have asked her to come talk to me.

When she turns back to me, there’s a quizzical look on her face. “Do you speak English?”

Chewing on my inner lip, I nod, and for some reason this elates her. She claps her hands enthusiastically before taking my arm that’s still crossed. “Great! Let’s go get a drink. You have to show me how you make your detergent. I’m obsessed with the smell.”

I look at Maksim with wide, imploring eyes, but he only gives me an encouraging smile as he lets Cherish whisk me away.

Inside is hardly quieter with its own music blaring through a speaker, but it’s at least less crowded. Cherish guides me into the kitchen, cluttered with liquor bottles and garbage, then she plucks a couple of red cups off a stack.

She crooks a brow at me. “What’s your poison?”

I give my head a tiny shake, my lips parting.

Poison?

“What do you like to drink?” She smiles, keeping her tone light. “Sorry, I forgot, you aren’t from here.”

From the sound of her accent, she isn’t from here either. She’s Russian. So not exactly out of place.

“I know American lingo,” I say, somehow offended. There was a time I wanted so badly to fit into this country, so badly to belong. Felt as if it was my birthright even. I copied my father’s speech, studied fiction novels, practiced, believing one day I would come here… And all to end up hating it. “I just don’t drink poison.”

She giggles. “I meant alcohol.”

“Exactly.”

Her eyes widen at that, but she isn’t discouraged. She walks to the fridge to retrieve a bottle of orange juice. “I got you, girl, don’t worry.”