Page 89 of Maksim

And yet, here they are, gathered in my backyard for a fucking barbeque because, apparently, isolating Anya from my world is a bad thing. Apparently, Anya feels I don’t want her around. That she’s a burden. That I wish she was gone so I could live my life with the people I really care about. And the list goes on.

Elira’s solution? This.

This was a terrible idea. Horrible.

I close the grill hood and toss the tongs down with too much force, angry at myself for letting Elira work me so well. Make me so weak.

I grab a beer from an ice chest then amble over to the group.

“Because you’re late everywhere you go,” Hugh says to Fox.

It sounds like a lighthearted conversation I’m walking up to, but Fox isn’t smiling.

He rolls his eyes while letting the cigarette dangling from his lips collect ash.

“He has a valid excuse,” Zinovy cuts in. “His ride is slow as shit.”

Fox shoots a glare at Zinovy. “You challenging me, asshole?”

Zinovy laughs. He’s leaned back so far, the chair looks like it could tip at the slightest movement, and his heels rest comfortably on the tabletop like he’s at home. “I could outrun your Suzuki.”

“You could kiss my ass.”

“You have a Suzuki?” Anya asks, perking up.

Fox pulls the cigarette out of his mouth, almost looking caught off guard by Anya’s presence as he turns her way. He nods as he blows a puff of smoke from the side of his mouth.

“Cool. My boyfriend has a 1,340cc Hayabusa.” She says this with pride, her chin lifting slightly while I shift my feet.

Did that piece of shit put her on a fucking motorcycle?

I open my mouth, ready to jump into the conversation but catch Elira’s pointed stare. I can read her mind the same way she can read mine.

Bad idea, Maksim. Let it go.

Fox whistles. “Damn. That’s a nice ass bike.” His eyes search until they find me. “Your sister knows how to pick ’em, Mak.”

No, she does not.

“Thanks, it’s a 1999 he got from his uncle,” Anya gushes before I can respond. “So not exactly new, but it could definitely murder a Harley.”

“Mmm, no,” Zinovy says. “Not mine.”

“Yeah?” her head tilts. “What are you packing?”

What is he packing? What?

Laughter roars, and Zinovy pulls his heels off the table and thumps his chair back to level ground. He folds his arms on the tabletop then leans toward her. It’s all playful, but I hate this. I watched Zinovy do a line of coke off a hooker’s tits yesterday. He should not be chatting up the same little girl I fumbled through bedtime stories of princesses and frogs with once upon a time.

“A Sportster S, but it’s tuned the fuck up, and I promise it could take you on, princess.”

“That so?” She smiles as she arches her brow.

Zinovy nods.

Is this conversation really happening?

“Well, that’s probably true since I’m not allowed to ride on motorcycles, let alone drive them.” Her shoulders lift, and she falls back in her chair, her hands relaxed on the arm rests.