Dirty Grovel: Chapter 39

I cast a sour look over the apartment that Sydney simply had to see. Because, according to her, she doesn’t want to be the “third wheel” in my “Palm Beach fairy tale.”

Which is ridiculous. She’s never minded before. So why start now?

Particularly when that “Palm Beach fairy tale” comes with fifteen thousand square feet of luxury real estate.

Maybe it’s me. Maybe living in said luxury property has turned me into a snob, but I can’t help turning my nose up at the cramped, squalid, windowless studio apartment that Syd is examining like it’s actually a viable candidate.

It’s on the ground floor of a dodgy building in an even dodgier neighborhood. Zero amenities, zero security. There are claw marks in practically every room in the house and the bathtub sports weird stains that look suspiciously like blood someone tried and failed to scrub out.

Sydney emerges from the bathroom, looking unnecessarily cheery. “Pretty decent, don’t you think?”

“Are you high?” I blurt out, right in front of the two-bit realtor she found from God knows where.

The realtor gives me a scorned look.

I ignore him and walk over to Sydney. “You can’t seriously be considering this place.”

“Why not?” she says, examining the rusty hinges on the cupboards as though they’re coated in silver. “I think it has potential.”

“Potential to make you suicidal, sure. As evidenced by the stains in the bathtub. Do we know what happened to the last tenant?”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re being melodramatic. It’s not that bad.”

I glance around, trying to find at least one redeeming quality about this apartment. “It’s horrible, Syd. And I don’t want you living here.”

She sighs before looking past me at the realtor. “Louis, would you mind giving us a minute or two?”

“Of course. I’ll be right outside.” He sneers at me one more time for good measure before he slips away.

“Try not to get shot,” I mutter to him under my breath as he takes his attitude for a walk.

Sydney turns to me, her lips pinched together tight. “I’m not exactly working with a huge budget here, Sut. I can’t afford to be too picky.”

“Exactly. So why not just hunker down at our place until you get back on your feet?”

“That could take months. Years, even.”

“It takes as long as it takes,” I insist. “You can’t rush these things. Oleg and I have no problem having you around.”

But she just shakes her head. “You guys are getting married; you’re about to have a baby. I don’t want to be in the way.”

“You won’t be.” I clutch her hands. “Seriously, Syd. I want you around!”

“That’s very sweet. But maybe I don’t want to be around.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Sydney draws in a slow breath. “I love you, Sut, but this is your time, your family, your new beginning. And I suppose it’s inspired me to pursue my own. And that starts with me getting independent.”

After freaking years in a co-dependent, unhealthy, abusive relationship, she decides she wants to be independent now?

Great timing.

“You’ve been through a lot, Sydney,” I cry. “What’s the rush? Why not take the time to recover a bit first?”

She turns away from me, shielding her eyes behind her long, lustrous blonde hair. I’m not sure why that gets my spidey senses tingling.

No. I’m just being silly. Reading into things. There’s no reason to believe that Sydney is lying to me. Why would she? What’s the point?

“Okay, fine. If you’re adamant about moving out, then I’ll support you. But I have to approve of the place you move into,” I say. “I think that’s fair.”

Sydney laughs, her eyes veering to the windows for a moment as though she’s having second thoughts about this place, too.

“I think you need to look up what ‘fair’ means.”

“This is about your well-being, your safety, your happiness. That makes it our decision.”

Sydney winks at me. “You’re cute. Shall we ask Louis to take us through all the other features of the apartment?”

“Uh, how about we tell Louis to help us count all the ways an intruder could break in? So far, I’m up to six.”

“You’re determined not to like this place,” Sydney sighs.

“This apartment made it easy,” I snap, hooking my hand through her arm and steering her towards the door. “Come on, Syd—I’ve spent years worrying about you. I’d like to stop now and I can’t do that if you live here.”

She makes a little protesting noise. But she lets me lead her out onto the pavement.

She’s busy waving over Louis when I spot a startlingly familiar figure from the corner of my eye. He’s standing on the opposite side of the street, half-covered by a large California fan palm.

No.

No, it can’t be.

But as I double-take in his direction, goosebumps pimpling my arms, I’m forced to face the fact that I’m not mistaken. Nor am I seeing things.

This is not paranoia.

This is straight-up stalking.

“Drew,” I whisper, heart crashing against my ribcage.

I grab Sydney and yank her in the direction of our SUV where it’s parked outside the building.

“Sut, what are you doing?!” Sydney cries as I shove her into the backseat while the realtor looks on in shock.

“Get in!” I say. “It’s Drew. He’s here.”

“Here?!” Ilya exclaims, twisting around from the driver’s seat. “Where?”

I point haphazardly towards where I saw him as I jump into the back beside Sydney. “Over there, by the tree.”

“I don’t see anyone.”

I glance over and, sure enough, the shadows are empty. “It was definitely him,” I mutter. “I know it was.”

Thankfully, Ilya takes my word for it. Within seconds, we’re peeling away from the curb, tires screeching against the asphalt, leaving poor Louis in the dust.

As he makes a sharp left, Ilya places a call on speaker phone. Unfortunately, I understand exactly zero percent of what he says because it’s all in rapid Russian.

The only thing I know is who he’s talking to. That deep, sonorous voice is familiar and intensely comforting.

I hear my name more than once. Sydney’s name comes up, too. She flinches quietly when she’s mentioned but she doesn’t say a word.

I glance at her several times, but every single time, her face is turned sharply to the side, eyes focused out of her window.

Her silence leaves me with a dull ache in the pit of my stomach.

It’s the kind of silence that screams of secrets.

You’ve been hanging out with Oleg too long, Sutton, I tell myself. You’re starting to see skeletons where there are none.

Shaking myself out of it, I wait until Ilya’s call is done. “Where are we going?”

“The boss wants me to take you to the penthouse. He’ll meet you there.”

The SUV carves through Palm Beach’s pristine streets like a shark through water, taking random turns to shake off any unwelcome followers.

Sydney sits beside me, pale as a ghost, her manicured fingers twisted into claws digging in the fabric of the skirt she had borrowed from me.

Swallowing my doubts, I reach out and take Sydney’s hand. “It’s okay, Syd. Oleg will keep you safe. He’ll keep both of us safe.”

There’s something about her tight, distant smile that gnaws at me, edging its way into panic. Alarm bells are ringing in my head, dredging up all that doubt I had just managed to bury.

My instincts were right before.

I don’t know how and I don’t know about what.

But I know that Sydney is keeping secrets that have the potential to blow our world apart.