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Pizdozh. I clearly just fucked up, though I have no idea why.

“Hey, Skip.”

She doesn’t turn around, but in the dim light, I can just make out the hint of a smile beneath the upturned nose that, for some reason, I find weirdly irresistible.

“Look at me.”

She shakes her head but turns back, wearing a wry expression. “What, muscle boy?”

“I work for Roman. But he doesn’t own me. Okay?”

She lifts a dismissive shoulder. “If you say so.”

It’s not the answer I want to hear. I also don’t want her jumping out of the car at the next set of streetlights. And something tells me Abby is more than capable of doing exactly that.

“So.” I turn into the parking lot opposite Pillars. “How are we going to play this?” I grin in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Do I stay in the background while you give the asshole the good news? Or do we pull the old faithful too late, I have a new boyfriend trick?”

“New boyfriend, huh?” She smirks. “Getting a little ahead of ourselves, muscle boy, aren’t we?”

“You really need to stop calling me that.” I lean across her and undo her seat belt, only just managing not to touch the deliciously springy breasts I’ve been eyeing for months. “A man could get the wrong idea.”

I don’t miss her sharp intake of breath when I straighten up, nor the way her nipples stiffen beneath that ridiculously short dress.

I’ve suddenly got a hard-on that’s going to take more than one drink to go down.

Fuck.

She better dump this asshole fast.

I go around to her side and open her door. “Come on then, Skippy. Let’s get this over with.” I help her out of the vehicle, my arm lingering around her waist.

“Don’t do that.” She pulls away from me, looking around with a wary expression that sets my nerves on edge.

“There’s a photographer,” she says, seeing my face.

“He’s an even bigger asshole than my soon-to-be ex.

He’s been hanging around the café a lot lately, and the last thing I need is to find myself on the pages of some tabloid. Especially standing next to you.”

“Is that right?” I keep my tone light. “What, I’m not pretty enough for the papers?”

To my relief, Abby bursts out laughing. “God, you’re an asshole. But it isn’t that.” Her smile fades. “Miguel is the striker for Cádiz FC, so he’s like this Z-lister who makes the papers. It’s just that Lance Ryder, the pap dude, is a weirdo, and I’m sick of him hanging around.”

“I thought all girls liked the idea of dating a celebrity.”

“Not this girl.” There’s a certain edge to her voice. “Anyway.” She shoots me a smoky sideways look that drives any thought of photographers, or her soon-to-be ex, right out of my mind. “It’s probably better if you keep your distance once we’re inside. I’d rather not have any... trouble.”

“Trouble?” I give her an innocent look. “Choir boy over here.” I twirl my finger over my head like a halo, and Abby bites her lips to stop herself from smiling.

I love it when she does that.

Making her laugh has become one of my favorite games to play in the months since Roman began flirting with her friend.

I’ve also known her name since the first day I saw her, when I bribed one of the kitchen boys to give it up. I’ve just enjoyed the game between us so much that I played it until Abby told me herself.

I fold my arms and lean back against my car, watching her delectable ass sashay across the road. The look she flings me over her shoulder when she gets close to the door tells me she knows exactly what I’m watching, and doesn’t mind at all.

Oh, this fucker better get the message fast.

Because right now, all I can think about is getting Abby out of that dress .

Unwilling to alert Nikolai, Roman’s idiot adopted brother, of my presence, I go in through a secure side door to which I have the code. Inside, Pillars is all pulsing music and pretentious assholes smiling for selfies.

God, I hate this place.

Abby is standing over by the bar, talking to some slimeball who looks vaguely familiar.

That must be the striker.

I linger in the corner, staying out of sight. Then I see something that makes me tense.

A group of men are standing behind the striker. One I recognize as the Cádiz FC manager. The sniveling fuck next to him is Nikolai, who always makes me want to punch a wall.

But it’s the two men behind them that set my teeth on edge.

I lived in Miami until I was a teenager, when Yuri Stevanovsky took Roman and me back to Spain with him. I can pick out cartel members from a very long range, since I spent half my early childhood running errands for some of the worst of them.

And these fuckers are definitely cartel boys.

Fucking Nikolai. He’s never had enough brains to know when to leave trouble alone.

It’s bad enough they’re in Roman’s bar. Far worse, they’re close enough to Abby to touch her.

Fortunately, just as I’m about to throw her advice out the window and make a very ugly fucking scene, the striker throws his hands up in the air and stomps away with Nikolai and the cartel boys.

I watch until they’re safely ensconced in one of the VIP rooms, with the door shut, and then cross the floor to where Abby is knocking back her second shot in as many minutes.

“You need to go home.” Putting my arm around her shoulders, I lead her through the crowd, practically carrying her across the floor.

“What the—Hey,” she protests when I put her on the pavement outside and beckon one of the doormen over.

“Bring a car around,” I order him. “And make sure she gets home safely.” I turn back to Abby, who’s staring at me indignantly. “I’ve got some business that needs taking care of, Skip. I’m sorry.”

“Let me guess.” She folds her arms belligerently. “This is about the cartel guys stomping on bratva turf, huh?”

I frown, more taken aback than I care to admit. “How do you know they’re cartel?”

Her laugh is devoid of humor and has a very sharp edge. “At least you don’t bother to deny it.” She turns around and stalks down the pavement. I run to catch up with her, but she pulls her arm out of mine. “Fuck off, Dimitry,” she says coldly.

I stare at her in surprise. “What the hell?”

“Seriously.” She glares at me. “And tell your minion to go fuck himself, too. I don’t want a lift anywhere from you.”

I stand in front of her, blocking her effort to walk away. “You’re not walking home alone, Abby, I don’t care who you tell to fuck off.” The car pulls up beside us, and I wrench open the door. “Get inside. Andrei will drive you home. Give me your address.”

Her expression darkens. “What, so you can come and stalk me? No fucking thank you.”

“For Chrissakes.” I grip the door in frustration. “Then just give Andrei your address, and I won’t ask him for it. You have my word, okay? Just let him see you home safely. Please.”

“Go to hell.” Abby stares at me angrily. “And get out of my way.”

Oh, fuck this.

Picking her up, I throw her over my shoulder and dump her on the back seat. She stares up at me, mouth open in such shock I find myself amused again, despite the shitty end to the night.

“I’ll see you real soon, Skippy,” I say, grinning at her. “And at least you’re single now. Andrei.” I nod at the driver. “Take this lady wherever she asks, and make sure she gets inside safely.”

“Fuck you,” Abby says, but I can see the telltale signs of a smile tweaking her mouth.

I put my hands together, mimicking prayer. “A man can dream, Skippy.”

A reluctant gurgle of laughter escapes her. “You are such an asshole.”

“An asshole you’ll be seeing real soon, Skip.” I touch her face, my thumb lingering on her cheek. “I promise.”

Her smile fades. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, muscle boy.”

Closing the door, she stares at me through the window as the car pulls away from the curb.

Malaga, Spain

Present Day

“Dimitry.” Gregor, the bar manager at Pillars, frowns at me. “You okay, man? Want me to call you a taxi?”

“No.” I stand up, staggering slightly, which isn’t surprising given the almost-empty bottle of vodka in front of me. “No, I’ll walk.”

I weave through the crowd, avoiding the late-night revelers, and step out onto the street, inhaling a deep breath of fresh air.

I turn toward Abby’s flat, almost tasting the memory of her on the air .

That’s where I put her into the car.

That’s where I kissed her on her lunch break one night.

We walked here after we got coffee one morning.

Every step has a memory attached. I feel as if I kissed her on every inch of this pavement, some time or another.

It only takes me fifteen minutes to walk to her apartment. I fumble in my pocket for my key. I don’t know why I bothered to bring it back to Spain with me. I know she’s not in here.

I open the downstairs door anyway.

From the stairwell, I smell the paint and turpentine immediately, even months later.

The scent of it twists inside my chest so hard I think for a horrible moment that I’ll throw up.

I grip the worn wood of the balustrade, breathing deeply to calm myself, then carry on up the stairs like the fucking masochist I am.

I don’t bother knocking—I know the apartment is still vacant, because I just signed the lease for another six months, even though I’m not in the country anymore.

Letting it go feels like giving up, and I’m not ready to do that. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

The old wooden door creaks open, and I stand in the doorway, just breathing.

I can smell her perfume, even over the sharp scent of the chemicals. Jasmine and orange, like a Spanish night, intoxicating and fresh all at once.

I collapse on the sagging old couch, burying my face in the Japanese silk robe still hanging over the back of it.

Jesus. I never knew it could hurt so much just to breathe.

The yellow streetlights outside gleam through the window, showing the layer of dust on every surface. Nothing has moved. Nothing has changed from the last time I was in this place .

Abby left without taking a single damned thing except the small bag she had with her. Not one painting. Not one sketch.

Not even those she did of me, which are still pinned to her easel, the corners beginning to curl with age.

I sit on the couch, head in my hands, and light a cigarette. I gave them up years ago, but since Abby left, I don’t see much point in trying to behave myself. I reach under the coffee table, surprised when my hand finds a bottle of the vodka I always used to leave here.

I stare at the label.

Graf vodka.

My favorite brand, the only one Roman and I ever drink. I pull the top off, even though I know it’s a really bad fucking idea.

Why did she buy it, if she knew I’d never drink it?

I throw my phone down on the coffee table, staring at its black screen. I don’t want to tap it. Don’t want to look at the date.

I already know what it says.

I’ve been dreading this day for three fucking months.

And in Australia, the day is half done already.

I kick off my boots and lie back on the couch, waiting for the dawn of what I already know is about to be the longest day of my life.