Ghost Dance (Tulsa Thunderbirds Book 3) (26 page)

“I’m fine,” she repeated. “It’s all taken care of.”

I nodded, letting it sink in and hoping she was right. “Sure I can’t get you naked?” I asked.

This time, she threw every pillow within reach.

“WHY IS MY
mama telling me you’re her favorite son now?” Sergei asked me, the Russian words acting like a balm to my soul after the last few weeks of insanity. “I hardly hear from you for weeks, and suddenly you’re taking her on a road trip to California?”

We were having one of our regular phone calls, early in the morning for me and late in the evening for him. It wasn’t uncommon for the two of us to talk three or four times a week, but he was right. I hadn’t called him much lately. London had gotten into my head, and I was letting it affect me in countless ways.

It hadn’t stopped me from doing what Zee had suggested and inviting Sergei’s mother to come on the moms’ trip with me, though.

“I’ve always been her favorite,” I replied, rolling over in bed and wishing London was next to me. After seeing her again, following more than a week of not even talking to her for the most part, I hadn’t slept much at all. My bed felt cold and empty without her in it. I didn’t like it.

Besides, it didn’t make sense. I’d never spent the night with her in this bed. Not once.

Now I was starting to regret my decision on that score, but it might be too late. The things she was asking of me, I wasn’t sure I could give her.

“You’re the youngest,” Sergei said. “The baby. That’s all it is.”

“The baby is always a mother’s favorite.” I still couldn’t get used to the fact that the entire family treated me as if I were one of them, no questions asked. They had taken me in all those years ago, and never once had they made me feel like I didn’t belong. I was Sergei’s brother, as far as they were concerned. That was that.

“You’ll make sure she feels accepted, won’t you?” he asked.

I understood his concern without him needing to say a word. She didn’t speak any English, and most of the other women on the trip would be Canadian and American.

“She’ll be fine. Drago and Petro are both bringing their mothers. She’ll have other Russian women she can talk with. And I’ll be with her as much as possible to explain what’s going on. You know what these trips are like. Everyone will treat her like a queen.” It was something I actually felt good about, for once…a way for me to repay her, even in some small way, for all the things she’d done for me over the years.

“So other than keeping that from me, what else is going on? You’ve been avoiding talking to me.”

“I’m not avoiding you.” Not exactly.

“Does this have anything to do with London Hawke?”

“Why does everyone think everything has to do with London?”

“That probably means it does.”

“What do you know about it?” I groused.

“Enough to realize that you’re probably a mess if you’re letting a woman get to you.”

“Don’t like her unless she’s naked.”

“So get her naked.”

“Easier said than done.”

Sergei burst out laughing. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? You can’t get into her bed.”

“Not funny.”

“The hell it isn’t? I haven’t had a laugh this good in ages. Dima’s sulking because he can’t get laid.”

“I can get laid.” Just not by London.

“But not with the one you want. Which means you’re in way over your head.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’ll leave that to London, once you figure out what you’ve done wrong.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong.” I hadn’t done much right, either, though.

“Sure. Whatever you say, Dima.” Sergei couldn’t stop laughing, or maybe he wasn’t even trying. Either way, he went on so long I couldn’t help but join him. “Seriously, though,” he said, trying to catch his breath from having such a good time at my expense, “Mama is more excited than I can tell you. So thank you. You’re giving her an experience I can’t.”

That sobered me up in a hurry. “Don’t thank me.”

“Yeah, maybe I should wait until I see what kind of trouble you get her into while she’s there. If my mother comes back to Russia covered in tattoos, I’ll never let you hear the end of it.”

“I’m not making any promises.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

AFTER PRACTICE THAT
morning, I stopped by Denise Whitlock’s office to arrange for flights to bring Sergei’s mother, Svetlana, or Svetka to me, to Tulsa before the road trip. I still had time to spare before the support group meeting that afternoon to stop by a local furniture store and buy a bed for the guest room. I’d never needed one for Sergei, but his mother was another story. I’d told her I’d put her in a hotel, but she’d scoffed at the idea.

“How will I cook for you if I’m in a hotel? You’re too skinny, Dmitri. Don’t they feed you in the NHL? I’ll make some borscht.”

She was completely ignoring the fact that I was far from skinny and the only difference in my appearance from the usual was the lack of a beard, much as expected. I’d told her the trip was for me and my team to treat her, to thank her for all the ways she’d helped me over the years. All my arguments fell on deaf ears. When my Svetka decided she needed to cook, there was no talking her out of it. So she would stay with me for a few days before and after the California road trip and take care of me the way she had in those days after my father had passed away, the best way she knew how.

So now the furniture company was set to deliver a bed and some other pieces the next afternoon, well before I needed them for Svekta’s arrival, and I didn’t have any other excuse readily available to avoid going to the support group meeting at London’s community center.

There was no sign of Miller’s pickup truck in the parking lot when I arrived, but that didn’t set me at ease. He wasn’t the one I was worried about.

When I stepped inside, the same blonde greeted me at the front desk, but there was no sign of London in the lobby area. Not that I could breathe any easier simply because she wasn’t present.

“Back again already? What can we do for you today?” she asked with a friendly smile. She pushed the bright-red glasses back up her nose, even though they hadn’t fallen far. Probably a habit. I knew plenty about habits that were difficult to break.

“Supposed to be a meeting for guilt or something,” I mumbled. I laid on the accent heavier than normal, half hoping she’d misunderstand me and send me on my way home.

Her smile brightened. “So there is. Same place as yesterday, down the hall. I think they’re still getting the room set up, but there’s coffee and donuts, so you can help yourself while you wait, and maybe introduce yourself to some of the others. Just holler if you need anything, okay?”

What I needed was a way out of attending this meeting without London finding out I’d found a way of avoiding it, but I doubted the receptionist would be willing or able to help me with that, so I nodded and made my way into the conference room.

The two men who’d adjusted the bars for Joyce yesterday were busy setting up chairs in a circle, and another man was at a table at the back of the room fixing himself a massive cup of coffee—big enough that it should keep him awake for a week if he drank the whole thing. I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk to the two I recognized, since they could possibly be friends of Miller’s. Maybe it was a chickenshit move on my part, but I went over to the snack table and filled a cup with coffee even though I didn’t normally drink anything with caffeine so late in the day.

“First time?” the guy asked. He took a long swallow from his coffee and eyed me over the top of his travel mug. “Don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

I grunted and hoped he’d leave me be.

He held out a hand to shake. “Jack Carson. I’m one of the counselors.”

Apparently, my hopes were in vain. I reluctantly reached out and shook with him. “Dmitri Nazarenko.”

“Ah,” he said, brightening. “You’re London’s new pet project.”

“Pet project?” I shook my head, not following.

Before he could answer, the double doors banged open and almost a dozen more people came through, talking and laughing with each other. Jack smiled and excused himself to go and greet the new arrivals without bothering to explain what he’d meant.

Was that all I was to her? A plaything, something to amuse herself with while she practiced her version of
counseling
, if that was what she wanted to call it? My blood pressure was already climbing, and the support group meeting hadn’t even gotten started yet. I chugged my coffee, burning my tongue and the roof of my mouth in the process, but I didn’t care. I had to get the fuck out of here.

I tossed the cup in a garbage can and headed for the exit, but Wade Miller’s body—not to mention his scowl—filled the doorway, blocking my path.

“Running away so soon?” he asked, planting his feet shoulder-width apart. “I told London you weren’t good enough for her.”

“Looking for bathroom,” I lied.

“Yeah.” He stepped to the side to let me pass. “Sure. Whatever. Fucking coward.”

I pushed past him and headed straight for the front door.

“But they’re just about to get started,” the receptionist called after me, but I didn’t slow down. I didn’t stop.

The door slammed closed behind me, but I kept barreling forward until I reached my car. I ripped open the door and started the engine, driving off before I could calm down enough to think about what I was doing.

All I knew was there wasn’t a chance in hell I was sticking around for that bullshit.

And I would
never
allow myself to be London’s
pet project
.

Never.