Doctored Vows - Chapter 13

“Last-minute nerves, or did you wait too long to start downing liquid courage?”

The unnamed man making a dent in the Ivanovs’ profits with me the past two hours thanks the bartender for his latest refill with a chin lift before swiveling in his barstool to face me.

“You could have given any of these contestants a run for their money.”

I don’t find his comment sleazy. He speaks as matter-of-factly as Zoya and doesn’t appear to sugarcoat anything for anyone.

He’s also kept his eyes from my shoulders up the entire time we’ve been socializing. His lack of interest would have scolded my ego if Maksim’s narrowed glare hadn’t softened it. He’s meant to be judging the competition.

If I were a contestant, I’d ask for a recount. He’s barely taken his eyes off me for a second, and I’m not the only one noticing.

His blonde companion has tried to shift his focus from me several times. She raked her nails on his arm, gushed and raved about the contestants, and squeezed his thigh.

The last point irks me the most and is the sole reason I’ve downed so many drinks in quick succession.

When my drinking partner coughs, reminding me he asked a question, I reply, “I never planned to participate. I’m here supporting some friends.”

Talking about friends, I leap from my seat when Aleena prances onto the stage seconds after Shevi. They work the stage together like I could have with Zoya if I weren’t such a chicken, and the crowd gobbles up their enthusiasm.

“Yes!” I wolf whistle like it isn’t insulting coming from a member of the same sex and drum my hands against the bar. “Work it, girls!”

If you haven’t realized this yet, the stranger and I have been going drink for drink.

I’m well on the way to intoxicated.

When Aleena wiggles her fingers at the gent next to me longer than she does toward the judges, I shoot him a riled look.

He smirks with wolfish satisfaction before introducing himself. “Kazimir Dokovic.”

I sober up a smidge when the familiarity of his name smacks into me like a freight train. “You’re Aleena’s fiancé!” When he nods like I was asking a question instead of stating a fact, I slap his arm like we’re long-lost friends.

“You can’t be here. This is her hen’s weekend. It is meant to be her last hurrah to single life before the shackles are brought out.”

I shoot my eyes to Maksim when a delicious growl rumbles through my body. He’s still scowling, but the crowd’s hollers are too loud for even a fire alarm to be heard, so the source of the rumble must be closer to me.

Next to me, to be precise.

Kazimir looks seconds from blowing his top.

When it dawns on me where his anger could stem from, I say, “Aleena hasn’t stopped talking about you all weekend. That’s why your name was instantly familiar.”

My lie doesn’t offer him any comfort. His jaw tightens to the point of cracking, but since it is now my best friend’s turn to strut the stage in a white stringed bikini, any further assurances will have to wait.

Zoya looks hot, and everyone in a five-mile radius knows that, but I still shout and holler her name like I did for Aleena and Shevi. She deserves my support and could use the prize money even more than I could.

“How friggin’ gorgeous is my best friend?” I ask while sinking back into the highbacked barstool and gathering my recently refilled drink to replenish my dry throat. I screamed my praise so loud three blocks over would have heard me.

The burn of bourbon worsens the tender conditions, but it has nothing to do with the dryness Kazimir’s silence invokes.

He’s no longer seated next to me. No one is. I have the entire bar to myself.

The bartender reminds me that he only mixes drinks and does not offer advice when I peer at him with a raised brow. “Another?”

I barely jerk up my chin when I’m startled from the side.

“Hey.” Aleena’s heated cheeks and glossy eyes expose she liked the attention she got on stage. “Where did Kazimir go?”

“Ah…”

I once again seek the bartender’s help.

He leaves me hanging.

“He had to…” I want to blame the alcohol sloshing in my veins for the sudden backflip on my lie, but I can’t. I hate liars, so I try not to be one unless absolutely necessary. Telling a teenage girl she isn’t going to die the night of her prom is absolutely necessary. “I think I scared him off.”

Aleena pouts before plopping into the seat her fiancé vacated in a hurry. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry. I jokingly told him he shouldn’t be here because it is your last hurrah of single life.” I cuss under my breath when it sounds worse explaining it than it did when I blurted it out. “I didn’t mean it in the way he took it. I just⁠—”

“It’s fine, Nikita. I know what you meant.” She orders a drink before explaining there’s a lot of infidelity in Kazimir’s family and it’s made his trust low.

“But he knows you’d never do anything like that to him, right?”

“Yeah… I think so.” She doesn’t sound as confident as she was aiming for. “I just hope I’m enough.”

“Of course you are. Did you not hear the crowd’s roar? It almost deafened me.”

She downs the double nip of vodka the bartender places down in front of her like it is water before dragging her hand across her red-painted lips. “They were pretty wild.” She breathes heavily out of her nose. “But I would have preferred for the praise to come from Kazimir.”

“He looked smitten to me when you worked the stage.”

She looks up at me with love in her eyes. “Yeah?”

I nod. “A hundred percent.”

Her confusion is exposed when she asks, “Then why did he run?”

I try to make light of the situation. “Once again, did you hear the crowd’s roar? The lazy river is about to become overloaded with floaters.” That was hard for me to say, but I can’t explain why while intoxicated. It isn’t something I like to discuss when sober, either, but beggars can’t be choosers.

With a giggle that shows she appreciates my commentary, Aleena clinks her shot glass against mine, throws back the double nip, and then signals for another.

Although I am grateful to have secured another drinking partner, Aleena is needed elsewhere. The bikini competition is over, and the beautiful women who graced the stage over the past two and a half hours are being requested to return to the stage.

“You better get back up there. There could be twenty K with your name on it.”

Aleena peers in the direction I gestured before shaking her head. “You heard the crowd. Zoya has this in the bag.” Her low tone announces her confidence has slid off a cliff again.

“You’re just as beautiful, Aleena.” When she sighs like she doesn’t believe me, I say, “There’s just something about Zoya that draws people to her. She’s a flame, and they’re⁠—”

“The stupid moths who should know better?”

She’s already kicking herself for being petty about a woman who would give her the clothes on her back if asked, so I won’t add more jabs while she’s feeling down. I’ll simply remind her not every issue in life belongs on our shoulders.

“It isn’t our fault men’s brains are between their legs.”

That gets a smile out of her. “They are?”

“Uh-huh. I’ve studied all parts of the male anatomy, and every time I think I’m on the verge of a medical miracle… bam! Their brains are back between their legs.”

Aleena laughs so hard that she snorts. “I wish we had met sooner.”

I throw my arm around her shoulders and tug her in close. “Me too.”

We down another three rounds before the winner of the main competition is announced.

It is Zoya, as anticipated.

“Zoya?” the MC repeats, louder this time.

I scan the crowd with hundreds of participants and spectators when Zoya fails to claim her oversized check.

Zoya’s aura shines as brightly as Maksim’s, so it doesn’t take me long to deduce that she is nowhere to be seen.

The MC’s dark brows join before he squashes his lips to the microphone. “This is a first. I’ve never had a winner not claim their prize. Ah…”

He seeks advice from the judges, who appear as dumbfounded as him. Well, except Maksim. He looks more smug than annoyed. “Should we go with the runner-up?”

“No!” I shout before I can stop myself. That money could greatly benefit Zoya. She could even give up her job at Le Rogue. I can’t let it be taken from her without putting up a fight. “She had to use the bathroom.”

I point behind me like Zoya darted past me only seconds ago. “She is literally two minutes away.” When the MC looks eager to wrap things up by giving her prize to someone else, I suggest, “Can I accept the check on her behalf?”

Gratitude fills me when the MC seeks Maksim’s approval of my suggestion. He isn’t as petty as me when trampled by jealousy. He dips his chin remarkably quick, but regretfully, it is only after seeking the opinion of the blonde who hasn’t left his side all afternoon.

I’m treated like a contestant when I mosey up to the stage to collect Zoya’s prize. Since I’m tipsy, I don’t respond like the prude my best friend assures me I am.

I return the tempting grins of a handful of spectators before adding an extra swing to my hips at the request of the rowdy college-aged men in the front row.

By the time I make it onto the stage, my confidence is sky high, and Maksim’s jaw is as tight as Kazimir’s was when I made out Aleena may act single during her hen’s weekend.

Kazimir has a reason to be snooty. Maksim does not, and the realization has me snatching Zoya’s check out of his hand more aggressively than necessary.

“Don’t run away just yet,” the MC says when I turn back to face the audience that is so enthralled you’d swear they can feel the tension crackling and hissing between Maksim and me when he can’t hide his anger at my rudeness. “We need photos of the winner collecting her prize.”

“I’m not the winner.”

“You are now,” the MC replies before forcing me to stand next to Maksim. “Your friend is wild, and the crowd went nuts, but this…” He scans the crowd surging closer to the stage, even with the contestants dwindling by the second. “They love you.” The rake of his teeth over his bottom lip is sexy, but it has nothing on Maksim’s angry scowl. “They’ve got a soft spot for shy girls.”

A second after he positions me next to Maksim, I’m blinded by camera flashes. The media covering the event takes hundreds of stills in less than a minute before acting like the Amazon River is wedged between Maksim and me.

“Can you move closer?”

“Maksim, stop acting like you’re not enjoying this.”

That gets a laugh from the masses.

“Lower the check and tilt in closer.”

Their shouts become nothing but a buzz when Maksim bands his arm around my back and rests his hand low on my waist. His fingertips tickle the skin barely covered by the strings of my bikini bottoms and send a throb of excitement through my pussy.

“Perfect.”

“Yes.”

“Just like that.”

A stern voice breaks over the journalists’ approving chants, and it cakes my skin with sweat. “If you wish to continue using the facilities once the competition ends, do it in the cabana closest to the stage.”

When Maksim nudges his head to the cabana he exited mere seconds before a blonde with sex-mussed hair, I attempt to walk away.

He snatches up my wrist before I can, tugs me back until my breasts are squashed against his chest, then tilts in so close he looks seconds from kissing me like one journalist continually demands.

His minty breath fans my lips when he continues barking out orders. “It comes with a private bartender. Order drinks from that bartender and only that bartender.” His fingers on the hand still circling my wrist flex before he adds, “I will have a coverup delivered shortly. Use it.”

“Or what?” I ask, shocking myself.

I never knew I had a rebellious side until now.

I shouldn’t find Maksim’s flaring nostrils and thumping neck veins attractive, but I do. “Or I’ll make sure you pay your dues in ways you would have never considered when you decided to test just how far my leniencies stretch.”

The sneer of his words would have you convinced his reply is a threat. However, my body doesn’t agree. It thrums with excitement as my eyes beg for him to make true on his pledge.

When he remains standing firm, my slaughtered ego speaks on my behalf. “Why are you acting like this? You had your shot, and you blew it.”

“Because that prick”—he nudges his head to the bartender who’s been serving me for the past two-plus hours—“doesn’t deserve an ounce of your time.”

“That prick”—my tone dips when I mimic his scorn—“has been nothing but kind to me. Unlike you.” His silence announces he’s being cruel on purpose, and it snaps my last nerve. “I don’t know what the fuck your issue is, Maksim, but you need to get over yourself. I saved your mother⁠—”

“After nearly ending it!” he roars loud enough to silence the paparazzi going crazy.

“What?” That’s all I can get out. One measly word. I was referencing how I saved his mother from going under the scalpel, but his interruption makes it seem far more sinister than that. He’s acting like her life was dangling precariously off a cliff.

I guess he isn’t that far off the mark. They were planning to do an investigational surgical procedure before I arrived on the scene. But shouldn’t that place me in his good books, not out in the cold, wondering what the hell I did wrong?

“I wasn’t⁠—”

Before I can get out another word, the paparazzi click on to the cause of the tension hissing between us.

“What did you save his mother from?” a reporter asks after shoving a mini microphone my way.

“Maksim, are you confirming reports that your mother was missing were true?”

As the crowd is shoved out of the way, another reporter asks, “What is Irina’s current prognosis?”

“Did anyone catch her name?” That question isn’t for Maksim or me. It is from one reporter to the dozen surrounding him. “I don’t recall seeing it on the contestant sheet.”

The blonde responsible for the uprising of my attitude tries to subdue the boisterous paparazzi. She informs them that they will be forwarded a statement about today’s charity event and Irina’s condition later this afternoon before ushering them toward the exit.

When they fail to budge, too caught up in the hostility bristling between Maksim and me, beefy guys with security batons move them on the blonde’s behalf. They don’t belt into them like riot police most likely would. Their sneers alone get the reporters’ feet moving.

I wish I could say the same. Maksim is glaring at me as well, but instead of racing for the closest exit, I return his stare. So much pain reflects in his beautiful dark eyes, but it is barely seen behind the confusion clouding them.

He appears as lost as I am.

With the media at a safe distance, the blonde strives to simmer the rage in me by attempting to hand me a smaller version of the check I’m clutching for dear life.

I say attempt because I don’t accept it.

I can’t do anything but stare if I want to unearth the secrets Maksim’s narrowed gaze is displaying.

He doesn’t hate me.

He hates my profession.

What the?

After a beat, the blonde says, “You can’t cash that check. It’s a prop.” When her attempt to ignite a conversation remains one-sided for several long seconds, she asks, “Do you two need a minute?”

“Yes,” I answer at the same time Maksim says, “No.”

When I balk at the dismissiveness in his tone, my blink steals more than my dignity. I also lose the ability to continue reading the truth from his eyes. I’m once again in the dark, and it annoys the living shit out of me.

As Maksim scrubs at his stubble, he shifts on his feet to face the blonde. “Let her keep the check.” Arrogance clogs the air with humidity before he adds, “Then she can use it to cover herself until her shawl arrives.”

His last two words come out with a grunt when I shove the check into his chest before I leave the stage with so much spring in my step, my bouncing bosom mesmerizes a throng of thirsty men.

They offer to purchase me drinks before announcing they’re more than happy for me to prance around without a shawl.

I pretend I’m interested in their offers. I’m not. I am merely doing everything in my power to make Maksim snap, because it may be the only way I’ll unearth the cause of his angst.

“You know you’re playing with fire, right?” Aleena asks when I return to the bar and order a double bourbon on the rocks.

An agreeing hum vibrates my lips.

“All right.” She fills her shot glass with vodka like she’s had a gig as a bartender before, then clinks it against my recently refilled glass. “As long as you are aware, I can both drink and support that.”

With the wink of a woman eager to cause trouble, she downs the generous serving before asking the men circling us what their beverage of choice is.

“Don’t be shy. It’s not my bank balance you’re hurting,” she assures them when they hesitate.

When my eyes shoot to the bartender, he shrugs before he commences prepping the orders he’s being inundated with like his boss is glaring this way to ensure he does the job he’s paid to do.