Gilded Cage: A Russian Mafia Romance (Kovalyov Bratva Book 1) by Nicole Fox (free novel 24 .txt) 📗

“It’s hardly heavy,” she says with amusement, but I ignore her.

I’m not taking any fucking chances with her or this baby.

As we head to the cash register, Esme falls into step beside me. I slow down to make sure she doesn’t have to hurry to keep up.

“How are you gonna pay for all this?” she asks, with new concern.

I raise my eyebrows at her. “You think I don’t have money on me?”

“You’re not going to use a credit card, are you?” she asks in alarm.

“Baby, this ain’t my first rodeo.”

She fake-shudders. “Go back to the Russian accent. ‘Cowboy’ doesn’t suit you.”

Once I’ve paid for the clothes, Esme and I head back to the car. We’ve lingered too long, but I just didn’t have the heart to ruin Esme’s fun. She makes a beeline towards the black sedan, but I take her hand and pull her in the opposite direction.

“Artem?” she asks in confusion. I still feel a strange little twinge every time she says my name in that soft accent of hers. “Where are we going? The car’s that way.”

“I think it’s time for a chance,” I tell her. “Something a little more spacious this time.”

We walk down two rows of vehicles before I find one that meets my specifications.

It’s a grey Honda that looks like it’s had a few years of good use. An unassuming vehicle, the kind you see families driving around in all the time.

I glance around calmly and pull Esme towards it.

“We’re stealing another vehicle?” she asks, with worry.

“It’s a safety precaution, Esme,” I tell her. “We can’t afford to let our guard down.”

She stands at the trunk of the car and waits anxiously until I’ve hotwired the engine. She needs to work on her “nothing to see here” face, but we’ll have to make time for that later.

When the engine thrums to life, she gets in without a word.

There’s a couple of pictures stashed into the visor over my seat. I pull them out surreptitiously and hide them before Esme can see.

If she can match faces to the car we’ve just stolen, it’ll be another thing for her to stew guiltily over.

She has the most active conscience of anyone I’ve ever known. Most people who grow up the way we did have long since grown numb to causing pain to strangers.

As odd as it is, I find it refreshing. A reminder of a different kind of life. A different kind of world.

Like she’s taking my hand and whispering, It doesn’t always have to be this way.

I drive out of the shopping complex quickly. Within minutes, we’re back on byroads and weaving little streets just so that I can avoid all the main routes to Joshua Tree.

About forty minutes in, Esme falls asleep with her head resting against her window and one hand carelessly thrown over her stomach.

I’m not sure even she realizes just how often she touches her belly. Has she started recently or had she always done it?

I rake over my memories with her. But for the life of me, I can’t remember.

Another hour on the road and it starts to get dark. I turn my headlights on and keep to the obscure little road we’re on.

According to the GPS, we should be arriving in Joshua Tree in fifteen minutes.

I glance at Esme, who’s started squirming a little in her seat. I can see her eyes moving furiously underneath her closed eyelids, a sure sign that she’s dreaming.

When she starts to mumble and her movements become more erratic, more panicked, I pull over and park in a little patch of sand off the road.

I graze her cheek with my fingers but she jerks away from my touch, a little gasp emitting from her slightly parted lips.

“Esme,” I whisper.

She groans. Her hair splays across her face as she turns. I try and brush it back, but she moves again as her breathing gets heavier and heavier.

“Esme,” I say, a little louder.

She jerks forward, her eyes widening as she pulls herself from the throes of the nightmare.

As the fog clears, she blinks at me a few times, trying to bat away the disorientation.

“Artem?” she says uncertainly.

“It’s okay,” I assure her. “You’re okay.”

“I’m okay?” she repeats uncertainly.

“You were just having a nightmare,” I explain. “It was a nightmare.”

She shakes her head as a shiver runs over her body. “No, it wasn’t.”

I wait for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t.

Instead, she sighs deeply and collapses against her seat as she looks out onto the road.

“Oh, wow,” she says. “It’s dark already.”

“We’re almost at Joshua Tree.”

She nods absentmindedly. “Okay.”

“I can find us a place to stay once we arrive.”

She shakes her head. “Why don’t we just camp out in the car?” she suggests.

“Here?”

I twist in my seat and look around. The model of the car allows for the back seats to be folded forward if necessary. Which would give enough space for the two of us to sleep through the night.

“We can, if you’re comfortable with it,” I nod.

She looks ahead, her eyes hazy with memory as she wraps her arms around her body. I pull the car back onto the road and we keep driving until we hit a patch of open desert that’s dotted with twisted Joshua trees that have an austere beauty to them.

The sky is mottled with swirling greys and silvers. Only small patches of inky white clouds come through where the last of the setting sun is receding.

The desert’s rugged rock formations and bristled cacti weave in and out of the landscape. Everything looks craggy, primitive. And utterly empty.

Esme sits up a little straighter, taking it all in just like I am.

I find a clear patch of desert and park. There’s no coverage, nothing to block our view of the sky above.

The thick crescent moon hangs high above us. The only lantern in an otherwise dark sky.

The moment I park, Esme gets out and walks towards one of the Joshua trees a few