THE FIXER

I watch song after song, enjoying the whole scene.

By the end of the second set, they have a drunken crowd packed in and dancing right in the tiny dance area in front of the stage. We’re on the side, lucky to have seats right off the dance floor but still beside the stage. The band strikes up what seems to be their big, fun hit. The end-of-the-night finale. The audience cheers, clearly familiar with it. Story prances to the edge of the stage near us, belting out the song. She walks down the steps and joins the dancers on the dance floor.

Oleg’s back goes ramrod stiff, his meaty hands closing into fists like he’s the bouncer ready to throw out anyone who touches her.

She’s touching them, though. They fall in line behind her and tour the lounge, loudly singing along in a crazy conga-line. “Come on.” I jump to my feet to join.

Maxim gives me that indulgent smile and slowly unfolds from his chair, guarding my back as I join the hilarity. Story snakes the group around. Instead of heading back on stage, she stands on my empty chair then in the center of our table. The crowd cheers.

She steadies herself with a hand on Oleg’s shoulder. The moment she touches him, his hand shoots out to hold her waist. She loops a leg over one of his broad shoulders, straddling it.

The crowd cheers-I think possibly at her audacity of climbing her audience like a jungle gym.

Oleg’s elbow bends up to secure her with his hand splayed at her lower back. When he stands slowly, there are more whoops and cheers and some very drunken crowd members start scrambling on each other’s shoulders like they’re going to have a chicken fight. Oleg carries his queen to the center of the dance floor where her hive swarms around her, glorying in the royal position he put her in.

The band goes on for three encores before Oleg gently deposits her on her feet on stage, and the entire place goes wild with cheering for him, for the band, and especially for Story, their captivating lead singer.

“Gospodi!” I shout to Maxim. “Does that always happen?”

Maxim and his roommates share bewildered expressions. “I’ve never seen it before.”

Oleg comes back and sits, his expression impassive, but with a visible flush under his stubble.

The guys offer fists to bump, but he ignores them, folding his arms across his chest to continue watching his obsession. She’s out of breath, laughing and thanking the crowd. Promising to be back the same time next week.

Story and the band members bow and wave and then start packing up their own equipment-I guess they’re too small to have a sound crew.

The overhead fluorescent lights flash on. “Last call!” Rue shouts from behind the bar.

Maxim orders another round for everyone, pulling me back onto his lap.

When Story comes off the stage, she has a whole crew of people waiting to accost her, but me being me, I stand up and give a little wave like we know each other.

She meets my eye and smiles.

“She’s coming!” I tell Oleg.

For one second, I think he’s going to bolt. He surges forward to stand, but Dima and Nikolai each clamp a hand on his shoulders and hold him back. “Be cool,” Nikolai tells him.

Story comes over. Her smile is curious, like she’s not sure if we do know each other or what I’m going to say.

“Hey, great show,” I tell her, stretching out my hand. “My name is Sasha.” She shakes it. “You were phenomenal. I had to come see because I know my friend Oleg thinks the world of you guys.” I gesture toward Oleg.

“Oleg,” she repeats like she’s been wanting to know his name. She stretches out her hand to him.

Now he surges up from the table, and this time the twins let him. He clasps her hand in his and doesn’t look like he wants to ever let it go.

“We haven’t formally met.”

“He’s mute but not deaf,” I explain because she’s obviously waiting for him to say something. “He loves your music. We all do,” I amend, gesturing to the rest of the guys, who lift their hands in greeting.

“Where are you from?” she asks.

My accent is thicker when I’ve been drinking. “Russia.”

“All of you?” She’s looking at Oleg, who still hasn’t released her hand.

“Yes.”

“Can we buy you a drink?” Maxim asks, standing beside me. When Oleg frowns, Maxim amends, “Oleg’s always good for an after-set drink. Anytime.”

“I can’t tonight but maybe next time.” She pulls her hand out of Oleg’s grasp. “Thanks for letting me fuck with you tonight. You were a good sport.”

“The pleasure was his,” Maxim fills in after the awkward pause when she realized he couldn’t answer.

After she walks away, Oleg sinks into his chair, glowering at the table.

“You can’t kill us because Sasha did it,” Maxim says, winking at me. “My brilliant wife.”

His brilliant wife.

I warm in the glow of three words I never imagined I’d hear from Maxim’s lips. Straddling his lap, I kiss him. This was fun. I feel like I belong, like everything is easy and light-like my college days.

Maybe Maxim was right.

Maybe my father did choose a husband for me who he believed could make me happy.

Nah, that’s assigning him too much credit. But at least it seems like his stupid scheme for me wasn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened.

MaximNôvelDrama.Org owns this text.

THE NEXT DAY, Ravil seeks me out when Sasha’s in our bedroom.

For all the glory of our penthouse, we don’t have any office space. It’s why Dima’s set up in the living room. Ravil had a desk installed in his suite for Lucy to work from, but his is out in the living room, too. In the past, that worked. We’re all in the same business. No one needed privacy to conduct business. Now that we have women living with us, I suspect that will need to change.

There are plenty of office spaces and meeting rooms on the lower floors of the Kremlin, so we could set up a separate business suite.