Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
“No, Keet.” I stray my eyes to the box hidden under the floorboards her sofa bed covers. “That money is for more important things than my energy drink obsession.” I talk faster when she tries to argue. “Mr. Fakher also stuffed up the books, so my rent appears in advance. And I handed out a ton of resumes today. It won’t be long before something decent pops up. Fingers crossed it is weeks before my building’s owner realizes Mr. Fakher can’t do basic math.”
I could have sworn I owed two months of back rent, but when I tried to hand Mr. Fakher the two hundred dollars Dr. Hemway refused, he acted like my last payment was for a year instead of a measly week.
He seemed skittish. He wasn’t as nervous as Dr. Hemway’s brief contact during my travels home to announce that he and his family were safe and that he’d be in contact when he could, but there was something off with him.
He’s usually cockier—as rationalized as Nikita’s next statement. “Mr. Fakher is only fudging the books because he wants to do precisely that.”
Like a puppy following its new owner, I shadow her steps to the bathroom that’s as moldy and damp as the main living area. Nikita’s grandfather is in the final stages of his life. Since she wants him to live out his last years as comfortably as possible, most of her earnings as a third-year surgical resident goes toward the medication that will allow that. The rest, and eighty percent of her moonlighting job, goes toward the equipment needed to administer a pain-free existence.
It is a cruel cycle. One I want to contribute to—hence me sneaking in the leftovers from Mikhail’s generosity into the box under Nikita’s bed the day after I arrived home—but my efforts have been minimal since I don’t have stable employment.
Once I secure a job, I’ll be able to help Nikita purchase the breathing machine Grampies so desperately needs and pay back Mikhail.
The latter was on my mind when I snuck every bill in my purse into the box when Nikita went to the hospital dispensary to plead for a monthly billing roster instead of bi-weekly. As I watched Grampies’s lips turn blue as he struggled to breath, I realized he needed the money now. Mikhail didn’t.
At the time, I felt like Robin Hood—robbing from the rich to save the poor.
Now I feel guilty.
Not a lot, but enough for me to yank my phone out of my pocket and scroll through my limited list of contacts. Mikhail’s name is just above Nikita’s. Random employment agency contacts fill the rest.
God, my life is pathetic.
Nikita coughs, drawing me from my thoughts. I’m lost as to why she looks disappointed. She’s dealt with my unemployment woes as long as I have, so she should be accustomed to it by now.
I’m reminded that sleeping in an armchair never ends well when she says, “The one time I attempt a joke and it sails right over your head.”
“You told a joke?” She nods, and I stammer. “When? Where? Was it in the last century?”
She ribs me, sending my giggles bouncing around the bathroom. “Haha. You’re such an a—”
I save her from swearing since I know how much she hates it. “Fakher. He wants to fuck her.” When her brow lifts, waiting for my critique, I twist my lips. “Your joke wasn’t bad. Especially considering how long it has been for you.”
Her groan assures me she knows what “it” refers to. “Don’t remind me. It’s been so long my uterus probably resembles a shriveled-up clam.”
“As long as it doesn’t smell like one, we’re good.”
That gets a laugh out of her.
After she washes the gunk off her face—medical goop, not makeup—she switches her scrubs for pajamas before she slowly trudges toward a bed that should have been dumped onto a sidewalk years ago. “Are you staying?”
She folds down one-half of the sheets before moving to the other side. “I’m good. I’ve got enough issues to contend with. I don’t need to add that to the mix.” I wiggle my fingers around the lumpy mattress during “that.”
When I gather my coat off the armchair I was resting on when Nikita returned from a double shift, she shoots up to a half-seated position. “You can’t walk home now. It’s dark out.”
“Says the lady who just walked home from work.”
I love how quiet she is when she’s void of an objection.
“And it’s barely two blocks. I’ll be fine.”
“Three miles isn’t two blocks.”
“It is when you’re taking the bus.” Before she can argue that public transport is worse than walking the streets of Myasnikov alone, I remind her I have impressive fighting skills. “I’m almost a black belt.” I grumble my next words, but it is obvious Nikita hears them. “I would have been if Leonard knew how to keep his dick in his pants during training.”