Page 47 of Born into Blood

I force my feet to move. “Thank you for the beautiful flowers. Can you text me when you get home so I know you made it?”

The grin he gives me is equal parts adorable and sexy. “Worrying about me already, kisa?”

“I can’t help it.”

“Of course I’ll text you. You think I could fall asleep without telling my girl goodnight?”

Even though I don’t fall to the floor, this is the second time I’ve been knocked on my ass in front of Luka Melnikov, because I’m a fucking goner for him and his sweet words and incredibly handsome face.

He gives me a wink. “Go inside, Lara, before I do all the things your eyes are begging me for.”

The wetness between my thighs is a vivid reminder that my ripped panties are still in the pocket of his jeans and that it wouldn’t take much at all for him to close the distance, lift my skirt up, and slide into me. If it wouldn’t be my first time with him, I’d already be closing the distance, but he’s right. I don’t want my first time to be in the shitty hallway of my apartment building with my mom right on the other side of this door. I want the freedom to scream his name when he slides into me. After seeing how big he is, I’m confident there will definitely be screams involved.

“Night, Luka,” I whisper.

“Night, baby,” he whispers back, watching me unlock my door and then giving me one more wink before I slip inside.

Every part of me is still buzzing from Luka’s presence, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I see my mom asleep on the couch, thankful that I won’t have to face her with my flushed face and my vase of roses. Pip hears me and lifts his head from where he’s cuddled next to her, and as soon as he sees me, he jumps off the couch and comes scampering over. Scooping him up in my free hand, I cover him in kisses and bring him into my room.

After setting my flowers on my nightstand and changing into some comfy pajamas, I play with Pip and then put him in the tiny blue-and-white striped T-shirt we’d picked out for him. I take several photos and then make sure to get myself in one before sending them to Luka so he’ll see them when he gets home and checks his phone.

Pip plays with one of his toys while I grab my laptop and then let out a sigh of disappointment when I see that I still don’t have any responses to my message. No one is going to remember some random guy who was here twenty years ago, and it’s pointless to keep hoping for a miracle. If I want answers, I need to get them myself.

“This is probably a very bad idea,” I whisper to Pip, but I’m already off the bed and quietly making my way into the living room. My mom doesn’t sleep often, but when she does crash, she crashes hard. Her deep, even breaths remain steady, and when she continues to show no signs of waking, I sneak down the tiny hall to her room. Snooping isn’t something I would normally do, but I’m desperate for answers, now more than ever, and I have every right to know who the hell my father was.

Pip follows at my heels, my adorable sidekick who’s more than happy to land his ass in trouble with me. He’s a ride-or-die kind of guy, and I can appreciate that. I lean down and give him a pet to let him know I appreciate his loyalty. He purrs, accepts my loving, and then pounces on the sock my mom’s left on her bedroom floor, effectively eliminating the threat.

Turning a small lamp on, I scan my mom’s room. We don’t have a lot of things, and my mom has a lot of issues, but hoarding isn’t one of them, so my hopes are low that I’m going to find anything. A quick glance under the bed, reveals nothing but a set of hand weights and a dusty yoga mat, her dresser is filled with nothing but clothes, and I refuse to look in her nightstand. A woman’s nightstand is her own business, and I really doubt she’d keep any mementos of my dad in there anyway. That leaves the closet.

My first look around doesn’t reveal anything but clothes, shoes, and a few purses, but when I stand on my tiptoes and run my hand along the top shelf, my fingers hit the end of a box. Snagging the corner, I give it a push so it angles over the edge, making it easier to grab onto and pull it down. I’m hoping for answers, maybe some paperwork or photos, but what I get are a pair of hot pink stripper heels.

“What the fuck?” I whisper. My mom doesn’t wear heels. She hates them, and now that she’s not working, she rarely wears anything other than her fuzzy slippers. I run my fingers over the stilettos, unable to picture my mom, or any woman, walking around on these death traps. They’re a broken ankle just waiting to happen. I’m about to put the lid back on the shoebox and call this treasure hunt a bust, but then I see the flash of a business card hidden beneath them.

The card is simple, almost obnoxiously unpleasant with the dirt-brown font written across a dingy white card that’s the exact color of a nicotine-stained wall, whether that’s from age or by design, I’m not sure.

Lou’s is written across the front with nightly shows, best girls in the city, private dances written beneath it, one phrase stacked on top of another in an attempt to squeeze as much info as possible on the small card. The address isn’t far from Pink, but I don’t remember ever seeing the place before.

Why the hell does my mom have stripper heels and a card for a strip club hidden in her closet?

Another quick search of her closet doesn’t reveal any other secrets, so I take a photo of the business card and then tuck everything back up on the shelf where I found it. Grabbing my partner in crime, I cradle Pip against my chest and race back to my room just in time for my phone to buzz with Luka’s incoming text.

Safely back at home, kisa. You can stop worrying now, and thanks for the photos. You’re unbelievably gorgeous and Pip looks cute as a Russian sailor.

You owe me a photo, possibly several.

Give me just a sec.

I hurry up and brush my teeth and then sink into bed with Pip by my side while I wait for the photos. When the first one comes in, I suck in a quick breath. Luka’s smiling face fills my screen, and although no photo could ever do him justice, this one gives it one hell of a try. The vivid green of his eyes shines through, and the full mouth that’s spread into a grin immediately reminds me of how good those lips had felt between my legs.

“Jesus,” I whisper, quickly saving the photo right before a few others come in. I take my time with each one, studying them in detail, wanting to know every aspect of this man’s life. One of the photos is a shot of his lap, but sadly it’s not a dick pic. He’s sitting on what looks like a giant beanbag chair with a laptop balanced on one thigh and a copy of Jane Eyre on the other. The next photo is a younger guy, who has to be Damien, judging by the resemblance. His eyes are brown, but they’re the same shape, and he clearly shares his brother’s good looks. God, their dad passed down some amazing genes. His younger brother is looking over and giving Luka an unamused stare, one dark brow arched and game controller in hand. The last photo is of the laptop screen where he’s typed: You are beautiful, Lara Swan, and I can still taste your pussy on my tongue.

I quickly text him back.

That’ll definitely get the teacher’s attention.

He’d get an A+ for sure.

Absolutely! Good luck on the essay.

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