Page 39 of Heated Rivalry 1
“I can’t. Sorry.” Jesus, this was a long elevator ride.
By the time they finally reached the top, the girls had forgotten about him. They stumbled out of the elevator and turned right, presumably in the direction of the rooftop bar. Shane turned left.
There was a lot of noise coming from the bar. Pulsing music and loud, drunken voices. On the other side of the roof, there was a quiet corner that looked out over the city. It was a place that Shane guessed was normally used for weddings. It was empty now.
Almost empty.
Shane didn’t see him, at first. All black in his tuxedo, with his head bent down over the railing, Rozanov blended right into the darkness. Then he raised his head and let out a white cloud of smoke.
“It’s not worth jumping over,” Shane said, moving to stand just behind him.
Rozanov turned. He didn’t even seem surprised to see Shane. He took another long drag of his cigarette then said in a tight voice, “Is the party over, then?”
“No. I just needed some air.”
Rozanov exhaled. The smoke swirled around his face and then floated up into the desert sky. “Such an exciting night for you.”
“I guess.”
Rozanov rolled his eyes.“I guess.”
“It could have gone to either one of us.”
“It went to you.”
“Yeah, well, you know. Who knows how they decide these things?” Shane wasn’t sure why he was even saying this stuff. He didn’t need to apologize for anything. He’d earned that fucking trophy. “So you’re just sulking up here all night, then? It bothers you that much that I won?”
Rozanov took another drag and turned back to the view. He said something that Shane couldn’t hear.
“What was that?” Shane asked, moving to stand beside him against the rail.
“Not everything is about you, Hollander.” He didn’t look at Shane at all when he said it. His voice hadn’t been angry. He just sounded...tired. And sad.
Shane studied his profile. His own anger left him, and he found himselfcaringabout Ilya Rozanov, which was an odd sensation. “So what is it then?”
Rozanov dropped the butt of his cigarette on the ground and stamped it out. He laughed a little, without any humor at all. “What do you want, Hollander?”
“Nothing. I just wanted some air. To see the view.”
“Well,” Rozanov said, sweeping a hand through the air in front of them, “here is view.”
Shane’s eyes turned toward the blanket of city lights that sprawled beneath them, but they quickly found their way back to Rozanov’s face. He saw the clench in Rozanov’s jaw, and the hardness of his eyes.
“I go back to Russia. In three days.”
“Oh.”
They were both silent for a long time. Shane wasn’t sure if Rozanov had more to tell him or not. He decided not to push. It wasn’t like they were friends.
“I should get back,” Shane said, after several minutes of gazing down at the city. “My parents might still be at the party.”
“Your parents,” Rozanov said. “Right.”
“I guess... I guess I’ll see you next season.”
Shane stuck out his hand. Rozanov looked at it. Then he turned his head left and right, looking all around them.
A split second later, Shane found himself pushed back from the railing, against a wall. Rozanov’s mouth was pressed hardagainst his, and his hands gripped his arms roughly, fingers digging into his biceps.
