“Stop!”

Burning, pain.

“Stop! Please!”

Teeth on his nipple, rough and wet.

“Please!”

Squeezing, tugging, more pain.

“St—!”

Fullness. A familiar invasion.

“Go slower, please….”

Laughter, hot breath.

“Yeah…like that…”

Andrew tumbled off the bed, sheets twisted around his legs.

He crawled across the floor, reaching the wastebasket in time to heave what remained of last night’s liquor. Daylight glowed behind the window’s pillowcase, revealing that Dmitri was no longer in bed.

Newborn thoughts gnawed at him.

What was Sasha wearing at the club last night?

Did the brooding Pole lose his eye in a fight?

Cheek pressed to the floor, his eyes found the black violin case under the bed, the layer of dust an unspoken accusation. Andrew hadn’t touched the instrument in months, choosing the Pilar whenever the mood struck. Guilt-driven hands retrieved it, and a discarded shirt cleared off the dust.

Andrew knew his gym bag was also under there, an oversized canvas sack he hadn’t touched since unpacking his life. Purposeful avoidance had been the culprit, the thing he left inside of it, something he wanted to forget.

“You’re being fucktarded,” he mumbled.

Fingers dragged over the worn carpet and hooked around a thick strap.

One tug brought the bag out from hiding, the one thing left inside clunking against the floor. A white paper bag with oily spots stared back at Andrew from the open zipper. He couldn’t toss it in the trash, the housekeeper would find it and inform the manager, and that jackass would call a cop.

There was no depositing it in a dumpster. What if a kid found it?

Andrew thought of his mamka’s Wednesday night Law & Order addiction. Countless plots revolved around some perp throwing their evidence in the East River. His nerves settled as he imagined the thing sinking into the depths.

He refused to take it out—not seeing it made it cease to exist. If only Andrew could apply such logic to Sasha Stasiak.