Summer of Supernovas Read Online Free Page B

door is ajar. About now I’m really hoping Crate didn’t send me down here if she’s with a client. I’d pass out if I walked in on a piercing in progress—not to mention those south-of-the-border ones. Seriously. Irina’s pierced everything you can imagine, and a whole lot you can’t.
    “Knock, knock?” I give the door a little push. I gain more confidence when I see the reclining chair in the center of the room is empty. Thankfully, Irina’s alone. The studio itself is small and well lit, with a perpetual scent of rubbing alcohol.
    Irina holds up a finger. She then points to the phone in her hand and rolls her eyes. It’s her tetya, her aunt. My friend replies in an equally loud stream of Russian. Irina is first-generation Russian American. But I suspect the shouting will be multigenerational.
    “She’s mad,” Iri translates in perfect English as she hangs up. “When am I going to settle down, find a nice American man like she did—blah-blah-blah. What’s new, right?” Irina has this theory that her tetya talks for two since her uncle rarely speaks. “Oh, and fair warning, she’s making borscht for dinner. Which you’re going to have to pretend you love unless you want to start another cold war.”

    My toes curl. “Then I’ll love the hell outta that icky pink soup, because your tetya is scary.”
    “Yeah.” Irina plucks a few platinum strands of her long hair from her tunic. “But better than my mom.”
    The fact that she’s brought up her mom is more jarring than hearing her switch from Russian to English.
    Iri never talks about her mom. Any more than she talks about why, at the age of twelve, she came to America with her aunt. But I’ve pieced together enough to know there was poverty. Neglect. And that it was likely her mom’s drinking and the revolving door of men that caused Iri’s aunt to assume guardianship. I also know it took almost five thousand miles to create a comfortable distance from that past.
    I quickly change the subject.
    “So, what’s with the flowering cactus?” I ask of the tiny plant beside the sink, dumping my stuff on the nearest counter.
    She smirks. “Oh, that. I had a consultation earlier with this guy. He asked for my number.”
    I pull out the doctor’s-office-like stool and take a seat. “And? Did you give it to him?”
    Her tall and thin form stoops as she restocks the cupboard beneath the sink with gloves. “I gave him a number. I think it was to some support group for the wheat intolerant—Wheat Beaters maybe?” She shrugs. While Irina’s only a couple of years older than me, sometimes it feels more like twenty.

    “You didn’t!” I laugh. “And he got you a cactus because you’re so prickly? That’s kinda clever and cute.”
    “Or maybe it’s because I work with lots of needles. Either way, I don’t think I could date anyone named Jordan Lockwood.”
    “Jordan Lockwood sounds like he wears a suit.”
    “Actually, he does—total stiff. Hey, what’s the deal with you not texting me back last night?” Her kohl-lined gray eyes glint, competing with the diamond Monroe piercing above her lip.
    “Oh. Last night was a spectacular disaster. I mean, I really outdid myself.”
    Her forehead immediately furrows. It doesn’t take much to rouse Irina’s protective-lioness streak. Not surprising she and Crater are always butting heads. Two Leos under one roof is one Leo too many. “Are you okay? What happened, dorogaya ?”
    So I tell her—everything. Right down to flashing my undies.
    Irina stops the fretful turning of her diamond stud to ask, “Wait. Since when do you wear thongs? I thought they were your sworn enemy. You called them ass floss.”
    “Laundry day.”
    “Ah.” Her head tips knowingly. She opens a drawer that contains clamps and a slew of medieval torture devices.
    Looking at the hostile implements, I recall the exact sensation of how my navel retreated to my spine the day I met my Russian friend. My belly button never did