Oleg
“S-t-ory.” I work carefully to make the sounds come off my lips right. I’m standing in the doorway of Story’s music studio on the tenth floor where she teaches lessons and rehearses with the band.
Ravil got a speech therapist to work with me every week on learning to speak again. I make sounds with my lips to substitute for the sounds I can’t speak with my tongue. I f*****g hate the way it sounds, but seeing Story’s face light up at hearing her name makes it worth it.
My girl whirls and smiles over her shoulder at me then takes a running leap, jumping into my arms. “Hi, Big Daddy,” she says in a low, breathy voice.
Aw, f**k. Now I just want to press her back against the wall and give it to her hard, right here, right now.
But, no. I have other plans.
“How did speech therapy go?”
