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As the woman learns about our association with Sergey, her unnaturally blue eyes—tinted contacts are popular among her type—reveal her unabashed approval, as if we need it. Or could give a fuck. The dollar signs passing through her mind, like scrolling numbers on a slot machine, are as easy to spot as her fake tits. Yes, Sergey’s loaded. So if we work with him, we must be too.
A correct assumption.
But Sergey’s rich because we made him rich. Not because he sells ugly fucking art.
“My name is Paisley,” she says, extending her hand. “Happy holidays.”
Artem takes it before she realizes we really don’t give a shit about meeting her. He’s just laying the groundwork for future pussy.
“I’m Art,” he says. “This is Grisha, and his brother Val. Happy holidays to you, Paisley.”
Fake-ass name if I ever heard one. She probably sprang from the American Heartland with a given name like Jane or Mary.
She turns to me, the last one of us she should be bothering with. “Grisha. Now that’s an interesting name. What’s its origin?”
Fine. Acceptable question. People ask it all the time.
“It’s Russian. Our parents were from Russia.” I gesture between Valentin and myself.
Artem can explain his own goddamn family tree.
This news makes her nipples hard. They poke through her white silk halter top, announcing her interest like a flashing neon sign.
“Oooh, Russian,” she coos, “just like Sergey. IloveRussian men,” she says, stroking Artem’s bicep since he’s the only one paying her any attention.
For Christ’s sake, lady, why don’t you just lift your skirt and bend the fuck over so we can get on with it?
Women on the make at events like this bug the shit out of me. They’re out for something, be it money, status, or whatever the fuck else they want that week. Which doesn’t mean I don’t fuck them. I do, because I’m a bastard that way. But tonight, that shit is off the table.
And Paisley needs to hit the road if she knows what’s good for her.
Turns out she does exactly that just a few seconds later.
A redhead I’ve been watching all evening—just because there’s nofuckingtonight doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the scenery—comes rushing out of Sergey’s back office where the catering shit is set up, holding a nice-looking bowl of shrimp cocktail to replenish an empty one. I glance over at the lonely buffet table she’s hurrying toward, which Sergey undoubtedly paid a fortune for—again, with our money—and check out the high-end eats. The only thing anyone’s touching is the shrimp.
People rarely eat at these things. It’s ironic but the richer people are, the less they eat. And tonight, the buffet table’s deserted in spite of some fancy shit I can’t even identify.
The redhead is clearly working the Christmas Eve event in some capacity, rushing around like a maniac making sure everything’s perfect. That makes it easy to watch her, oblivious as she is to the guys and me, and really, all the party guests. But this time, when she emerges from the back, I catch her eye and smile.
And, she’s so caught off guard that she trips, flying in my direction. With a bowl of shrimp cocktail.
I try to catch her, which I mostly do, and she fortunately remains upright. But the cocktail sauce, on its way to the floor, spills onto my hand and over my wrist, soaking the cuff of my bespoke dress shirt as well as my watch.
My fucking expensive watch.
“Goddammit,” I say. My expletive causes the redhead to jump back, terror crossing her face before turning into abject embarrassment.
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” she cries, crouching to scoop the mess off the floor, then attempting to wipe off my wrist with a nasty-looking rag.
I step back so she can’t make more of a mess and take her by the arm to pull her back to her feet.
“Oh god,” she cries again. “Look what I’ve done,” she says, her face bright pink, her bottom lip trembling.
I want to be pissed. That’s my normal MO. In fact, I’m nearly always pissed. I’m just a grumpy guy that way. It serves me well in the work I do, although Valentin regularly reminds me that my shitty outlook will probably put me in an early grave. He’s forever reading about staying healthy, reminding me to eat right and keep my blood pressure low.
I ignore him, of course.
But this time, the rage that naturally lives so close to the surface of my being doesn’t make itself known.
