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Sweaty and hungry for real food, and frazzled to the max, I rub my forehead, then I bash the keyboard keys to put glitches in London's system, working through another night.
Now, I have one week and one day left to train, and to add to my worry, work commitments over the weekend set me back a little. I don't have any other choice but to accept what is though, as I'm on Maksim's security detail and his life comes before mine.
Friday night, James and I watch his back while he parties ruthlessly at a mansion in Kensington Palace Gardens. The mansion belongs to some Asian Prince who is largely in the public eye, but the public knows nothing of his taste for young girls and sex shows. They know only what the media allows them to know.
By ten o'clock, the party becomes hard to stomach—like most of the parties Maksim attends—because the Prince has a willing little Albanian brunette on all fours in the middle of his glorious ballroom. She's getting whipped before fucked by a man in a black leather mask, their flesh slapping together so hard I can feel it in the air. A collection of suits line the walls, waiting for their turn. Some of the onlookers masturbate, while the rest get their cocks sucked by their sex-slaves who are firmly on leashes—until it's their turn to fuck the Albanian girl, that is.
James and I remain behind Maksim with our eyes ahead, clasping guns over our laps.
Maksim is in seventh heaven, especially when the Prince offers him a cock-sucker, which James and I have front row seats to. The sound of the tiny blonde choking against Maksim's cock turns my stomach inside out, as he refuses to let her breathe by blocking her air passage. And to make matters worse, the godforsaken fuck show goes on until early hours of the morning, the ornate ballroom whispering with soft piano music. The music isn't loud enough to drown out her cries of pleasure/pain in Albanian, nor the men's moans of satisfaction as they each have a go on her. Deep moans that remind me of Maksim when he makes me please him.
I'm beyond uncomfortable internally. On the outside, I must look as cold as ice.
The show gets even harder to stomach when Maksim takes over—belts the Albanian girl to the point where her back bleeds before drilling her from behind—because in a moment of raw intoxication, he presses her face into the floor and looks me right in the eyes. It's like everything and everyone in the room evaporates, the earth closing in on me. I go stiff, my chest so tight that I can just about breathe. I don’t know whether to look away or not. He’s never done this before.
Hedoesn't look away. He smiles at me and takes the girl slowly, holding her hips like he's caressing her, humming with delight, his eyes hazy and full of lust.
I stare ahead, blinking above him, trying to avoid the devil’s eye. Then, he fucks her with everything he has, making her squeal, skin smacking against skin.
James glances at me, then steps a little closer, putting us arm to arm. “Don't worry,” he whispers, “I won't let him do that to you.”
Though I appreciate his promise, it's empty. If Maksim wanted to do that to me, no one could stop him.
A fuss of voices draws my attention.
“Everyone, stay where you are,” an American guy says, yelling over the party.
“If you move before we state otherwise, we’ll shoot,” another man calls out snappily. “Girls, get your fucking clothes on.”
On alert, I glance about to assess the level of danger, as does James. A group of combat suited men are storming the ballroom with guns, and once they've got every man looking down their barrels, Charlie marches in, yelling for Maksim to stop. “Right now!”
My heart drops through me. I watch in dismay as the naked sex-slaves scatter like rats to get dressed, tripping over their dresses, and then one guy orders them to line up against the back wall; starts handing out bottles of water from the duffle bag he’s holding. The men tuck themselves in, pulling up their pants and zipping up their trousers, and then they’re lined up against the opposite wall to the girls, guns in their faces. Maksim staggers off the Albanian girl he's fucking to fasten his trousers, his cheeks tinted red with lust.
“What is going on?” the Asian Prince asks in terrible English, standing a few feet away from Maksim. He’s looking through Charlie—who's got a blanket in one hand, a large gun in his other—and his men who are surrounding us all with a munitions store.
“That's Charlie Decena,” I whisper to James, and he loads his gun.
I pull back the hammer on my gun too and step forward for Maksim but James catches my elbow, making me stumble to a stop.
“What are you doing?” I hiss, tugging to get free. “Let me go.”
“Stay here. He's got over twenty men.”
I gawk up at James in panic, then at Maksim who is face to face with Charlie in the middle of the room, and then back up at James. “We can't just leave Maksim.”
“We don't want to start something if we can avoid it,” James says, his eyes trained on the situation. “I've heard a rumor Charlie Decena doesn't enjoy things like this, so he's probably just putting a stop to the show.”
“How'd you know that?” I ask, drawing in my eyebrows.
“What's the problem, my friend?” Maksim says, gaining my attention.
There's a moment of dangerous silence as Charlie towers over Maksim, tapering dominant blue eyes. “This is.” He drops the blanket he's holding over the girl Maksim just fucked.
She's panting for dear life, understandably bested after being whipped and screwed by at least ten men, so of course I'm stunned when she says, “Why are you stopping the show?” She's gazing up at Charlie through scraps of chocolate brown hair. “Who are you?”
James and I look at each other, and then ahead at Charlie. He's dressed in jeans over black boots and a black long sleeve sweater, rather casual attire considering his men look ready for war. He passes the gun he’s holding to his right hand man and crouches down to the girl, elbows on his knees. “You'reArjana, is that right?” he says, stroking her hair back out of her face.
She nods, an air of vulnerability coming over her.
