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I don't even look at him. I round the dining table, shoulder barging the girls who smell sweet with perfume, and steal through the French doors.
Outside, my breath mists the cold night. A few more of Maksim's friends surround the illuminated swimming pool that's in the heart of the patio area. I also note James, who nods at me from the other side of the pool. He's dressed in his combat uniform, standing about with his work partners Oliver and Shane. I lift my hand in a small wave. A gentle smile reaches his candid, affectionate eyes.Fuck.His eyes are a little black. He's still bruised from our fight, dark greeny-gray patches marrying his cheeks and his nose.
I remember what he did for me last week as if it happened just moments ago—let Maksim fuck him in an attempt to spare me sexual attention.
Overwhelmed with guilt, I have to shut off my thoughts and emotions. I can't think about how bad I feel for him. I have to endure Charlie Decena soon.
To the left of the pool, Maksim's dogs—his girls—stand on all fours with leashes around their necks. They're all naked. Some of them are absolutely petrified, crying and cringing from Maksim's friends who are copping a feel. The other girls aren’t bothered. They seem used to what's happening to them, staring ahead blankly.
As usual, I fight to ignore my instincts telling me to teach these perverted bastards a lesson. I'd tear them all apart single-fucking-handed.
I go over to James so I can quickly say hello; nod with respect at Oliver and Shane. They return my gesture before walking off, I assume to give James and me a moment.
“Hey.” James smiles down on me, and also offers up his beer. “It's still cold.”
“No. You keep it,” I say softly. I can't seem to return his affectionate smile. He looks a mess. His left eye is bloodshot from the impact of my punches.
My eyes crinkle with guilt.
“Don't worry,” reaching out, he gives my hand a squeeze, “it's all superficial. Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I say, noticing he's got red strangle marks around his neck. “I'm fine.” I look down at my feet, then back up at him. “I can't stop. I have to...” I gesture out, “you know... I just wanted to make sure-”
“I know.” There's that sincere smile again. I wish he wouldn't do that. It makes me feel like shit.
Leaving James, I go off andfind Charlie at the other side of the pool. He's wearing jeans over white trainers and a black round-neck t-shirt that hugs his masculine body, his hair tied back. The silvery-blue water reflects on his handsome face, lighting up his olive skin, shimmering against that perfect black hair. He's got his arm around a blonde wearing a white bikini. She has to be cold. It's freezing out here.
I know she is because her nipples are like bullets and goose pimples are racing down her arms.
Charlie is whispering something in her ear, making her giggle like a frivolous teenager. Even the other girls standing about him are giggling, indulging him.
“Jesus,” I scoff to myself in Russian, continuing for him.
To think that most women are like this—giddy to the sweet nothings—makes me want to vomit. A man would have to work a lot harder thanthatto make me laugh. Mind you, no man has ever made me laugh before, so I cannot comment on how hard the endeavor would be.
When I reach him, I ask, “Can I speak to you for a moment, Charlie?” We meet each other's gaze, and I add, “In private?”
I'm surprised that I'm not anxious to see him. If anything, I'm grateful that I have to endure his disappointment as oppose to Maksim's.
The girls surrounding Charlie raise their eyebrows at me, affronted that I would even attempt to approach him. I'm fully clothed in black sports trousers, trainers, and my leather jacket, hardly dressed for the occasion.
I don't bother returning their gestures of abhorrence. Enough blood will be spilt tonight—my blood, probably.
One of the girls seems to know exactly who I am, because she tells the others to look away. “Say nothing,” she urges.
“Hello, Blaire,” Charlie's Latin seasoned voice is soft and inviting. Reminds me of Hannibal Lector.
He scans my appearance—just like he always does—a dirty grin twitching at the corner of his mouth.
The blonde under his arm doesn't know whether to glare at me or him, her eyes flickering between us.
I don't react to his intense, penetrating gaze—or I try not to. I cannot control my cheeks. I strive to appear impassive, my hands in my leather jacket pockets.
“Sure you can speak to me,” he rasps out eventually, taking his arm from around the blonde. With his hair tied back, his features are sharper and harder. He's so handsome, and for some bizarre reason, I can't help imagining he's tanned all over.
Stop imagining,I admonish myself internally.
“Hey,” the blonde grips his arm, rubbing her hip against his cock, “you're coming back, right?”
