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I skip lunch and have an even harder time at meditating, my thoughts scattering.
I feel very lost in my days, like I don't belong anywhere or something. It's this droning style of living, I think. I'm not used to it. It's driving me nuts.
At dinner time, because I'm sick of being in this house all by myself, I decide to go out and grab something from a fast food place. Probably McDonalds. I like McDonalds.
I pull on my jacket, swipe the car key from the bedside cabinet and jog down the staircase, outside to where the Range Rover is parked.
“You're her, aren't you?” a Spanish peppered voice says from behind. “Blaire Markov?”
Before I turn around, I pull my heavy gun out of my jacket pocket, hold it against my leg, and then I face her...
...She's extraordinarily beautiful, standing there under the burning orange sunset, in front of a beaten up old Mercedes. Wearing a thigh length red dress that hugs a curvaceous body—large breasts and coke bottle hips.
Remaining deadpan in my pose, I search her face to analyze what her deal is. Oval shaped with large, deep brown eyes and facade blushed cheeks. Her full lips are coated in something glossy and her dark, chocolate brown hair is pulled back so tight her eyes are elongated.
How did she get through the gates? Does she know the code?
She slowly comes up to me with a walk that would make men bow at her feet, swaying her hips, her black heels crunching against the driveway. The way she's looking at me... curious and damn right pissed off.
She's something to do with Charlie. I'm certain.
“You can't be her.” Stopping a foot away, she stares me up and down with pure hatred, twisting her lips. “You're barely a woman and you're... you're not exactly pretty, are you? You're not even Latino.”
Raising my eyebrows, I blink at her, stunned by her audacity to insult me. Definitely something to do with Charlie.
“Are you her or not?” she demands an answer, pointing a red-nailed finger at me.
“Yes, I'm Blaire,” I say, keeping my tone level. “What do you want?”
“You're actually Russian?” Grimacing, she flashes gleaming white teeth. “He hates Russians...” she sounds like she's talking to herself, clarifying something. “I want to know why Charlie Decena would preferyou!to me.”
“Huh?” Why would she think that?
“Yes.” She swallows down what looks like a heave. “He told me earlier tonight.“
He told her that he wants me over her?That’s not right.
“I traveled five and a half thousand miles to see him because he's been gone for months now and he told me that he doesn't want me anymore.” She scoffs with disgust, shaking her head. “It didn't take much to find out why.”
She must be a jealous ex-girlfriend.Great.
“Look, I don't know what's going on between the two of you,” I tuck my gun away, sure I don't need to use it on her, “but it's none of my business. If you've got beef with Charlie, call him.”
Turning on my heel, I try to walk away but toothpick fingers close around my wrist, urging me to stop.
“I'm not done talking,” she hisses from behind. “I want to know what's going on with you two. Are you his girlfriend?”
“What?” I look back, screwing up my face, on the verge of laughing. “No. I'm not Charlie's girlfriend.”
“Don't you fucking lie to me, little girl!” the anger in her voice... I can feel it coming off her in waves.
“Why ask me that question if you're not going to believe my answer?” I tug out of her pathetic grasp and face her properly. I really can't be dealing with this shit. “I'm not Charlie's girlfriend, and whether you believe that or not is your problem, not mine.”
“If that is the case, then why is he at a gangster's party making a show of how much he likes you?”
My stomach rolls with nerves because I can't help thinking Maksim is at that party.
She gives me the once over again, revolted and livid at once. “How can agirl!like you—a filthy Russian— entertain a man like him?” She gets in my face now, putting us nose to nose, smelling sweet like strawberries. “That man is a sadist junkie, so how the fuck can you keep up with the pace?”
