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“At a bathhouse?”
“Yes.”
“Is that… normal?”
He flashed a small smile, though amusement was written all over his face. “Yes.”
“I’m just saying, it’s weird for an American, ok? We don’t do the whole bathing in public thing. Is it actual bathing? Like with soap and shit?”
“I understand. I’ll be there too. And it depends, with the soap. That’s usually more Turkish.”
“Oh, great. Thanks for clarifying that I get to be naked in front of youandthe boss, soap or no soap. Can’t wait.”
“It’ll be worth the trip for the banya alone.”
I remained skeptical.
An hour later, I followed Misha up the stairs to an old, nondescript building. No sign. No writing on the door. Nothing. He could have been taking me anywhere and I’d have no clue.
I didn’t want to acknowledge that the hair on the back of my neck stood up and my stomach twisted into knots. Walking into the unknown tended to have that effect. Well, it wasn’t entirely unknown. I was walking into what was presumably the domain of old, rich white guys—the kind who had no problem taking advantage of whatever piece of ass was closest, even if that was on another guy. Ironic since guys like Sergei hated gay people and yet had their business luncheons in a sauna… which were kind of a thing in gay culture. Although I doubted Sergei was up to speed on LGBTQ history, nor looking for any lectures on it.
Thankfully, inside the shady-ass-looking building was floor-to-ceiling white tile and modern everything. Thick, soupy steam hit me the second I walked in the door, along with the smell of cedar and eucalyptus.
By the time we reached the locker room, I was sweating, yanking on my shirt collar like it would do any good.
“Remind me why we have to do this here?” I asked, peeling my damp clothes off and hanging them inside one of the empty lockers. The wooden hangers clanked together until I steadied them, hoping Misha didn’t realize how on edge I was. WhywasI on edge, anyway? I had done way worse things for money in rougher areas of town than this. A meeting should be easy peasy. As long as I looked at this thing with Sergei as a meal with any other john—and not one who could have me killed with a snap of his fingers—I’d be fine.
“He’s a busy man,” Misha replied, stripping down to nothing like he’d done this a hundred times. “This was the only time he had available but he wasn’t going to miss his usual appointment.”
I was too distracted by the sight of him to reply. From his golden hair to the perfectly tanned skin over sculpted muscles, Misha looked like a fucking god. Over a ten-year “career,” I could count on one hand the number of clients that were actually my type. But Misha? Misha blew them all away and I hadn’t even seen his dick yet. Well, not completely. Somehow he always managed to have it covered or his hips angled just so, keeping it out of sight. I had no idea what he was hiding, or why, but I was eager to find out.
Without any post-orgasm highs clouding my vision, I studied the tattoos on his arms. Each arm had more ink than skin, from his broad shoulders all the way down to his hands. Even if I couldn’t read half of it, the images were fairly easy to interpret. Knights, eagles, the Russian flag, bullets and knives. More skulls and crossed bones. The same sorts of tattoos military guys the world over had, commemorating their time in whatever branch of service they were in. Some of his had color, some didn’t, but they all had painstaking attention to detail.
The ones on his hands didn’t seem to have the same forethought, although the location could have been a factor. They were entirely in black and far simpler, mostly writing or basic symbols on his fingers, like rings. The large crown tattooed on the back of his right hand was the exception to the “simple” theme and I had a feeling it meant more than the other stuff. The only other guy I’d seen with that same tattoo was Sergei himself.
“Marek?”
I blinked and looked up, feeling the heat rise along the back of my neck. “Sorry, what?”
“Is everything ok?”
“Yeah.” I finished undressing and wrapped a towel around my waist. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”
Misha smirked and led me down another hallway.
As we made our way past several closed doors, a strange rustling sound emanated behind them, followed by distinctthwacks. My unease was back, ratcheting higher with each smack of only God knew what. I tried to shake off the chill that ran down my spine in spite of all the sweat.
As we passed, one of the attendants popped out of a room, revealing what the hell was going on inside.
A man was laying face-down on a table, his face obscured by a pile of leaves, while another man wearing a short robe and a bell-shaped hat whacked him with two bundles of branches tied into a sort of fan shape.
“What the fuck?” I couldn’t help it, nor could I help staring until the last second when the door swung shut.
“What’s wrong?” Misha paused and turned with a furrowed brow.
“If this is some kind of weird kink club, I’m out. I’m not in the mood to have someone smack me around with fucking branches just to impress the boss.”
His amused smile was back. “It’s not akink,” he said with a laugh. “It’s part of the process. By the time you’re done, you feel like a new person. But we can skip that for today and just relax in a steam room if you prefer.”
