by SR Jones
“Hey, Violet, I hear the mysterious Andrius had words with you tonight?”
I turn to see Martha, who is one of the few people here I chat to. She’s pretty, with a wicked sense of humor, and a taste in clothes I wish I could get away with. She’s about five-feet-nine with a lean, toned physique that lends itself to her biker chick look.
Me, I don’t know what my look is. Between growing up with a paranoid father who kept me hidden away, then losing dad, losing the house, and struggling to survive; I’ve kind of missed those years when you experiment with fashion and sex. Nightlife, drinking, and drugs. It’s all passed me by.
“Yeah, barely two words,” I laugh as I speak. I don’t want to let on to her how much my short interaction with him bothered me.
“God, I wish he’d say two words to me; he’s gorgeous.”
He is, but he’s far scarier than he is hot. Any semblance of sexiness is wiped out by the cold look in those cool eyes of his, and the knowledge of what he does with his hands.
“I’d give anything for him to give me a glance. I bet he’s an animal in bed; he’s got that thing about him, you know?”
I don’t, and I look at her, intrigued. “What thing?”
“An attitude, one which only a few men exude. A quiet confidence that tells the whole world he’s hard as fuck, can take on all comers, and is hot like a thousand burning suns. He’s got a big dick; you can tell.”
“You are obsessed,” I tell her.
“I’ve not mentioned him before,” she pouts.
I laugh. “No, I mean with sex. You need to get laid.”
“I do; it’s been a long dry spell.”
I can’t imagine why. She’s gorgeous. Her hair is cropped close to her head, and the only makeup she seems to wear is a hot pink lipstick, which looks amazing against her ebony skin. Right now, she’s pulling on a black t-shirt with a glitter skull on the front, with dark skinny jeans, and her biker boots. Her waitress uniform of a white shirt and black skirt is stashed in her locker.
“You ought to go to a rough dive and find a biker to have sex with,” I tell her.
“You trying to say I need to slum it?” she asks.
“No, not slum it, but you hang out with all those towny types who go to trendy bars, and I think you’re more of a biker girl.”
“Maybe.” She cocks her head to one side, a devilish glint in her eye. “I’ll go if you’ll come with me?”
Oh, no. I’ll end up drunk and doing something stupid. I don’t tolerate alcohol. I get flushed, drunk on one drink, and then do or say idiotic things. I barely drink at all these days.
“I don’t do partying, not in trendy bars or biker dives.” I shrug.
She reaches around and gives a gentle tug on my bun. “You ought to let your hair down, literally and figuratively. I bet you’re gorgeous with a bit of lipstick, a touch of color in your cheeks, and alcohol warming your veins.”
I scoff, “I’m not gorgeous, but maybe one day we can go get a coffee.”
It would be good to have a friend, of sorts.
“I can do coffee. To be honest”—she shoots me a sly look—“I’m amazed you go out in the day. I thought you might be a vampire, with the pale and interesting look you’ve got going on.”
I shake my head at her, but can’t help smiling. “We’ll arrange to go grab coffee one afternoon.”
“Okay, baby girl, we’ll take it in small steps. First, we’ll do coffee, and then maybe I can bump it up to something as exciting as a lager or two down at the pub.”
“See you, Martha.” I toss her a wink as I leave.
I wave at her and head to the kitchen, beyond which is the carpark where my bike is chained.
The kitchen is still busy, but with staff clearing away now, and without the chefs shouting orders, it’s a lot quieter.
“Night,” I call to a few people as I push through the door.
It’s dark outside, but the air is still warm and muggy. I glance to my left and smile to see the ice is all cleared away.
My bike is chained at the far end of the small carpark, near two outbuildings. I cross the lot and take out the key to unlock the security chain slotted through the wheel.
“I find it intriguing how you hide all the beauty you possess.”
I straighten so fast I get a head rush. The deep voice is scarily familiar.
When I glance around, I don’t see anyone. Then to the right of me, down a small alley between the outbuildings, the glow of a cigar lights the night air.
Andrius takes a pull on the big Cuban cigar, his face devilish in the low glow, before blowing out a smoky breath.
“W-w-what?” I stammer my reply.
“You.” He unfurls from the wall, his bulk emerging from the dark cloaking him as he prowls towards me. He’s like a sleek, dark panther, and I can’t move as he advances.
When he reaches me, his hand snakes out and tips my chin up with two fingers. “You’re exquisite, but I bet you don’t get many people noticing. You hide it all. Dirty hair, shapeless clothes, no makeup, or … if I’m not mistaken, makeup to detract rather than enhance.”
What the hell? Most guys wouldn’t notice I’m wearing makeup; they’d assume the pallor was real, not from a foundation two shades too light. They’d also assume the dark circles were the result of too many late-night shifts. I am damned good at applying this stuff.
“You’re very observant,” I tell him, my mouth trembling as I speak, but I won’t let him cow me. I straighten my shoulders and meet his gaze head on.
“I have to be, in my line of work.”
I jerk my chin out of his hold, which is gentle, and I get free easily. “You are wrong about the makeup. I’m tired is all. I need to go; I have to feed my cat.”
Going back to unlocking my bike, I curse at my trembling fingers. Once I’m on it, I give him a small wave with one hand and start to peddle.
“I’d bet good money you don’t own a cat.” His deep chuckle reverberates through me; it’s unnerving but also sexy. Bit like the man himself.
I turn and give a pointed look at his cigar. “Smoking is bad for your health.”
“Least of my worries,” he replies before stubbing it out underfoot and making his way across the tarmac toward the glow of the restaurant lights.
As I ride home, I try to get myself under control.
This is a dangerous game I’m playing, and it just got doubly so.
It takes me at least ten minutes to stop shaking.
Chapter 2
Violet
The man in front of me is begging, babbling, but I’m not listening. I never do because the way madness lies. I tune them out by running my favorite songs through my head. Right now, I’ve got Pretty Piece of Flesh on a loop.
I pick up the knife, time to finish this. He hasn’t told me anything I don’t already know, and he’s a thief. Maybe a snitch too. His cards were marked when he thought it was a good idea to rip off the mob.
Why do people do such crazy things? It genuinely amazes me. They see what happens to those who rob from the kind of businessman Allyov is, and yet they do it over and over again.
A significant number of people will do anything for money.
The bass of a generic, shitty dance song pumps through the soles of my shoes from the strip joint below. We are in the office. There’s no carpet because enough people have met a sticky end here for Allyov to know blood doesn’t come out of carpets.
“My wife made me do it,” the piece of shit screams.
I pause. This is new. I’ve had men beg me not to hurt their wives, not that I ever would. I won’t have anything to do with that shit. Allyov and the other bosses who hire me know not to even ask. I don’t touch women or children.
This guy is the lowest of the low. Never have I experienced a man blaming his wife and trying to make her the target.
“What did you say?”
“My wife, she made me do it. It’s her you want.”
I decide to fuck w
ith him for being such a piece of crap. “Let me understand. You want me to kill you and then go and kill your wife?”
His face pales. “No. No, what I’m saying is it’s her.” He’s talking to me as if I’m dumb.
I hate the jobs where I have to deal with the English employees; they always do this. They speak slowly and with extra emphasis, as if an accent means I can’t speak their language. I speak it better than half of them. I don’t say could of instead of could have like they sometimes do. I don’t mistake you’re for your when writing. Yet because of my Eastern European accent, they speak to me as if I’m five.
“She’s the one who told me to do it.”
“Did she steal the money herself, put her hands on it and take it from the till?” I ask, suddenly kind of enjoying myself. This guy is a piece of work.
“No.” He is exasperated now, as if he can’t believe how stupid I am.
“No. Of course not, because she doesn’t have access to the till because she doesn’t work in the betting shop, does she?”
“Exactly,” he says. “But she told me to do it, said Allyov wouldn’t notice because everyone knows he’s too busy trying to seduce his next whore, or so the word on the street goes. He’s got an obsession with a shop girl on London Road. She won’t have him, though; that’s what they say. His current mistress is done for sooner rather than later, and my wife says he’ll be looking for another if he can’t have the shop girl. He’s distracted. She told me now is the time to strike.”
It bothers me people know so much about Allyov’s life, and I need to tell him someone, somewhere is flapping their lips.
“If your wife told you to go and lie down in front of a bus, would you?” I smile at him.
“Laugh all you want, but I have to listen to that bitch tell me day and night how I’m not good enough. I see all those gorgeous young girls in the clubs and bars, and half of them would have sucked my dick if I told them I was in with Allyov. Yet my fat, fucking boring wife tells me how I’m not good enough. It’s all I hear. I don’t bring home the bacon, apparently. She told me to step up, and she made me do it.”
I nod. “This is a conundrum,” I say.
“Eh? A what?”
“On the one hand, you say your wife is a bitch who only makes your life hell, yet on the other, you say you did this extremely foolish thing on her say-so.”
He grits his teeth, and I see a flash of hatred burn in his eyes before he extinguishes it.
“This makes you a very weak man if you are telling the truth.” I hunker down until I’m on his level, looking at his beaten face.
“Truth be told, I think you are both weak and stupid. I think you’re a fucking ridiculous excuse for a human being.”
His face blanches as he realizes I’m not going to spare him, then it floods with color, and he spits in my face. “Go to hell, you piece of Russian shit! You don’t even belong in our country. Go the fuck home.”
His face is florid, and he’s so livid it has overcome his fear. For now.
I stand and take a handkerchief out of my pocket, wiping his disgusting bodily fluids from my face. He better not possess any communicable diseases.
“For that, I won’t kill you straightaway. I’ll take my time.” I walk behind him and place my hands on his shoulders. He’s tied to the chair, and I take my knife and cut down the back of his neck. He screams, and I sigh. “So much bravado until you must face the consequences.”
“I hate you,” he screams. I don’t worry anyone will hear over the din from below.
“Don’t waste your energy.” I tip his head back and smile down at him, then I touch the blade lightly against his skin. “You’re lucky I’m bored now. I’m going to make this quick.”
He screams and thrashes in the chair as I press the tip of my blade to the front of his throat. He’s yelling about Russians again.
I push the metal in hard enough to draw blood as I lean forward and whisper in his ear, “I’m Ukrainian, you piece of shit.”
The blade slices through his flesh like a knife through butter. He gurgles for a moment, and then nothing but silence.
I have blood on my hands. I take out my handkerchief and wipe it off. Then I click my fingers at the two men in the corner of the room.
When they reach me, I point to the body. “Clear this crap up.”
Once I’ve checked in the small washroom that I don’t have any blood on me, I jog downstairs and into the strip joint.
Allyov sits at the bar, talking to a man I don’t recognize. This surprises me, as he nearly always sits at the back of the club.
He doesn’t like to touch the bar; he’s a germaphobe.
I sit next to him and order a drink. An Old Fashioned, about the only cocktail I can stand. As the bartender makes it, I glance at the girl writhing above me on the bar.
She smiles and pulls her thong to one side, giving me a glimpse of her shaved pussy before she pulls it into place again.
I’m not interested. Allyov might not traffic women, and he only hires girls who want to work here, but most of them have little other options. Many are single mums doing whatever it takes to make ends meet. My housekeeper, Justina, was a stripper and a whore back in Ukraine, before I brought her here for a better life.
Now, she earns good money looking after me, and not in that way. I don’t pay for it, never have and never will. Don’t need to. Don’t fucking want to.
Justina is under my protection now. I made a vow to keep her safe, and I will. It’s not the only vow I’m trying to keep. The one to my family is what keeps me awake at night. The reason I’m here, doing Allyov’s dirty work.
“Hey, Andrius.” Carmel, a waitress, passes by and gives me a wink and a smile. She doesn’t strip because she’s beautiful enough to earn good tips from waitressing alone. She gets a lot of admirers with her long chestnut hair and big brown eyes, soft enough to melt the hardest soul. Got a good brain too. She’s a law student from a poor background who is doing this to earn money to pay her way through school.
We’ve fucked once, a while ago. I broke my rule for her, and it was good. She’s wild in the sack, but tonight, I’m not in the mood.
I keep thinking about a dowdy, petite blonde with the bone structure to rival Helen of Troy. A blonde little mouse who, for an unknown reason, hides her light under a bushel. Why would she do that?
I toss Carmel a grin and go back to brooding on the waitress from the restaurant. I find myself looking at her when I don’t mean to. One moment, I’ll be listening to the men talk as I sit and sip my drink, the next I’ll realize I’m staring at her again. I’m aware of her in my peripheral vision too, and I’ve clocked her glancing at me when she thinks I’m not looking.
It’s not only her beauty that attracts my attention. There’s something off about her, something I can’t put my finger on. She’s nervous, shy … reserved in many ways, yet in others she’s sharp as a tack. The comment she threw to me about smoking didn’t fit in with her shy and retiring side.
No one else pays her any heed, but noticing people, watching them, it comes with the territory of what I do.
I wonder what her body is like, slim and petite for sure, but I think there’s a hint of curves under her baggy clothes. What young woman these days tries to cover herself in such a way? Most of the girls and women I know want to be sexy, want to be admired. Not her.
Maybe, she’s been abused?
“You’re brooding, Andrius, and it is boring.” Allyov turns his warm brown eyes to me. “What bothers my Ukrainian brother?”
“Nothing. I’m just tired.” I don’t want to say anything about the girl … yet. But I decide to find out more about her. It’s part of my job to keep Allyov safe from threats. I might not work exclusively for him, but he pays me a fortune to watch his back. Not in the way he does the thugs who guard him all day long, but to keep my ears and nose to the ground. To ensure I notice any possible threats.
It might be crazy to think the little blonde could be a
threat, but it doesn’t pay to ignore your inner voice when it tells you something is off.
Two days later, and I’m sitting outside Violet’s flat.
I got her address from the books in the office. It’s a Saturday, and she’s off work, but I’m hoping she’ll be going out sooner or later. I want to see what she does, where she goes, who she hangs with.
I’m in the small park across the road from the building she lives in.
Hers is the top floor flat in a converted old house, which must have been huge when it was one property. It’s warm, and people are milling around in summer clothing, drinking Frappuccino’s and eating ice cream. I’m wearing shorts, a t-shirt, and have my head buried in my paper. I never wear these sorts of clothes when I’m working. Little Violet, as I’ve learned she’s called, has only ever seen me in a suit before. Hopefully, she won’t look twice at the guy in the cargo shorts reading The Times.
After two hours, I’m bored as fuck. I’d make a shitty cop, all the sitting around waiting for suspects to do something. The door to her building opens, and I straighten, but it’s a guy. I slump back on the bench, but then from behind him I see a pair of slim, pale legs, and a petite blonde steps out.
I sit forward. It’s Violet. I’d recognize those cheekbones anywhere, but in every other way, she’s a different woman.
Gone is the severe bun and the greasy locks. Her hair looks a dark, mousy blonde at work, but then it’s a dimly lit restaurant and she covers it in gunk, clearly, because now it shines a light ash in the sun.
She’s wearing a flippy skirt, flat sandals, a strappy top, and has a small rucksack on. The rucksack pulls her top tight across her chest, and I stare.
I’m shocked because I expected her to look different, but not to this degree. I get she pulls her hair back and doesn’t wear makeup, but this?
Where did those tits come from?