by Loren, Celia
“Those are tough schools to get into, lady. I applaud your ambition. That’s the American dream at work right there, isn’t it: trying to give a better life to your kids than what you had. You sure wouldn’t want to piss off anyone on any of the financial committees, like Breslin. My boss. You sure wouldn’t want to jeopardize your son’s bright future, because his dumb mom wouldn’t answer a few simple questions. You sure wouldn’t want to lie to me right now.”
Deflated, Tricia collapses against the door. Her eyes are weary and furious.
“Fine,” she hisses. “I’m the one that brought her. I didn’t think there was any harm in it. She’s just a kid trying to work her way through college. I figured she could use a break, some extra money. Reminded me of me, you know?”
“Touching.”
“That’s all I know, really.”
“I think you’ll come up with more than that, Tricia. What college? Where’d you meet her? How old is she? What’s her blood type? I think you want to tell me these things. Come on, you can do it.”
“I don’t know what college! I only know she pretty much just started and has to pay her own way. That’s all she told me.”
So I was right about Katja being young. A college kid. Obviously she’s smart—she’s already bested me once. It won’t happen again.
Next time Katja and I meet, I’m taking charge and not letting go. I’m bending her to my will. I’m showing her that no one fucks with Knox Cole.
I let my eyelids drop for a moment, indulging myself in a brief fantasy…
I’d follow Katja through campus until she went in to the library, and then I’d wait, watching her. She’d look damn sexy in her glasses and a school uniform. She’d take off her heavy backpack, plop into a desk in the library to study. She’d frown in concentration and I’d think about biting her lip. Soon we’d be the only ones left in the library, it would be dark outside and quiet. I’d wait until she saw me, wait until her eyes widened in surprise.
Then I’d come up to her desk, slam Katja’s books shut, back her against a bookshelf. I’d pin her with my body, gently remove her glasses, and kiss her hard. I’d bite her lip. I’d bite her neck. I’d kiss her throat.
I’d pull up her skirt and touch the soft skin of her thighs until I couldn’t wait anymore. Then I’d fuck her up against Euclid, Socrates, and Plato. I’d fuck her hard and sweet and long. I’d fuck her under the dust and knowledge of centuries. I’d fuck her until we both knew everything there was to know.
Down, boy. Don’t get personal. All business today, remember?
Right. I’ve got to find Katja. Got to get Breslin off my ass. Got to concentrate.
Got to trade her in for my own life.
Somehow, that thought leaves a sour taste in my mouth. My mind flickers back over the memory of Katja’s young, wise face, the steady way she met my eyes, and didn’t back down. She seemed…unique. It’s a shame she had to screw with the wrong guy, draw the wrath of Jasper Breslin. It’s a shame it’s either her ass or mine.
But why should that bother me? It’s business, not personal. I’ve ruined peoples’ lives dozens of times. This should be no big deal.
Just business.
Tricia is still talking. I snap myself back to attention.
“Ok, this is really all I know about Katja. She’d been asking me for help getting dancing gigs for months. I figured we could use her last night, since you never know what to expect with those rich house parties. Another body in go-go boots can be a real lifesaver.”
I nod. “And you found this lifesaver where?”
Tricia sighs, reluctant, but she knows she’s trapped.
“Katja works the late-night, early-morning shift at this diner. I go there for coffee sometimes after work. I was there the day before yesterday and mentioned the Breslin gig. She recognized his name, knew it meant big money, begged me. So I brought her along.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. The net is closing around my prey. I can almost taste Katja’s lips again and smell her incredible scent.
“Tell me the name of the diner.”
Chapter Four
Knox Cole
The diner is in the last section of waterfront in Chelsea that hasn’t been renovated, and looks like the perfect recruiting ground for strippers. It’s one of those metal-fronted vintage places you’d see on postcards, but it’s so dilapidated you almost don’t notice it wedged between project houses. It’s shiny, but sad.
When I go in and sit at the counter the place is pretty empty. A guy with a nametag that says Boris is drying glasses behind the cash register. He tosses a menu at me with a nod and no eye contact.
“What’ll you have?”
“Katja.”
“Pardon?”
Now he looks up.
“I’m looking for Katja, who works here.”
His eyes regard me skeptically. “There’s no Katja. Wrong place.”
Boris’ accent is as thick as his face. Russian maybe?
I paint on my most charming look of puzzlement. “Oh. Really? Maybe I have the wrong name. I thought she said Katja, but, my memory is fuzzy. Um, see, I’m a tutor. She asked me to meet her here, where she works. I’m supposed to help her study for a test?”
It’s a stretch, but I figure it’s my best shot. I’m twenty-eight, which is probably a little old to play a college kid. I’ve got some grey hairs in my five-o-clock shadow, for crying out loud. I hope he buys it.
Boris squints and leans on the counter. “Test?”
“Yeah, uh, a psychology test. She wanted some extra help. Not that she really needs it, she’s one of the best students in the class.”
A long moment stretches out and I pray to god the random lie I’m telling is the right one. And apparently it is, because Boris’ face clears and lights up.
“Psychology. Ah. Not Katja. There’s no Katja. It’s Jana you want. Jana’s our scholar, the best student. The best! She no work today. She not to come in. You got wrong day maybe. Tomorrow she is back.”
Katja is Jana? Jana what? Who is this kid? It’s two o’clock, and she already has two names. Shit. It’s two o’clock. That means I have only fourteen hours left.
I’m annoyed at how difficult it’s been to track her down. I’m realizing I’m going to have to take some kind of risky step if I’m going to get the information I need to find her in time. I’ve got to get Boris to tell me where she is now.
Jutting my elbows onto the counter, I lean in confidentially. “Actually,” I whisper, “This is really embarrassing, but maybe you can help me Boris. I need to talk to her about something...personal.”
“Personal?”
“Yeah.” I beckon Boris closer and drop my voice to a whisper, even though there’s no one else around. “See, I left my cell at her place the other night. I was there to tutor her for the first time. We had just met but there was this chemistry, you know? She’s so beautiful. Well, you know that. Anyway, we didn’t exactly get around to studying, and in the excitement and all the wine we drank I just…I kind of blanked out. I don’t remember where she lived. But I need to get my phone back, and it had her number in it, so I don’t know any other way to reach her. We were supposed to meet today, but if she forgot I’m screwed. Can you give her a call, ask her to come down here? Help another guy out?”
I’m hoping it’s a story, just convoluted enough to dazzle Boris into not thinking about it. Normally a little white lie about getting laid would make another man smirk—chuckle and wink—maybe elbow me playfully and say something like “you lucky bastard.” Talking about boning a lady of mutual acquaintance usually invokes the bro code that earns me enough respect to get what I want.
Not with Boris.
The effect of my speech on him is startling. He’s already a forbidding-looking dude, but the moment I insinuate that I spent the night with Katja/Jana, he turns a deep shade of purple and the veins in his tattooed neck strain out.
“You son of a bitch,” he growls.
He lunges across the counter, shoving me off of my stool. I crash onto the floor in a heap, raising my arms over my head in surrender.
“Whoa, hey Boris, calm down.”
“How dare you talk like this about Jana! A good girl living with the nuns, you ought to be ashamed to say such lies about her, about any good woman. You are a piece of shit. Get out, you dog. Get out of my place. I run a respectable business. Get out, you filth!”
Boris is a surprisingly strong guy, smacking me with his apron. It’s too bad no one is here to watch the show—I get it’s a good one. But since I figure I’ve got no beef against Boris personally, I don’t fight back. I let him pick me up by the scruff of my shirt and my belt and ramrod me out the diner door onto the street, kicking me on the backside as I go.
“Don’t come back, you sick bastard!”
Not likely!
I land in a grayish yellow puddle in the curb. Gross. But I feel a wry grin flicker over my face. Poor Boris. Here he was trying to protect this girl, and instead he gave her to me on a platter.
“Don’t worry, Boris,” I mutter. “Neither of us will be coming back.”
Katja. Jana. Whoever she is, Boris has just given me the final clue I need to find her. Whipping out my iPhone with a flourish, I command Siri: “Find nun public housing New York City.”
“I can’t answer that now.”
“Dammit, Siri. Find nun public housing New York City.”
“Fine, Knox. Here you go.”
I mean, there can’t be that many nunneries in the city, and Katja/Jana was definitely not a nun. Not the way she was dancing. Not the way she kissed. So it’s got to be a place for non-nuns, too.
Sure enough, only one entry pops up: The Leo House, “a Catholic guest house for travelers.”
Man, I’m good. I could have been a detective.
“Fuck me sideways, Siri,” I say. “We have ourselves a score.”
“I’m not that kind of girl,” Siri responds.
I open the link and skim until I find directions, then leap up with an excited whoop. The address for The Leo House is only a couple of blocks away from the diner. Damn, I’ve never worked this hard to find a woman before. I’m relieved the search is almost over.
Katja/Jana/mystery girl, here I come.
Chapter Five
Knox Cole
I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice it to say it was harder to get through the nuns at the front desk of the Leo House than I thought it would be. After a few false starts, I finally convinced them that I was Jana’s coworker and friend from the diner, and that I was here to surprise her for her birthday. It may have also involved a lot of flirting and tipping, but it worked.
Only a half-hour of bullshitting, guest-book signing, and ID checking…I’m in. Those Catholics run a tight ship, I tell you what.
Just not tight enough.
Katja/Jana’s room is on the second floor facing the street, and I easily force the lock with a credit card. Inside it’s quiet, sparse, and empty, something like an army barrack but with more furniture. The afternoon light spilling in from the window gives me an aching look at this woman’s private life. The room really isn’t much—just a bed, a dresser, and a utilitarian desk. But it’s clean.
Once I’m in, I re-lock the door behind me. She’s obviously not home, so I figure I might as well search for the laptop while I’m waiting for Katja/Jana to get back. Searching shouldn’t take long.
Rifling through the mattress and pillows gives me nothing useful, but I do find what looks like a rosary twisted around the headboard, and I feel a stab of guilt. What if Boris is right and she really is a good girl? Shit. I don’t want that on my head. But then, what was she doing disguised as an exotic dancer at Breslin’s party?
I try to absolve myself of the guilty feeling, and turn my attention to the dresser. The first thing I find is the underwear drawer.
“Holy fuck,” I whisper, pulling out lacy black thing after lacy black thing. “Mmm, god.”
My dick throbs in appreciation as the inevitable mental picture of Katja/Jana in sexy lacy black underwear sears through my consciousness.
Down boy. Business.
The next drawer is less dangerous, just a jumble of clothes: socks, jeans, and t-shirts, all unfolded and mashed together. This tells me she’s either a slob or a brainiac preoccupied with bigger problems than neatness. I’m guessing the latter.
The last drawer is a lot of paperwork and schoolbooks, but no laptop. However, there is something interesting: a small box of wigs and make-up.
“Wigs?”
Yes. There’s one that’s short and black, the hairstyle Katja was wearing at the party. It’s not her real hair. Whoa. Trippy. It occurs to me for the first time that maybe I’m up against some kind of con artist. If that’s so, then I don’t have to feel guilty about turning her in to Breslin. Right?
I slam the drawer shut, frustrated with my thoughts, but the momentum makes the whole unit shake. A picture frame topples from the top and crashes onto the floor.
“Shit.”
I pick it up from the floor and see that the glass pane has cracked. Was that there before, or did I do that? If I did, she’ll probably notice and know someone is here. Oh well, too late to fix it. I brush it off and set it back in its place, turning to walk away, but the picture catches my eye.
It’s what looks like a family portrait, a mother and two girls. Peering closer, I realize the youngest is Katja/Jana. Her hair is decidedly not short or black, like the wig she was wearing at the party. It’s long, wavy, and a warm glowing color something between brown and red. The mother and sister have the same type of hair and strikingly similar faces, but over the mother and the older sister’s heads, someone has scrawled the word “vai” in black ink.
What the hell does that mean?
I set the picture down and look everywhere else a laptop could possibly fit, but it’s not here. Not in the closet. Not under or inside anything. I tap the walls for secret compartments. Nothing. No laptop. Shit.
Now all I can do is wait.
I check my phone. It’s only three o’clock in the afternoon. It’s early in the day. I tell myself it’s normal that the girl’s not home. She probably won’t get home until five or six. That’s what normal people do, right?
I still have thirteen hours left in Breslin’s clock. Thirteen hours to get the girl and make her bring me to the laptop. It’s going to be fine.
Might as well set up camp. After a quick survey of possible hiding spots, I decide to curl myself into a ball in the closet with the door open just enough to give me a view of the room. I set my phone to silent, cross my arms, and settle in.
Sitting still is not my favorite pastime: it leads to thinking. I hate thinking. It makes me depressed. So to avoid thinking, I play Fruit Ninja on my phone, willing myself to my closest approximation of a blank Zen state.
Five o’clock comes and goes. I switch to Candy Crush.
Six o’clock. Grand Theft Auto.
Eight o’clock. Damn. I’m not going to lie, my cortisol is spiking. She better get here soon.
I toy with the idea of sexting someone, but decide against it. The idea of sex just makes me think about Katja. I mean Jana. Or whatever her name is - and that’s not a safe thought trajectory. Not when I’m planning on bringing her to Breslin, ruining her life, and precipitating her premature demise.
This closet is getting really uncomfortable. I try to flex my muscles silently in place, ruefully acknowledging that I’m not as young and spry as I used to be. Also, my brittle control over my spinning thoughts is starting to fall apart. This waiting thing is taking too damn long, and I can’t help but think about what I’m doing.
“How the mighty have fallen,” I mutter to myself.
It’s useless. The thoughts crowd in, alternating between Katja/Jana/mystery girl’s young face and snippets of my past that I’d rather forget. Cue Knox’s downward spiral.
How did I get here? I’m staking out a
girl’s closet. It’s sad, and not just physically: it’s sad all around. I used to be somebody. Now I just work for somebody. And the work is getting distasteful.
I wish I could be proud of myself for manipulating and lying to a protective diner manager and a middle-aged holy woman so easily. Here I am, former UFC Light Heavyweight champ, and I’m reduced to lying to nuns. And why? So I can turn a young girl over to a sadistic prick that wants to kill her for stealing his laptop.
Shit.
Usually I wouldn’t give a fuck, but today, now, over this young mystery girl, it doesn’t feel like a routine job. It doesn’t feel like a victory. Something doesn’t sit right. Something is bugging me, and I can’t put my finger on it. It’s not like I didn’t know what kind of guy Breslin was when I started working for him. It’s not like I’m not that kind of guy, myself, these days.
God help me. Really, I mean it. My life has become a parody of itself. What have I become? There was a time that my brain and body pursued glory in the ring. It was a fair fight between equal opponents. There was a time where I loved what I did. Then I fucked it up. And now…
God I want a drink. Or a fuck. Something, anything, to drown out these nagging doubts.
The clock drags on.
It’s three am. Fuck. Only three hours left to the deadline.
I’m going insane and my cramped muscles are yelling at me when I finally hear a key turn in the door. Thank god! Someone flips the lights on, and I hear the soft rustle of jackets and bags falling to the floor, and shoes on the carpet.
Katja. Jana. Whatever. She’s finally here.
This would be the time to attack. I should jump out of the closet, surprise the hell out of her, overpower her in a few seconds and tie her up, then call Breslin. That was my plan, but I don’t do that. Instead, my breath catches and my body tenses, eager to just see her. Watch her.
What is it about this girl?
She mutters something to herself that I can’t catch and kicks off her shoes. I see them whiz across my field of vision and hear them plunk against the walls. Soon she walks where I can see her and plops wearily on her bed with a deep, sincere sigh that I can feel all the way in my own body. Her face is clouded, tired, but still strikingly beautiful.