by Box Set
As a distraction, I turn up the radio.
“What are you allowed to say, hmm?” He breaks our silence, turning the radio down, but I shrug, steering off the highway for London. “Okay. How fast does your car go?”
Silence.
“You can answer me that, surely?” He sounds like he's being sarcastic. “Maksim said you can speak to me.”
“Naught to sixty in five and a half seconds,” I give in, just to shut him up.
“And the color, did you pick it? Did you upgrade to all the extras?”
I scowl harder than before, aware of what he’s doing. Though his questions might seem ordinary, they're not. He's trying to get me talking by luring me into a false sense of security.
“You can glare all you like, Señorita,” he teases, insisting he’ll keep asking things until I answer. “I’m a persistent man, as I’m sure you’re realizing.”
“What is with you, Decena? Why are you asking me these stupid, mundane questions?” My heart stutters with panic. Maksim said to be polite. “Sorry. I...I didn't mean to—”
“S'all right.” Charlie shrugs with one shoulder, still holding my headrest. “You can ask me a question if you want.” He pauses, then leans a little closer and whispers down my spine, “I won't tell Maksim. Puede ser nuestro secreto.” Can be our secret.
I look at him for as long as I can, wondering why he’s speaking to me in Spanish. But then I have to center my attention on the road, on the cars. “Why are you asking me these questions?” I reiterate without wavering this time. “What's with the whole Spanish Inquisition? What’s your game?”
“The Spanish Inquisition, huh?” A wide grin spreads across his face. “I'm curious about you, Blaire,” he says. “Even more so now.”
I pull a funny face, puzzled, and he elaborates, “You don't wear a leash. You live outside of Maksim's house. You can apparently put up a good fight. You're educated.” The list of compliments is endless.
I don't ask why he's curious. I don't want to give him the satisfaction of my own curiosity.
“It seems Maksim wasn't lying when he told me you've got a bad attitude,” Charlie says, chuckling to himself. His voice is so deep when he laughs like that, almost mesmerizing.
Almost.
“I'm not gonna get anything outa you yet, am I?”
Yet? What makes him think he'll ever get anything out of me?
“No,” I say. “You're not.”
He doesn't ask much more now, just wants to know if I like living on my own, that kind of thing. I shake, nod, and shrug a few times, but I don't actually answer his questions.
“Where would you like me to drop you off?” I say when we’re driving past my apartment building, curb crawling The River Thames.
“Since we’re by your place”—he unbuckles his seatbelt—“here will do.”
I pull over with a sharp stop, making us both jolt forward, desperate to get him out of my fucking car.
But he doesn't seem to be in a rush to leave.
Smirking, he rests back and gives my body the once over, his eyes hooded and full of zest. “Maybe I'll stop by your apartment over the next two weeks to say hi.”
“I wouldn't bother. I won't answer the door to you.”
He flicks up his eyebrows. “Sure you won't.”
I snort, thinking he’s such an asshole. Then shifting in first gear with one foot on the break, I toe the throttle a few times as a hint.
He finally gets out of the car, but he doesn’t shut the door. Much to my frustration, he lingers, leaning down to look at me once more. Silky black strands fall around his diamond blue eyes, enhancing the intense, thoughtful expression on his face. It’s weird, like he’s weighing me up for whatever reason.
“I thought you said you had to leave?” I say, speaking softer than I intended. “Time’s getting on, isn't it?”
“I've always got time for a pretty girl.” He winks, and I glance away in a fluster, hating that my stomach ties up in knots.
In fact, I hate him. I hate the way he talks to me, and the way he looks at me, as if he's mentally taking off my clothes. It's so personal.
“I'll see you very soon, Blaire,” he rasps a promise. Then clicks the door shut, and his large, muscular body disappears into the city, sauntering at a relaxed pace as if he has all the time in the world to get to his destination.
———
When I can gather my wits after enduring Charlie Decena, I steer into the underground parking lot of my apartment building.
My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket, so I pull it out and find James is calling.
He’s a friend of mine. I’ve known him since before I can remember. He plays a role much like mine with Maksim—security and devotee—but he doesn't reap luxury like a personal car and an apartment. He drives a supplied security SUV, as all the other men do, and lives in Maksim's attic because Maksim doesn't trust him like he does me. That's never affected my opinion of James, though. He is one of the good guys. I've lost count of how many times he's taken a beating trying to protect me from our master. How many times he's let Maksim fuck him in an effort to ensure he doesn't fuck me.
“Have you spoken to Maksim?” I step out of my car and lock it with the key, making the beeps echo through the eerie car park.
“He just rang me about some guy called Charlie,” James says, his Russian accent soft and husky. “He wants me to beef up security.”
“Beef up security?” My eyebrows snap together. “Did he say why?”
“No. It was a brief call, and I wasn’t about to start asking questions. Who is this Charlie?”
“I have no idea.” I relax against my car, poking my chin with the key in a musing fashion. “Maksim is nervous around him though. I’ve never seen him so...I don’t know. Charlie kept cutting him off from talking, and Maksim just let him.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I was nervous, too. That man makes me feel...” I lose my voice, as there are no words to describe how Charlie made me feel.
“You, were nervous?” James’ voice goes up a notch. “But, you don't get nervous about anything.”
“If you ever meet Charlie, you'll understand. The way he looked at me in front of Maksim...the way he spoke to me...” I get chills just thinking about it. “He said, and I quote, ‘I’ve always wondered about redheads’, like he was fantasizing or something.”
“Seriously? And Maksim did nothing?”
To answer, I go right into detail about how much authority Charlie had over our master. How he insisted I drop him off even while he had drivers at hand. “Before that though, he interviewed me for a job by asking the oddest questions.”
“What questions?”
“He wanted to know if I lived alone, and if I drove my own car. It was ages before he asked about my skills.”
“He's up to no good, that’s why,” James says, with his feet thudding against the floorboards in the background. His attic living quarters is empty of things, other than his bed and a wardrobe. It heightens the slightest of sounds.
“I think so,” I say. “I get that impression.”
“Shit,” he curses. “Keep your wits about you, Blaire. If Maksim is getting involved with people he's nervous about, it doesn't bode well for us.”
“I know it doesn’t.” I nod at the empty parking lot. “I know.”
Whenever Maksim gets in trouble with his dodgy dealings, one of us—his arsenals—takes the fall. It's always been this way.
“What job do they have you on exactly? Are you whacking someone? Do you need my help with anything?”
“No. It’s nothing like that.” I tell him about the job in great detail, since Maksim lets us discuss things with each other. While James isn't much of a hacker, he's a good fighter. Almost as good as me. That’s why he offered himself up to help.
“You could only get like, four or five minutes the last time, couldn't you?” he says, referring to my access to London's CCTV system.
“Ah-huh. But I
wasn't about to tell Maksim that face to face.” I sound almost defeated, because I am. It’s going to be mentally taxing trying to grasp more time.
“No, I understand.” James sighs in sympathy. “Just try and get his fifteen minutes. Try. If you can't, before you confess to Maksim that you've failed, call me and I'll come over to your place, okay? Don't tell him anything while you're on your own.”
My heart bleeds for this guy. There's nothing he wouldn't endure if it means he can spare me from pain.
“Thanks, James,” I say blank of emotion, but I'd never deliberately put him in the line of fire. “I have to go.” I shove my keys in my jacket pocket and head for the private elevator that leads up to my apartment. “I'll speak to you soon.”
3
For the next week, in my London apartment that overlooks a gray River Thames, I test myself to the limit.
I eat plain foods to prevent feeling lethargic, and scarcely sleep for five hours a night because my mind is on overdrive. I give up on the hypnopaedia—learning while asleep via a recorder—because I can’t handle the overload of studying. In my personal gym upstairs, I execute my usual combat routine for four hours a day, which steals time away from work, but I must train physically. Maksim would kill me if I let myself slip. It could cost him his life.
I work on attaining the fifteen minutes in the dark computer room at the back of my apartment. It’s hidden behind fake paneled walls, set up with ten computer screens hanging on the back wall in two rows. They offer the only source of light in here. They glow over my freckly face as I sit at the floating desk, where all my equipment is: keyboards, black boxes, and other useful gadgets that help me safely link to The Dark Web.
I work like a dog morning and night, occasionally nodding off in the wide office chair.
By day four, I manage to gain access to London's CCTV for a maximum of eleven minutes. I can control the traffic lights, certain security gates, and the city cameras. But, I cannot get a hold of more than eleven minutes. The system locks me out.
Sweaty, hungry for real food, and frazzled to the max, I rub my forehead. Then I bash at the keyboard keys to put glitches in London's CCTV system, working through another night.
Now, I have one week and one day left to train, and to add to my worry, work commitments over the weekend set me back. I don't have any other choice but to accept what is though, as I'm on Maksim's security detail and his life comes before mine.
Friday night, James and I watch his back while he parties ruthlessly at a mansion in Kensington Palace Gardens. The mansion belongs to some Asian Prince who is largely in the public eye, but the public knows nothing of his taste for young girls and sex shows. They know only what the media allows them to know.
By ten o'clock, the party becomes hard to stomach—like most of the parties Maksim attends—because the Prince has a willing little Albanian brunette on all fours in the middle of his glorious ballroom. She's getting whipped, before being fucked by a man in a black leather mask. Their flesh slaps together so hard I can feel it. A collection of suits line the walls, waiting for their turn. Some of the onlookers masturbate, while the rest get their cocks sucked by their sex-slaves who are firmly on leashes, until it's their turn to fuck the Albanian girl.
James and I remain behind Maksim with our eyes ahead, clasping guns over our laps.
Maksim is in seventh heaven, especially when the Prince offers him a cock-sucker. The sound of the tiny blonde choking against his cock turns my stomach inside out, as he refuses to let her breathe by blocking her air passage. And to make matters worse, the godforsaken fuck show goes on until early hours of the morning, the ornate ballroom whispering with soft piano music. The music isn't loud enough to drown out her cries of pain though, nor the men's moans of satisfaction as they each have a go on her; deep moans that remind me of Maksim when he makes me please him.
Internally, I'm beyond uncomfortable. On the outside, I must look as cold as ice.
The show gets even harder to stomach when Maksim takes over. He belts the Albanian girl to the point where her back splits and bleeds, before drilling her from behind. In a moment of raw intoxication, he presses her face into the floor and looks me right in the eyes. It's like everything and everyone in the room evaporates, the earth closing in on me. I go stiff, my chest so tight that I can just about breathe. I don’t know whether to look away or not. He’s never done this before.
He doesn't look away. He smiles at me with wickedness, and takes the girl slowly, holding her hips like he's caressing her. He hums with delight, his eyes hazy and full of lust.
I stare ahead, blinking above him, trying to avoid the devil’s eye. Then, he fucks her with everything he has, making her squeal, skin smacking against skin.
I sense it when James glances down at me, then he steps a little closer and puts us arm to arm. “Don't worry,” he whispers, “I won't let him do that to you.”
Though I appreciate his promise, it's empty. If Maksim wanted to do that to me, no one could stop him.
“Everyone, stay where you are!” an American-Latino guy shouts over the party, drawing my attention.
“If you move before we state otherwise, we’ll shoot!” another Latino yells. “Girls, get your fucking clothes on.”
On alert, I glance about to assess the level of danger, as does James. A group of combat suited men are storming the ballroom with guns, and once they've got every man lined up against one wall and looking down their barrels, Charlie marches in.
“Stop!” he yells at Maksim, his blue eyes blazing with anger. He’s holding a blanket in one hand, a large silver gun in his other.
My heart drops. I watch in dismay as the naked sex-slaves scatter like rats to get dressed, tripping over their dresses. One guy orders them to line up against the back wall opposite the men, and starts handing out bottles of water from the duffle bag he’s holding.
Maksim staggers off the Albanian girl he's fucking, tucks himself in and fastens his trousers. His cheeks are tinted red with lust, golden eyes scorching in the same debauched emotion.
“What is going on?” the Asian Prince asks in terrible English, wandering around in a drug infused state of confusion.
My eyes flitter to Charlie, as he quietly consults with the combats. His large, muscular body is clad in jeans over black boots and a black long-sleeved sweater—rather casual attire considering his men look ready for war.
“That's Charlie Decena,” I whisper to James, and he loads his gun.
I pull back the hammer on my gun, too, and step forward for Maksim. James catches my elbow, making me stumble to a stop.
“What are you doing?” I hiss, tugging to get free. “Let me go.”
“Stay here. He's got over twenty men.”
I gawk up at James in panic, then at Maksim—who is now face to face with Charlie in the middle of the room—and then I gawk back up at James. “We can't just leave Maksim.”
“We don't want to start something if we can avoid it,” James says, his eyes trained on the situation. “I've heard a rumor Charlie Decena doesn't enjoy things like this, so he's probably just putting a stop to the show.”
“How'd you know that?” I ask, drawing in my eyebrows.
“What's the problem though, my friend?” Maksim says, gaining my attention. “You’ve attended many parties like this before.”
There's a moment of dangerous silence, as Charlie towers over Maksim, tapering dominant blue eyes. “This, is my problem.” He drops the blanket he's holding over the Albanian girl Maksim just fucked.
She's panting for dear life, understandably bested after being whipped and screwed by at least ten men, so of course I'm stunned when she says, “Why are you stopping the show?” She's gazing up at Charlie through scraps of chocolate brown hair. “Who are you?”
James and I look at each other, and then ahead at Charlie. He passes the gun he’s holding to his right-hand man, and crouches to the girl, elbows on his knees. “You're Arjana, is that right?” he says, stroking
her hair back out of her face.
She nods, an air of vulnerability coming over her. “How do you know my name?” she says, descending into her shoulders. She's veiled in sweat and looks weak with trembling limbs.
He whispers something to her, his face soft and welcoming, and then wraps up her tiny naked frame in the blanket.
What the fuck is going on?
“Blaire,” James says quietly, “does he have dealings with the Albanians?”
“I-I don't know,” I stutter, trying to filter what's happening.
Charlie tucks one arm under the Albanian girl’s knees, the other behind her shoulders, and lifts her into his strong arms. She huddles against him, seeming glad that he's here. “Any more of this bullshit,” he warns, and leisurely pivots around, using the girl as a demonstration, “and we're all gonna have a problem—especially you, falso Prince.” He continues to scrutinize everyone, then his attention lands on me. His pale eyes widen, and for the second time tonight, I don't know where to look.
“Charlie,” Maksim says, ruffling his damp hair, “the girl is old enough, and she's a willing participant. Tell him, Arjana.” He points out to her.
“Willing participant?” Charlie walks up to my master with the girl, hunched at the neck. “I just told you, she's stolen property. You of all people should know better than to fuck with the Albanians.”
“She is payment for a debt owed to me,” the Prince says, lifting his chin in an attempt to look proud.
“Debt or no debt”—Charlie stalks over to the Prince, who cowers in his kameez—“we can all find ways to please ourselves without beating and gangbanging an eighteen year old girl.” There's something eerie in the way Charlie is looking at the Prince. “Fuck her in a more private setting next time, or find an older participant—as you so nicely put it,” he says to Maksim, and he stalks back over to him while holding that girl like she barely outweighs a bag of sugar. “I mean, I'm all for a bit of sadism but this is bullshit.”
“It is just some fun,” the Prince says, lifting his shoulders in a shrug.
“Fun?” Charlie raises his eyebrows, and turns to his coward audience. “Maybe I should get all your wives here and have my men belt them and gangbang them for so long that their flesh shakes. How would you all like that?”