by Box Set
The ballroom is in quiet shock, and I'm just about to pass out with it when Charlie tells Maksim, “Send Blaire home, now. She doesn't need to see this.”
The Prince arches an eyebrow, flabbergasted by Charlie’s audacity. Maksim is stunned and humiliated, stuttering to defend himself but nothing worthy comes out.
“You'll have her on all fours next”—Charlie continues belittling my master, shaking his head at me in disgust—“getting fucked by this brainless lot.”
I feel a surge of rage go through James, and he steps forward for Charlie. The five men who are Charlie’s armor lift their guns in our direction, so I grab the back of James' sweater to stop him, my heart drumming in my ears.
Charlie isn't bothered by James' attempt, and why would he be? He's got an arsenal. He shakes his head at me again, pity burning in his eyes. “Since when did men start having young girls protect them, huh?” Before anyone can answer him, he turns away with the girl in his arms and leaves just as quickly as he came. His men follow out the double doors like a pack of wolves, and they shut us in.
No one is sure what to do—we're all just glancing at each other—but then Maksim rushes after Charlie, telling the Asian Prince, “I need to make sure there's no tension after this. That was Charlie Decena.”
The Prince’s face turns white.
“What the hell was that all about?” James says under his breath, his eyes glued to the exit doors. “And why doesn't he address Maksim properly?”
“I have no idea,” I say, dismayed by Charlie's bizarre act of kindness to save that girl.
Voices break through the silence, discussing Charlie and what he's just done. Some know who he is. Others don't. I try to listen in—I want to know who he is—but Maksim returns. He marches up to me, his expression tight with nerves. “Go home now,” he orders in Russian. “I'll call you if I need you.”
What?
“Do not stop to talk to anyone,” he says in a charge of Russian words. He can't seem to relax, looking back and forth between the exit doors and me. “Just get in your car and leave.”
I'm paralyzed with confusion.
James nudges me onward.
Maksim grips my arm so tight I can feel his fingers digging into my flesh even through my combat sweater. “Get a move on.”
I don't question him, even while I know this is out of character—he's never ordered me to leave before. Putting my head down, I walk through the murmuring ballroom, sort of thankful that I no longer have to endure the party.
What Charlie saw is nothing. It'll get darker as the night goes on.
4
Saturday, and it's work as usual.
I pick up Maksim from his house and drive him to his friend Rumo’s country manor. They play cards there once a month, but they always play on different days and times. Men like my master don't have routines. They say routines make them easy targets for their adversaries.
Maksim is on the phone throughout the drive, arranging a place for a few trafficked girls, so I don't have to endure a conversation with him. I'm glad. After coming eye to eye with him last night while he was fucking with that girl, I'll admit, I am a little nervous. There was something in the way he stared at me, in the way he touched that girl while staring at me.
Maksim hangs up the call as we pull up on Rumo’s paved driveway. It’s illuminated with floodlights. They're so bright that I have to squint. The redbrick house before us is a fortress with black iron bars covering the sash windows and a red laser security system surrounding the dwelling. Two SUVs pull up around us, the rest of Maksim's security detail. No one can get to him without a war.
In the cold, I help him out of my car by opening his door. I bow my head, clasping a heavy gun in one hand.
“You look lovely this evening, My Little Pet,” he says in Russian, grinning at me with a cunning gleam in his eyes. “I haven't had a chance to tell you.”
He looks good, too, in a sharp gray suit against a white shirt under a knee length black coat, his long brown hair curtaining his hard face. He smells nice, like something spicy. It makes my nose tickle as the night breezes against my face.
I don't thank him for his compliment, nor do I smile. I just bow a second time.
“Have you heard anything from Charlie Decena?” he asks, tipping his head. “After last night, I mean.”
I nearly frown, peering up at him with innocent eyes. “No, Cэp Maksim.”
He studies me for a moment, scanning my expression. “So, he hasn't been to your apartment?” His golden eyes widen for an answer. “I know he fancies you.”
“What? No, no! Of course he hasn't been to my apartment. I would have told you. You know I wouldn't—”
“Okay.” Lifting a hand, he cuts me off. “That is good, I guess.” He scratches his stubbly chin, and I cringe at the sound of his bristly beard grating against his nails. “But he's up to something. I just know it. I don't get why he's come to me for help on a job.” He goes on and on about his confusion over Charlie's agenda, saying what he did at the Prince's party wasn't him. “Decena wouldn't do something so thoughtful.”
It isn't just me who thinks he's up to no good. That makes me anxious, and the fact that Maksim is questioning me over my loyalty makes me even more anxious. He should know I'd never keep anything from him.
I'm sweating in my uniform.
“What did you talk about when you gave him a lift to London?” Maksim asks. “Did he want to know anything about me?”
No hesitation, I spill my guts about the useless questions Charlie directed at me. “He waffled on about my car and how fast it goes, the color.” I tell him everything, making sure I leave nothing to chance.
James appears from one of the SUVs, and I almost gasp out with relief. Maksim will focus on him for a moment.
“Ahhh,” Maksim breathes out with a broad smile, turning his attention to James. “He's here.”
Wearing a black combat outfit just like I am, James walks up to us with steady composure and bows, touching his chest.
“Hello, My Pet,” Maksim husks. He calls us both his pets. However, I'm his little pet.
“Evening, Cэp Maksim,” James says, his Russian spiced accent deep and level.
“How are you this evening?” says our master, his eyes flaring with something that a man shouldn't express to another man.
James answers as courteous as ever with, “I'm great, thank you.”
We never return Maksim's gestures. We're not allowed to. He doesn't like having to explain his moods—not that he needs to. I can sense his moods a mile away. Tonight, he's thriving.
“Good. Good!” Maksim claps, grinning from ear to ear. “Well, let us get on with this evening. My best vodka is inside waiting for me.”
I internally shake my head. He drinks far too much.
Our master turns for the house, and James gently catches my hand. He gives me a squeeze, causing me to peer up at him. He flashes his most affectionate smile, mouthing, “Are you okay?”
Nodding, I smile back. Then we enter the house without an invitation. James walks on Maksim's left, while I walk on his right, both with a gun in hand. Maksim hides his away in his knee length coat. Though we're amongst friends, we're not at the same time. In this game, no one ever has a true friend.
The entrance hall boasts gleaming black and white marble floors, oak double doors on each wall, and a huge white piano tucked away under the arch of the staircase on the right.
“Maksim-Markov,” Rumo greets from the furthest doorway that leads into the snooker room. “You made it.”
Smiling like the devil himself, Maksim heads for Rumo while extending a hand. “I am much looking forward to this evening's events, my friend.”
“Ohhh, you should be. You should be!” Rumo clasps Maksim’s hand. “I bought a new poker table, as you requested. The chairs are a lot more comfortable and the table is softer.”
Maksim nods a few times, chanting that he's glad. “When we can afford luxury, why skimp on the fi
ner details like a poker table?”
Entering the snooker room, they babble on about some Albanian business. James and I follow them in.
The brass lights hanging from the ceiling are dazzling, reflecting on the dark paneled walls in burnt orange tones. Behind the mammoth snooker table that commands the space, there is a poker table which can seat six. They always play poker in this room. I've never seen any other part of the house.
Carl and Umberto await patiently, already sitting at the soft green table. Umberto greets Maksim from a distance with cool esteem. Carl simply nods.
Mucky cigar smoke clouds the air in streams of grays and browns. It stinks. I hate the smell of cigars. I don't get the fascination with smoking.
James and I stay within touching distance of Maksim when he sits at the head of the poker table, draping his coat over the back of his chair.
“I hear you have Charlie on side, Maksim-Markov?” Carl says in awful Spanish tinted English, flicking the head of his cigar in a crystal ashtray.
“That's right, my friend.”
“Even after what happened?” Umberto asks.
Maksim nods, scissoring a Cuban cigar between his fingers. “Yes. He forgives me.”
Forgives him? For what?
James and I glance at each other.
“Just. Like. That?” Umberto pulls his thin gray eyebrows together. “You don't think that's odd?”
Maksim laughs under his breath, biting off the end of his cigar. “Charlie isn't the kind of man to beat around the bush, is he, Carl?”
Carl doesn't respond to that sarcastic directed question. He doesn't even address Maksim.
“Besides,” Maksim continues, “it is always good to have such a powerful man as a friend. Wouldn't you all agree?”
They go into a full blown tête-à-tête over Charlie and what he's about, loyalty mostly. I come to understand that nothing else really matters to him. I also come to understand that Maksim double crossed him on some job a few years back.
I gulp at this point.
Rumo leans forward, staring at my master. “Just don't cross him again, Maksim-Markov. You know what he is capable of. You know he gears himself up with at least twenty armed men wherever he goes. And I can't get involved. I don't want to die.”
“I know, my friend.” Maksim squeezes Rumo's shoulder. “I understand.” He then grabs his crotch under the table. “Anyhow, why would I double-cross him again? I like my balls attached to my body.”
They all laugh out loud—well, everyone but Carl laughs. This is strange. I've noticed before that Carl isn't Maksim's biggest fan, as has James, but his dislike for Maksim is coming off him in waves tonight.
A tiny blonde girl wearing a red underwear set and shiny red stockings enters the room. She fills the men's glasses on the table. Umberto says he will fuck her after the game, emphasizing that he's going to whip her. She flinches when he smacks her ass with an open palm, and I drop my eyes to the floor. I will admit, I do feel a pang of pity for her. But, it's not my job to save girls like her, as much as I wish I could. As much as I know I could. I'd slaughter this lot in minutes with my own two hands if I was allowed.
James gently touches my hand and I straighten, coming across deadpan.
“Five card draw?” Rumo says after the girl leaves, and everyone agrees.
So, they play cards, chatting lightly about girls they've abused and the wives they wish they could abuse. James and I keep quiet for the next two hours, antipathy radiating through us. We don't agree with what they do to girls. We have sneakily spoken about what we've seen and heard, but neither of us really knows what to make of it. We don't share their fancy for abuse, but we know nothing else, since we were so young when we came to Maksim. Once, James actually asked if he was wired wrong because he cannot bear to see girls getting mistreated, even if they do consent at times. He doesn't understand why Maksim enjoys being brutal. I couldn't give James an even answer. I don't know if he's wired right or wrong. I know what I feel. In my opinion, what they do is immoral. But this sentiment only came over me when Maksim granted me freedom. Since then, I've lived in the world amongst the normal and with television and books. James has only ever lived under our master. He's never tasted what normal might be, or felt the satisfaction of freedom that comes with living alone.
“Charlie spoiled our fun,” Maksim says, and the mere mention of that man’s name pulls me from my thoughts. “And he was mad as hell. I swear, if anyone questioned his actions, he would have shot us all.”
He must be talking about the Prince's party last night.
“I heard about what happened.” Umberto lifts a glass to have a sip of vodka. “The gossip has spread like wildfire. Glad I wasn't there. I know how excited Decena can get when angry.”
Carl comes to life, telling stories about Charlie in his younger years. “If anyone so much as attempted to pull a gun on him, they'd be dead. He doesn’t fuck about.”
I grip my gun a little tighter, anxious because Charlie said he was coming to this poker game. Hopefully, he's changed his mind.
“Do not worry, my friends.” Maksim lifts a hand, grinning from ear to ear. “I straightened things out. He wanted me to send Blaire home last night, so I did.”
My stomach rolls with shock. James gawps down at me.
“And luckily,” Maksim adds, “that girl we were fucking was old enough and willing to let us abuse her.”
“Yeah, luckily,” Charlie says from the open doorway, gaining everyone's attention.
My eyes flicker to him, and an overwhelming tightness forms in my chest. He's leaning against the doorframe on one shoulder, arms crossed over a strapping chest. He looks cool in his pose, wearing a black shirt tucked into dark blue jeans, the collar unbuttoned to show a hard, dusty chest. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing tan muscular forearms covered in black hair and thick veins. He's got that silver watch on his left wrist, a minute statement of money.
Our eyes align for a split second, as he flashes me a cunning smile, showing even white teeth. I'm the one to look away, unable to endure his presence.
“Hola, Charlie.” Carl pivots to him from the table. “Where have you been? We expected you hours ago.”
Uncrossing his arms, Charlie saunters in and around the snooker table, his motions oddly graceful. As he passes James and I from behind, I hold my breath, and my toes curl in my trainers. I'm expecting him to do something like touch me in secrecy.
He doesn't, but the fact remains. He puts me on edge. Even more so knowing Maksim has betrayed him somehow.
“Tis' good to see you, Carl.” Charlie smiles coolly at Carl and only Carl. “Work kept me late. I'm sure I’ve not missed much.”
I check him out from the corner of my eye. His hair is tied back, enhancing his gorgeousness—if that's even possible. It's so black and shiny, and looks finger touching soft. I've never thought about touching a man before. Maybe I haven't because all the men I've been around are either on Maksim's payroll or at the end of my barrel.
Charlie shows no interest in anyone but Carl, though the other men fuss over him like he's some kind of god, offering up their chairs and their drinks.
“The end chairs are the most comfortable,” Rumo says, giving Maksim a funny look, curtly nodding to the right, as if to say, get up and move.
Charlie doesn't react to them with smugness. He doesn't really indulge their fussing at all. He simply shakes everyone's hand while asking Carl, “How's the wife?”
I'm itching to know who the fuck he is, especially after he saved that girl last night. He's like the light and the dark, the good and the bad. It's so confusing because no one in this game is both.
“She's doing great,” Carl says, cradling his whisky glass on the table. “We’re on our third child. Her name is Gabrielle.” He kisses his own fingers with passion, emphasizing his daughter. “She's the most lindo little thing.”
“I'm sure she is perfect. Your wife is bonita,” Charlie says, though not in a smutty
manner. He sounds like he genuinely thinks highly of Carl and his wife. “Tell her I said congratulations,” he adds, then takes Maksim's seat by grabbing the back with authority, forcing Maksim to move over one. James and I follow him to the right, staying behind him.
“A drink?” Rumo says to Charlie, appearing a little nervous, tugging open his silver tie.
Charlie nods, slowly taking to his chair. Then, his eyes flitter between James and me, causing my stomach to roll with anxiety. I don't meet his gaze. I stare past him, endeavoring to come across collected in my pose.
“Someone’s got a thing for redheads,” he teases, referring to James and I, flicking up his eyebrows at Maksim. “They've gotta be related.” Turning his head, he says to James, “What's your name, boy?”
Maksim waves out a hand, and James states his name. His voice comes out cold and detached.
“You're obviously part of Maksim's security alongside Blaire?”
James nods. “Yes, sir.”
“Sir?” Charlie looks amused and pleased with James' word choice. “Well, it's been a while since I was called sir. You should have seen this boy last night”—he winks at Carl from across the table in a sly manner—“actually tried to stand up to me and all my men.”
My heart sinks with unease, but James looks confident in his domain.
“Though I can't blame him,” Charlie says. “He clearly thought I was mocking this one.” He gestures at me and smiles. It makes him look so handsome and young, which is odd given how sovereign he is.
“Yes,” Maksim drawls. “I used to have a hard time training Blaire because he didn't like my process. He is too fond of her.”
“Aren't we all?” Charlie eyes Carl in an artful fashion, who seems entertained with his daring.
Maksim doesn't respond to that. He ushers me forward by clicking his fingers, telling me to get Charlie a drink. “You still like brandy, don't you, my friend?”
“Yeah,” Charlie says, and I hate that I can feel his steady blue eyes on me. “Especially if she’s making it.”