Blaire's World: Volume One

by Box Set

  To take my mind off my own inanity, I fire up the laptop but end up spending my morning reading up on French-Spanish guys, of all things. I don't know where the need to research Charlie's culture has come from, but I find it all very calming.

  The French don't waste time, Google says when I do a more thorough search, while Spanish men apparently like to draw things out, soak up every moment. I laugh to myself, thinking that's what Charlie is like to a T. He's quick to force intimacy but then takes his time once he has me in a state of desire.

  Next, I look up what a capital X on the end of a message means. It denotes a kiss, Google says.

  A strange sensation moves through my body, like a sinking-fluttering sensation but it makes me feel happy. He must know what an X means on the end of a message. He isn't thick.

  Lunchtime comes, though I'm not hungry—I'm too hocked up on this weird fluttering sensation in my stomach—so I shut off the laptop, clean up my breakfast, and head for the gym to train.

  A dark cloud comes over me in here. It's a lonely feeling, given I've always trained in here with Charlie. The space feels bigger and colder, and I jump every time I hear the slightest sound, like the drains in the walls clanging. I've never heard that in here before. It's so eerie.

  I shower after working out. Then I go downstairs and make myself something to eat for dinner, which isn't much—just chicken and bacon pasta. The chicken doesn't taste half as good as when Charlie cooks it.

  Stop thinking about him, I scold myself, but I can't. It's been a really odd day. Actually, odder than the first day I spent with Charlie. I've never been completely on my own before. I've always had my phone at least, in case Maksim needed to give me orders. But today...I don't know. I feel a bit lost and mentally white.

  The sun setting on the horizon, I go outside and strive to center myself in meditating, reaching high above my head and putting my hands together to stretch out.

  I wonder where Charlie is now...if he's safe.

  I admonish myself again for thinking about him, but it's no use. I can't meditate either. The longer I try, the more mentally swamped I become. For the first time in my life, my thoughts aren't flowing freely. They're just overflowing, every emotion I've ever felt for and against Charlie romping. Fierce protection over Maksim. Anxiety when I first met Charlie. Anxiety mixed with a dollop of fear when Charlie told me in Maksim's kitchen that he'd bought me. Lust. Frustration with Charlie's prying. Enchantment. Desire. Now, I am sure I'm fond of him. I maybe even care about him. I find that the most disturbing thing because I'm not allowed to care about anyone other than—

  Giving up in the garden, I go up to my room and take a cold shower, then I sink into bed.

  I don't sleep much this night. I'm flooded with dirty dreams. Charlie's mouth is all over my body, and his hands are exploring every corner of my soul.

  ———

  Day two alone: I have breakfast while again reading this stupid note. Then I clean up the kitchen and venture into the gym. I feel really isolated in here, just like I did yesterday. I find myself wondering about the gym equipment, unsure of what kind of training I fancy. I start out on the treadmill, but give up halfway through a session. I then wrap my hands for the boxing bag, hopeful it'll stimulate my mind, but even that loses my interest. I stop for a moment and stand about in a conflicted manner. I then lift my fists in another attempt and hold them there under my chin, but I’m just not into this.

  I skip lunch and have an even harder time at meditating, my thoughts scattering.

  I feel very lost in my days, like I don't belong anywhere or something. It's this droning style of living, I think. I'm not used to it. It's driving me nuts.

  At dinner time, because I'm sick of being in this house all by myself, I decide to go out and grab something from a fast food place. Probably McDonalds. I like McDonalds. It’s an easy style of eating.

  I pull on my jacket, swipe the car key from the bedside cabinet and jog down the staircase, outside to where the Range Rover is parked.

  “You're her, aren't you?” a Spanish peppered voice says from behind. “Blaire-Markov?”

  Before I turn around, I pull my heavy gun out of my jacket pocket, hold it against my leg, and then I face her.

  She's extraordinarily beautiful, standing there under the burning orange sunset, in front of a beaten up old Mercedes. She’s wearing a thigh length red dress. It hugs her bronze, curvaceous body with large breasts and coke bottle hips.

  Remaining deadpan in my pose, I search her face to analyze what her deal is. Oval shaped with large, deep brown eyes and facade blushed cheeks. Her full lips are coated in something glossy, and her dark, chocolate brown hair is pulled back so tight her eyes are elongated.

  How did she get through the gates? Does she know the code?

  She slowly comes up to me with a walk that would make men bow at her feet, swaying her hips, her black heels crunching against the driveway. The way she's looking at me—curious and damn right pissed off.

  She’s something to do with Charlie. I'm certain.

  “You can't be her.” Stopping a foot away, she stares me up and down with pure hatred, twisting her lips. The evening breeze carries her scent, something sweet like strawberries. “You're barely a woman, and you're not exactly pretty, are you? You're not even Latino.”

  Raising my eyebrows, I blink at her, stunned by her audacity to insult me. Definitely something to do with Charlie.

  “Are you her or not?” she demands an answer, pointing a red-nailed finger at me.

  “Yes, I'm Blaire,” I say, keeping my tone level. “What do you want?”

  “You're actually Russian?” Grimacing, she flashes gleaming white teeth. “He hates Russians.” She sounds like she's talking to herself, clarifying something. “I want to know why Charlie Decena would prefer you to me!”

  “Huh?” Why would she think that?

  “Yes.” She swallows down what looks like a heave. “He told me earlier tonight.”

  He told her that he wants me over her? That’s not right.

  “I traveled five and a half thousand miles to see him because he's been gone for months now, and he told me that he doesn't want me anymore.” She scoffs with disgust, shaking her head. “It didn't take much to find out why.”

  She must be a jealous ex-girlfriend. Great.

  “Look, I don't know what's going on between the two of you”—I tuck my gun away, sure I don't need to use it on her—“but it's none of my business. If you've got beef with Charlie, call him.”

  Turning on my heel, I try to walk away but toothpick fingers close around my wrist, urging me to stop.

  “I'm not done talking,” she hisses from behind. “I want to know what's going on with you two. Are you his girlfriend?”

  “What?” I look back, screwing up my face, on the verge of laughing. “No. I'm not Charlie's girlfriend.”

  “Don't you fucking lie to me, little girl!”

  “Why ask me that question if you're not going to believe my answer?” I tug out of her pathetic grasp and face her properly. I really can't be dealing with this shit. “I'm not Charlie's girlfriend, and whether you believe that or not is your problem, not mine.”

  “If that is the case, then why is he at a gangster's party making a show of how much he likes you?”

  My stomach rolls with nerves because I can't help thinking Maksim is at that party.

  She gives me the once over again, revolted and livid at once. “How can a girl like you—a filthy Russian— entertain a man like him?” She gets in my face now, putting us nose to nose. “That man is a sadist junkie, so how the fuck can you keep up with the pace?”

  I grind my jaw, feeling an irrational need to defend Charlie. “Not that I have to explain myself to you”—I walk into her, causing her to step back with caution—“but Charlie hasn't been sadistic toward me. I've no idea what the hell has happened between you two, but leave me out of it.”

  I turn to walk away again, but she says, “Ohhh, c
ome on, Señorita. You'll be telling me he's a tender puppy next. Cuddles and kisses on the couch while you watch movies, is it?” She laughs out loud with clear sarcasm. “Oh please, little girl. I know that man like the back of my hand—I've been fucking him for years!”

  “Good for you,” I say, feeling a pang of something in my stomach. “Now, if you don't mind, I have to go.” I really, really want to hit her but know I shouldn't. I've never in my life used my physical abilities to hit a woman—not unless Maksim ordered me to—and I'm not about to start now.

  Using the key to unlock the car, I pull open the driver's door but notice she's writing a message on her phone, so I wait by the car, wondering what she's doing.

  Her phone blows up with an incoming call, and as soon as she answers, I know who it is.

  “You don't want me because of this Russian little girl, hijo de puta?” she says in Spanish, shaking her pretty head at me. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  I can hear Charlie yelling down the phone in Spanish and then she puts it on loud speaker, flashing me an evil smile.

  “How fucking dare you go to my house and confront Blaire, you bitch!” he shouts so loud the speaker cracks. “When I get my hands on you, Celine, I'll knock the life outa you before putting a bullet in your fucking head! You hear me?! ¡No me jodas!” Don’t fuck with me.

  “This is what Charlie is like,” she says with obvious amusement, unveiling her agenda of putting him on loudspeaker. “He's not a very nice man.”

  He doesn't sound it at the moment, spitting out every curse word in his own language, but I know he's just lost his cool. I've seen every square angle of Charlie. I know he can be nice.

  “Then what's your problem?” I go over to her. “If you think he's not a very nice man, why are you here?”

  “Because he's mine, you little puta!” Her body literally shakes. I think she wants to hit me as I do her.

  “Fuck off before I lose my patience with you,” I say in an odd, tranquil tone. “This isn't anything to do with me, so why don't you go find him and sort it out?”

  “Yeah, you know where I am, Celine,” Charlie says down the phone in his own language. “Come here and we'll have it out.”

  There's a long pause of silence between us all, the energy in the garden stark with fury.

  “Does he strangle you to enhance an orgasm?” she says, as if to rile me, and Charlie is going nuts on the phone now. “Belt you so hard that you can't walk for days? Order you to remain in one place on your hands and knees until he says otherwise? He's fucked up like that, Blaire,” she says my name with such abhorrence. “He derives pleasure from hurting women, and do you know why?”

  My stomach twists with—I can't even explain.

  “Celine, if you don't shut the fuck up...!” he yells in Spanish on the phone. “¡Hostia!” Fuck! “I'm gonna kill her—get my car,” he yells at someone else, still speaking in Spanish. “You listening, Celine? If you're there when I get back, I'll fucking strangle you to death. How'd you like that, hmm?”

  “You know I won't mind, Cariño,” she says with lust, tipping her head to me. “That's the difference between you and I, Blaire. I'll do whatever it takes to keep him satisfied.”

  My cheeks are pale and I feel sick to my stomach with anger, barely containing myself. I don't give two shits about what Charlie fancies, but I don't want to stand here listening to some beautiful woman who's clearly in love with him, tell me about their sexual encounters.

  In a low, deceivingly calm voice, I warn, “You've got two minutes to leave before I rip your head off.”

  She steps back instinctively, and I can see her heart must be racing with nerves.

  “Yeah,” I say, prowling toward her, “I'm not sure if you know me, but I reckon I can break your neck in three seconds, and it doesn't look like Charlie will give a shit now, does it?” I gesture at her phone, which is now silent. “Get in your car and leave, before you can't.”

  She stands there staring at me, I imagine questioning if I'm telling the truth.

  Fuck this.

  I grab for her long, sleek ponytail and drag her kicking and screaming to her car. There, I drop her on the graveled driveway, warning, “This is your last chance to go, or I’ll keep you here for when Charlie gets back.”

  She scrambles to her feet, dropping the phone. She fumbles to pick it up and yanks open the driver's door. Then she jumps into the driver's seat before struggling to put the key in the ignition.

  I watch her to make sure she leaves, the uncontrolled way her hands are shaking. Even after three attempts she still hasn't got the key in the hole. I feel a little bad for her. She's obviously in love with Charlie and is just here fighting to get him back. I understand. He's a gorgeous man. Most women would kill for someone like him.

  I lean into the car, snatch the key out of her bony hand, and fire up the engine.

  “Don’t come back here, Celine,” I say in her face, holding her watery brown gaze, “because I really don’t want to hurt you.”

  “I love him,” she whimpers, her lips wobbling, and a single tear drops down her cheek. “I just want him back. Don’t you understand that?”

  There’s a moment between us. I pity her, and I sigh to show that I do. I know she loves him.

  “Sometimes, we love what we shouldn’t,” I say, then I slam the door shut and walk back across the driveway, debating between the house and the Range Rover. I won't be able to endure food now, not after this, so I go back inside the house.

  On autopilot, I make a cup of coffee, desperately trying to switch off mentally, but I soon realize coffee is a bad idea. I won't be able to sleep if I drink coffee now. So, I pour it down the sink and take the laptop from the kitchen table up to bed to study into the small hours as a distraction. I try to put what happened out of my mind by focusing on Russia and what's going on in the news, and because I can't—that woman keeps popping into my head, the things she said, how random her arrival was—I search for a book that I love to read. It's working, my idea of a distraction. I manage to get lost in the story of a queen consumed with guilt. My eyes race back and forth reading the novel on the glowing laptop screen.

  “Does he strangle you to enhance an orgasm? Belt you so hard that you can't walk for days?”

  I must've fallen asleep because the next thing I know, a hand pushes my hair back out of my face. On alert, I lean away from that hand, and when I look over the edge of my bed, culpable blue eyes smile at me.

  “You're back?” I say to Charlie under my breath. Putting the laptop aside, I sit up on one elbow.

  Charlie nods, crouched beside me with his elbows on his knees. He’s all gorgeous in jeans and a black round-neck t-shirt, with his black hair a little longer and unruly around his face. “Thought I'd come check you're still here.”

  “Of course I'm still here.” I rake my hair back over my head, squinting through the sunrise. I've been out for hours, but it feels like I've had barely an hour’s sleep. “Why have you come back early? I thought you were leaving for the entire weekend?”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “After what happened, you want to know why I've come back early?”

  What happened...Does he strangle you to enhance an orgasm? I hate knowing this. It doesn't bother me that he obviously has sadist tendencies—it's not like I'm unfamiliar with men who are like this—I just hate the idea that I've met someone he's shared this with. It's the most fucked up, annoying emotion, bubbling under the surface. I don't get it.

  “Don't worry about it, Charlie.” I force a sleepy smile at him, endeavoring not to let this come between us. “Did everything go okay?” I want to know if he saw Maksim, but I'm not quite sure how to ask.

  “Like clockwork,” Charlie says softly, winking at me, and then there's an odd moment between us.

  Silence, and he's hesitating to tell me something. I can sense it.

  “What's wrong?”

  “What she said”—he studies my eyes, pausing again—“I would never do anyt
hing like that to you. You know that, don't you?”

  A weird tightness forms across my chest.

  “You don't have to explain yourself to me,” I say, sounding mysteriously cold. “I'm not your girlfriend.”

  He sighs, tipping his head to me. “I just want you to know, Blaire, that's all.” He sounds very sincere, like he really wants me to know this. “I knew she was in Europe, but I never anticipated she'd come to my fucking house and confront you. I wouldn’t have left you otherwise.”

  The phone calls...I remember him on the phone a while back, wanting to know who helped her leave The Site.

  Maybe her visit isn't so random. Just have to take better note of what's going on around you, Blaire, I tell myself.

  “I thought you said you didn't have a girlfriend?” I say, wanting to know the facts. “I asked you and you said—”

  “She's not my goddamn girlfriend.” He seems illogically insulted. “I've fucked her a few times and that's it. She's always known the score.”

  “Perhaps you didn't make your relationship status with her clear enough.” I scoff, lying back in bed, confused about why I even give a shit. Maybe it's because I'm tired or wired from the night's events.

  Charlie gains height on his feet and sits on the edge of my bed, looking down at me. “Is this gonna cause a rift between us?”

  I turn my head to him, glowering. “No. Why would it?”

  He doesn't answer my question. He wants to know what she said to me before he called her back.

  “Why did you call her back if you want nothing to do with her?”

  “She texted saying that she was with you. My guess is because she knew I'd avoid her call otherwise, like the other thousand she's left on my cell over the last month. Obviously, I'm gonna call back. I won't have my bullshit problems confront you.