Blaire Dark Romance

by Anita Gray

  “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 to Maksim, touching his chest.

  “Hello, my pet.” Maksim calls us both his pet; however, I'm his 'little' pet.

  “Evening,cэp Maksim,” James says. He's got a Russian peppered accent, his low notes deep and level.

  “How are you this evening?” says Maksim, 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. Maksim doesn't like having to explain his moods—not that he needs to. I can sense his moods a mile off. Tonight, he's thriving.

  “Good. Good!” Maksim claps like a child in a sweetshop, grinning from ear to ear. “Well, let us get on with this evening. My best vodka is inside waiting for me.”

  Maksim turns his back on me and I internally shake my head. He drinks far too much.

  James gently catches my hand and 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—the front doors are open. 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, a huge white piano tucked away under the arch of the staircase on the right, and oak double doors on each wall.

  “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, 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, saying that he's glad. “When we can afford luxury, why skimp on the finer details like a poker table?”

  Entering the snooker room, they flannel 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, a poker table 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, and it stinks. I hate the smell of cigars. I don't get the fascination.

  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 English, flicking the head of his cigar in a crystal ashtray—he's Spanish.

  “That's right, my friend.”

  “Even after what happened?” Umberto asks.

  Maksim nods, scissoring a Cuban cigar between his fingers. “Yes, even after what happened. 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... you don't think that's... odd?”

  Maksim laughs under his breath, biting the end of his cigar off. “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.

  “And 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 Maksim. “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 know. 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 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 tonight, his dislike for Maksim is coming off him in waves.

  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 what he's going to do—whip her. She flinches when he grabs her ass with an open palm and I drop my eyes to the floor, feeling a pang of pity for her. 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, of course, but we know nothing else—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 just don't know if he's wired right or wrong. I know what I feel—what they do is immoral. But this sentiment only came over me when Maksim granted me freedom, and 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; never felt that satisfaction of freedom that comes with living alone...

  “Charlie spoiled our fun,” Maksim says, and the mere mention of Charlie'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.”

  The tension in the room skyrockets, and I grip my gun a little tighter, remembering Charlie say 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 with his arms crossed ov
er a strapping chest, looking cool in his pose. Wearing a black shirt tucked into dark blue jeans, the collar unbuttoned to a hard, dusty chest. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing masculine forearms tanned in black hair, thick with veins. He's got that silver watch on his left wrist, a minute statement of money.

  Our eyes align for a split second, where 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.”

  Are they close friends or something?

  Uncrossing his arms, Charlie saunters in and rounds the snooker table, his motions oddly graceful. As he passes James and I from behind, I hold my breath, and my toes fist in my trainers. I'm expecting him to do something—touch me in secrecy.

  He doesn't but the fact remains. He puts me on edge—even more so with knowing Maksim has betrayed him somehow.

  “Tis' good to see you, Carl.” Charlie approaches the poker table; 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; 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?” acting as polite as ever.

  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; good and 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. She's the most perfect little thing.”

  “I'm sure she is perfect. Your wife is beautiful,” 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 in a way of 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 coming out cold and detached.

  “And 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, 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, Charlie?”

  “Yeah,” Charlie says, and I hate that I can feel his steady blue eyes on me; on my body. “Especially if she’s making it.”

  On autopilot, I walk over to the bar in the corner of the room, put down my gun, and fix him a drink.

  “You opened your new club yet?” Charlie asks. I assume he's addressing Rumo, given his club opened last week.

  “Of course,” Rumo says; blathers on about his new adventure—the whores, as he calls them. “They're filthy as fuck, and for you all, my close friends, they're free.”

  Men… I roll my eyes. They're so easily distracted with tits and ass.

  “I think I'll pass,” Charlie says. “Don't like whores. I prefer my women clean and exclusive with a bad attitude.”

  Carl chuckles.

  I grab the brandy from the side and take it to Charlie. He's surveying me come to him. My stomach won't stop rolling with anxiety, but I try to save face by being as impassive as I can.

  “Hello, Blaire,” he says when I stop in front of him, his Latin infused voice bringing hot chills to my skin. “It's nice to see you again. Did you enjoy an early night last night?” He smiles at me with bold seduction, his blue eyes glancing back and forth between mine.

  He's so fucking handsome it makes me sick.

  I nod at him by a way of forced respect.

  “I’ve gotta say, you're even prettier in the light—isn't she pretty, Carl?”

  Carl agrees, sparking a lighter for his cigar. “Even when she was younger, she was a pretty girl.”

  Charlie smirks at Maksim with mocking enthusiasm. “You really have to fix the lighting in your office.” He then smirks back at me, hypnotized in his gaze. “What's the point of owning something so lovely when you can't fully appreciate it?”

  I gesture impatiently with the glass, urging Charlie to take it. He does, and he runs his thumb over mine, causing me to jerk away from him as that familiar tingly feeling spreads through my body. A black switch goes off in my head—the switch that says, KILL! The switch that flickers on when someone touches me.

  I don't attack him. I don't know why.

  I manage to keep my cool and step back behind Maksim, training my eyes on the wall behind Charlie.

  James gives me a weird side-glance, I see from the corner of my eye.

  “How's work coming along?” Charlie asks me. Pressing his feet into the ground, he slides his chair around to face me.

  A few uncomfortable looks are thrown around but Charlie doesn't care. He simply sits back and drapes his hands over the arms of the chair, holding the glass in one hand.

  “You can answer him, my little pet,” Maksim says, centered on the cards in his hand.

  “Things are coming along fine,” I say, squeezing the gun over my lap in both hands, fighting for composure.

  “Just fine?” he asks.

  I step around so I can see Maksim's face—and also to get out of Charlie's line of vision.

  Maksim nods at me.

  “Things are running like clockwork,” I lie. Now is not the time to confess that I'm not only failing to attain fifteen minutes, but behind schedule.

  “Good.” A devious grin reaches Charlie's eyes. He looks me up and down, leisurely and with intent. “Hmmm, I like what you're wearing.”

  Oh, of course he does. My combat outfit is tight and black, covering every inch of my small frame but my face.

  I think my cheeks heat up but I don't show a reaction—well, not deliberately.

  James is wearing the same, but I doubt Charlie will compliment him.

  “Can you breathe in those trousers?” he teases.

  I shoot him a wolfish glare and he winks at me.

  I press my teeth
together. Why does this bastard have to provoke me?

  Rumo and Umberto lewdly compliment my clothes too, saying what dirty things they'd like to do to me, if they were allowed.

  “That was a private joke,” Charlie says, and the room submerges in silence.

  I peer over at James. He's staring at me, baffled beyond belief.

  “So, Maksim...” Charlie says after having a sip of his brandy, “about your offer to see Blaire in action...”

  James and I look at each other—this is about the only communication we achieve in Maksim's company.

  “In action?” Umberto's eyes light up. “Are we to enjoy a... a fuck show?” He hesitates to say the words, I assume because he's remembering what happened last night.

  “No...” Maksim says in a deep note, lifting a hand. “No one is fucking my little pet.”

  “No, they're not,” Charlie says.

  Maksim blinks at him. James and I blink at each other. Charlie's presence is so intense—it's like walking on fire.

  “So, what show?” Umberto asks, seeming at a loss with a stupid expression on his wrinkly face.

  “Maksim was telling me Blaire is a good fighter,” Charlie elaborates, speaking with his hands. “He offered to show me just how skilled a fighter she is.”

  I detest how he addresses Maksim, especially in front of his friends.

  “Oh, I see.” Umberto emphasizes that he's never seen a girl battle with such raw fighting skills. “She's like a fucking cheetah she's so quick. You never said she was fighting tonight, Maksim-Markov?”

  “I was waiting on Charlie,” he says. “It is a surprise.”

  My heart drums in my ears. I'm not often nervous but I don't often have time to get my head around having a fight. I usually do, rather than think.

  “Why don't we retire to the ballroom?” Rumo says, rubbing his hands together. “There is plenty of space for her to fight. We should bet?” Everyone concurs, then Rumo adds, “I've never seen Blaire fight before but Carl has told me she's good.”

  “That's because she is,” Carl says, though he doesn't sound as animated as the others.

  Nonetheless, Rumo grins. “Well, then let us get a move on.”