by Amo Jones
So, he’s a man whore, too. Shocker.
“I wonder what he’s doing here?” Kyle adds, extracting me from my deep thoughts. I watch as his crew—around a dozen of them—split the busy crowd in half and make their way to one of the three VIP areas upstairs. The whole club is double level, but the entirety of the upstairs can be viewed from downstairs and vice versa.
I shrug, turning back around to busy myself with making more drinks. “Who knows. Maybe he’s bored with his extra life.”
Kyle searches my eyes and laughs. “Yeah, maybe.” When Kyle is back near his station, which is on the other side of the bar, I crane my head over my shoulder to look up at Manik and his crew one more time. My eyes collide with his when I see he’s already watching me. Rittz “Top of The Line” is playing in the background, but it slowly fades into the back of my mind and all I can hear is the thrashing of blood coursing through my veins. He slowly brings his drink to his mouth, keeping his eyes on mine as his legs spread wide, taking up half of the blood-red sofa. The camera could never capture the intensity of his stare, it makes me squirm. The song’s baseline thuds, vibrating through me. My lashes flutter and I quickly spin back around and go to the fridge, taking out a carton of milk.
I should not look up there again.
The rest of my shift goes by tensely and briskly. I managed to stay busy, but I was always conscious of the crowd in the VIP area, and every now and then, I swear I could feel eyes on me. Or, I was just being paranoid.
I check my watch. Quarter to four in the morning. Perfect. Only fifteen minutes left to go before everyone needs to get the hell out. The crowd had long since thinned out, with most people leaving around the three a.m. mark.
I pour a shot of Patron and shoot it back. I don’t drink, I’m not a heavy drinker by any means, but my nerves could do with a break. Jesta’s is a large club, but it sure felt small with Manik and his entourage being here. They left around thirty minutes ago, and I made an extra effort to not watch as they made their way out of the bar.
“You alright?” Kyle asks, slapping my ass.
I shove him. “Stop, and yes, just feeling a little tired tonight is all.”
He nods his head over his shoulder. “Go home. I’ll clean up and see you this afternoon.”
“You sure?” Normally, I don’t let him do this, but I could really do with sleeping for one-hundred thousand years, or just into next week.
He nods his head again. “Get out.”
I chuckle. “Ok, then.” I head to the back of the bar, taking my leather jacket off the hanger and putting it over my short crop top. The general bar attire is a short black crop top, a little short leather skirt, and black fishnet stockings. A couple of the other girls wear heels, but I wear knee high Doc Martens, slightly unlaced. I’m pulling my smokes out from my pocket while stumbling out from the staff exit at the back of the bar. It’s backed up to a large overgrown bush area with an old wire fence and a couple of large garbage cans. It’s sort of creepy, but I’ve always liked the unease of it all.
Banging the lighter on the palm of my hand, I go to light it, but it won’t flick.
“Crap.” I drop my hand and take my keys out of my pocket, walking toward my little beat up Mazda hatchback, when I stop. Unexplained apprehension grips my spine, freezing my movements. Fear ripples through me and before I’m even turning around, my fingers are shaking.
Maybe it’s the Patron.
But it’s not.
My eyes land on Manik first, and then they swing around to the three other guys who are all standing defensively. Obviously shocked to see me.
I tilt my head.
“Should I ask what you guys are doing out here?” Adrenaline must ignite my bravery. Famous or not, they left thirty-minutes earlier. Why are they all standing out here looking shady, and besides, I don’t even like rap music. I like jazz & R&B and anything that I can dance to. I haven’t been able to dance in a while, not since my pop passed. He would come watch me dance at the Metro Center in Philly. I may have fire when I dance, but that’s only because my pops was the lighter fluid of support. I loved watching his eyes light up proudly. I’m too afraid to start again because it would be too sad to realize the flame may have died.
Manik’s jaw tenses, then he shifts slightly, and that’s when my eyes fall to the ground, where a man is lying face down.
My eyes fly back up to them, the streetlight from the road casting shadows over their bodies.
I walk backward.
Manik counters my footsteps, coming toward me. More like a prowl. Calculated, slow. Like he’s thinking about what his next move will be.
My attention goes back to the man on the road, then I see it. The sticky blood that is oozing out of his head, expanding into a puddle beneath him. A scream rips out from me, but only for a second, because in the next, Manik pounces and has his tattooed hand wrapped around my mouth and his chest pressed to my back. I breathe in and out heavily, my chest rising and falling as tears drop down my face.
“Ae!” one of the guys call out to him, and he shoves me forward, his hand still covering my mouth. Headlights cut through the dark, a car slowing near the entry to the parking lot. I start flailing my hands around to wave them down, hope growing inside my chest. That hope is short-lived when a sleek black limo slowly pulls into the driveway and stops right near the guys. Manik keeps walking us closer, to where the body is.
I moan, my eyes slamming shut. I’ve never seen a dead body before, and the sight is making my stomach turn.
“There’s her bar mate, he’ll be out any minute now. We need to move unless you want to add another body to the pile,” one of the other guys announces, pulling out his smokes. The stretch limo door swings open, and a tall lanky guy stands, seems to assess the area, and then steps aside.
My eyebrows knit in confusion.
I see the top of a fedora and then—I start to scream, my legs and arms kicking around, but Manik squeezes my mouth and shakes me. His lips come to my ear as he whispers. “Shut the fuck up, little voronoy.”—Vor what? His tongue curls around the foreign syllables like a perfectly crafted poem.
One of the big guys who is with Manik’s crew laughs. “Oh, she knows of Pops.” Vladimir Romanov buttons up his suit jacket and slightly stretches his neck. I can’t see his eyes from here, only the sharp edge of his scruffy jaw. Fear cripples me so much that my throat dry retches.
“Aeron, what’s going on here?” His voice is smooth, like a shot of aged whiskey. It sends shivers down my spine.
Please, please stay in the bar extra long tonight, Kyle.
“Don’t know,” Manik says from behind me, his voice growling over my back. His other hand drops to my bare stomach, his fingers stretching out to hold me there. “This fucker tried to shoot me, and we got him first. I don’t know who sent him.”
“I’m not talking about the boy, Syn.” His voice is low, eerie. Then he tilts his head up to look at me. I freeze, goosebumps rising over my flesh. Manik’s fingers twitch on my stomach. He clicks his fingers, and the lanky guy who got out of the limo first goes to the trunk, taking out a clear tarp. He gets to work on the body and I turn my head away.
“Oh, this? Bartender. She strolled out right after.”
Vlad’s eyes come to mine, pure hate vibrates off his energy, directed at me. Maybe that’s just how he looks at everyone. “Take her.”
I swallow.
“Now, Syn. All of you—leave.”
I can’t leave. I have my car here, and I just witnessed a murder. A murder that is involved with, not just one of, but the biggest mob boss in American Russian history. The guys who are with Manik start walking toward a white suped up Mercedes SUV.
The Popeye on steroids, the one with long-ish hair, opens the door wide. “Throw her in.” My eyes go to his pleadingly. “Oh, we don’t bite, sweetheart.”
Manik shoves me into the back, loosening his grip around my mouth. I don’t scream, I don’t fight, because I know that no matter what I d
o, there’s nothing that can save me at this point. There are too many of them and they’re experienced. These aren’t stupid thugs, these are men who know what they’re doing and do it with precision.
Tears stream down my face as I wrap my arms around my torso defensively. Manik reaches in and snatches the keys that were still in my hands, throwing them out the door to another guy. Leaning my head back against the seat, I ignore Manik when he climbs in next to me, his hard thigh pressing against my leg.
When the door closes and the car starts, I whisper, “Are you going to kill me?”
He doesn’t answer, so I crane my head around to look at him.
He stares down at me. How can someone so achingly beautiful hold a soul so dark. Or maybe that’s how it works, maybe the most beautiful faces hide the darkest souls.
The guy in the passenger seat hands Manik a couple of cable ties. He pulls them apart and grabs my hands, banding them together.
I search his eyes. “Well?”
He glares back at me, and I try not to wince from the intensity in his stare. “You’ll have to wait and fucking see.”
“Where are you taking me?” I counter, looking away from him and to the front of the car.
He doesn’t answer, but glances to the driver in the rearview mirror.
“Kyle will know something is wrong,” I answer softly, watching the trees pass by.
Manik’s phone dings with a text, and he pulls it open. I look over to him briefly and watch as his mouth tips up in a crooked grin. “Really? Because Beatrice Kennedy, it looks like you jump around a lot and have no living family.”
I swallow nervously.
He looks at me finally, his eyes darkening. “So, I’ll take you wherever the fuck I want.”
“Thug Love”—Bone Thugs
I swipe my phone off the counter, pressing it to my ear. “What’s wrong?”
“Where’s the girl?” Dad mutters.
I twist the cap off my beer with my teeth and take a swig, slamming the door with my fist. “Here.”
There’s a long stretch of silence.
“Was it taken care of?” I further ask when I realize he’s not going to comment on my previous statement.
“The boy you ganked? Yes, it was.”
I squeeze the bottle. “I don’t know who sent him.”
“Doesn’t matter right now, Syn. I need you focused. About the girl, maybe keep her around a bit longer until you hear from me. Got it?”
“Loud and clear.”
I hang up the phone, tossing it back on the counter. Yeah, I’ll be keeping her around a bit.
Blood spilled near Aeron’s feet, his mom’s eyes going toward the man pleadingly. “Please, leave my son, he didn’t ask for this. He didn—” The man and woman who’d kidnapped Aeron and his mother laughed, leaning down near her face and bringing the sharp edge of the knife to just under her jaw.
“You asked for this life, bitch!”
Aeron couldn’t stop the tears from falling anymore. He wanted to be strong like his daddy, but seeing his mom like that broke him in a way that no child should ever be broken. The kind of way that awakens a beast.
I search the room and take in a couple of things.
One, I’m in a basement. Not entirely old, or even beat up, just—a basement. There are dusty wooden stairs that I can see leading up to a door and a small window behind me. The fact that there’s already a bed down here should be concerning. The sheets aren’t exactly dusty and old either, it’s almost as though the bed is made. Like he was waiting for someone. Was he? Maybe he locks girls down here for fun.
My head is pounding, my mouth is dry and tacky and I need to pee like no one’s business, but the slight fear of dying is stopping me from asking.
The door opens, and I crawl backward until I’m pressed against the wooden headboard.
Manik comes down the stairs, his chest bare and his grey sweatpants hanging off his lean hips.
He pins me with a glare, his eyes flat. His features are shrouded in pain but shadowed by what one could only describe as evil.
I clear my throat. “Can you let me go?” So, it’s worth a try.
His jaw clenches, and he tilts his head as his eyes drop down my body. “How about no.”
“Okay, well can I go pee? I’m bursting.”
His eyes narrow as he pushes his hands into his pockets. “Do you know who I am?”
I gulp again. “Um, yes. Aeron Romanov-Reed. I know of you, if that was the question…”
He advances closer, lighting a cigarette. He inhales deeply, his eyes squinting from the smoke and then blows out the cloud, clenching the cigarette between his thumb and index finger. “That wasn’t the fucking question. I asked you if you know who I am.” He then steps closer to me, his eyes on mine. “Look into my eyes and tell me,” he pauses, inhaling his smoke. He blows the cloud out in my face, a smirk on his mouth. “Do you know who I am?”
I tilt my head, confused. “I don’t know how to answer that.”
His hand comes out and he grabs my wrist, shoving me down onto the mattress until I’m flat on my back and panting. He seems to pause for a second like he’s having a silent conversation with himself on how he’s going to continue, but then he jackknifes off the bed and stands. “You’ll stay here for as long as I fucking want you here.” Then he tilts his head and smirks. “Cub.”
“Okay then can you answer one question? Are you going to kill me?” I ignore the pet name, my lips starting to tremble with nerves.
His eyes darken. “Yes.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” I say, rushed. “I swear. Listen, I don’t—it doesn’t.” I shake my head and he sits beside me on the bed, the mattress sinking under his weight. I exhale. “I won’t tell anyone.”
The door opens, letting in a sliver of light. My eyes shoot toward it, but I can see Manik watching me out of the corner of my eye.
I slowly look back at him.
His eyes.
I flinch at the burning intensity.
“Manik?” a big guy—one of the guys who was there last night—says.
Manik slowly peels his eyes away from me, looking over his shoulder. “What?”
“Ah, your old man is coming over to check on the issue.”
“Me being the issue?” I whisper out, more to myself than to them.
I rest my head on the headboard. Suddenly, it’s hot and I’m flustered. I’m going to fucking die. Something happens when you surf close to the riptide of death, it’s as though you start to second guess every wave you rode to get there. I’ll never get to surf them again. Who would miss me? I don’t think anyone would. I don’t have family. Christmases were always spent alone, my birthdays, even more lonely. Truly, what is the point? Defeated, I get to my feet, ignoring whatever they’re talking about and remove my leather jacket.
Their chatting halts immediately, and I turn to face Manik. “Just, please make it fast. I know you don’t owe me anything, but I’m hoping that there’s some human compassion under all that hard exterior and you’ll just, do me a solid.”
I open my eyes when I don’t get a reply, and Manik’s eyes are on my right arm. He’s eating up every inch of my skin. I look down at my arm, then back at him. “I like tattoos.”
He licks his lip and then looks back to the guy on the stairs. “Leave.”
Oh God. Oh God here we go.
The guy looks at Manik, and then at me. He gives me a small smile that speaks louder than a verbal warning could give, and then turns and retreats. Manik stands and I clench my fists so tight my nails sink into my palms, forming little crescent moons. I can feel his presence. His heat is thrashing into me without us physically touching. I keep my eyes closed and watch behind my lids as little color dots dance around in various shapes.
My chest rises and falls.
Inhale, exhale.
A gun safety clicks.
I freeze, my heart thundering in my chest. The silence is deafening, with nothing but the pounding of my
heart and loud desperate inhales of breath.
A cold metal ring presses against my forehead and I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, my shoulders stiffening. Sweat drips from my forehead and down the bridge of my nose, balancing on the tip.
He fires.
Bang.
I flinch, expecting something. Anything, as I wait for death.
I slowly peel my eyes open again and they land on Manik, dropping his other hand to the side of him.
My lip trembles, my knees shake. I drop to the ground in a heap and sob. “What?”
I curl into a ball and rock softly, the tears soaking the front of my shirt.
“I changed my mind. I’d rather see you fucking suffer,” is all he says, making his way back to the stairs.
I can’t form words. My mouth is stiff and dry, fear and terror seizing my bones. When he finally reaches the top of the stairs, I swipe my face and ask, “When did you change your mind?”
He looks at me over his shoulder and smirks. “About one second before I pulled the trigger, and Beatrice, this isn’t a fucking guarantee on your life. This is a fucking promise to you suffering, because when I’m done, you’re going to wish that bullet went through your skull and not into the wall.”
Horror. Pure undiluted horror.
He jerks his head over his shoulder. “Bathroom is on the other side of the room. Would rather not clean up your body fluids.” Then he leaves, the door slamming behind him.
As soon as he’s gone, I dive toward where he gestured, finding the grungy pale pink door and kicking it open. Rushing, I dive head first toward the bowl just as saliva and small parts of whatever I last ate comes gushing out of my mouth. I dry retch a few times until my throat burns from the acid of my stomach lining. Sagging against the wall, I swipe the residue from my mouth. I know why I’m here, but I don’t know why he’s keeping me. Maybe that’s how he got his name, from his neurotic thoughts. We all know his music is insane, and if that’s even a slight glimpse to inside his head, then his thought process is not something I should feel comfortable about.