by Holly Hart
The coast was clear. She’d made her escape.
I didn't believe for a second that the two meat-headed Russian gangsters bashing against the closed and presumably empty door of room fifty-six would be able to push their way past me to check whether I was hiding Maya. The rational side of me knew it would be better just to not give them any cause for suspicion.
Seeing her again, feeling her climax around my cock, and even the little conversation I'd allowed myself to engage in – it had all reminded me of why I'd fallen in love with her in the first place. It was like she'd awakened a long-suppressed addiction within me – and now that addiction needed feeding. Getting on her father's shit list by fucking with his halfwit henchmen would be the quickest way to get myself kicked out of Alexandria – hell, maybe even the whole state.
That chump in the Octagon earlier this evening had barely got my fighting juices flowing before I finished him off. I was itching for a fight, and these guys would play their part admirably.
But I couldn't do it. Not if I wanted to see her again.
Satisfied that Maya had made her escape, I strode over toward the room's flimsy plywood door this, catching a glimpse of my wiry, muscular – and most of all, naked – frame in an aging full-length mirror. I grabbed an empty beer bottle from the discarded garbage bag next to it, adopted a half-drunk expression and pulled the door open.
"Hey, lads," I called jauntily. "Can youse keep it down? It's been a hard day, you know?"
The two idiots barely had the processing power of a 90s Pentium II between them. The scene in front of me was like a bad comedy skit – they both pulled their lumbering attention away from the door they were splintering their way through, looked at me, then at each other, then rushed toward me.
"You will put clothes on." The right-most idiot ordered in a thick, barely intelligible Eastern European accent.
"I'll do no such thing," I replied indignantly, pretending to sway with the ill-effects of over consumption, "I'm in my own room, so I am, and I'll wear what I want, so I will. Who are you to tell me what to do?"
Sell it Conor.
I tried to swing the door closed, fully aware that I had about as much chance of success as these guys would have in a fight with me. I was right – the lightweight wooden door crunched against the thick, meaty forearm of one of the Russian gangsters. I felt like I should give them nicknames – judging by their appearances they seemed like likely candidates for parental neglect, and it was entirely possible that no one had ever bothered to give them names in the first place.
"Lads," I remonstrated, still playing the drunk Mick, "I asked you nicely once, don't make me ask again. I'm trying to get some kip, okay?"
The gangster on the left didn't have ears. I mean, he technically had them, but they didn't look like any ears I'd ever seen… I decided to call him Cauliflower. Flower, for short.
"Boss wants to see you," Flower grunted.
"Seriously, what is it with you guys and prepositions?" I quipped.
Flower looked at his friend – another barrel chested Russian. I decided I’d call him Pot because, well – with his thick chest and face reddened by years of drinking he looked like a flower pot. "Boss wants to see you," he repeated.
"I don't have a boss," I said, holding a straight face as I noticed both Flower and Pot's greedy, piggy eyes staring at my stack of winnings. "Don't pay taxes, either. Hey – eyes up here!"
Flower's eyes guiltily flickered back toward my eyes, though I couldn't help notice from the disgusted look on his face that he got a full, frank and accidental glance of my still uncovered manhood.
"You will put clothes on!" He insisted, much more forcefully this time. "Then we see boss."
I sat down on the bed, noticing some of Maya's long, dark hairs standing out against the cheap motel's vaguely white sheets. I hurriedly pulled the duvet up, hiding the evidence. As I did so, Flower's companion – Pot – waddled into the room. The man’s thick, muscular frame forced him to walk in an almost side-to-side, crablike fashion. He poked his head under the bed before, presumably satisfied that it was empty, heading toward the bathroom.
I protested feebly, hoping that Maya hadn't left any more evidence of her illicit presence in my motel room behind. Imagined images of a thong on the white-tiled floor crossed my mind, and I held my breath nervously.
Flower tossed my denim jeans, an old gray t-shirt and a frayed leather jacket at me. "Clothes," he grunted.
I kept one eye trained on Pot's movements, ready to spring into action the second he showed any hint that he'd realized this was all an elaborate deception.
"You can look at my dick all day long," I declared loudly. "For all I care. I'm not moving an inch until you tell me what the hell you're doing here."
Flower looked at me in frustration, as though completely baffled by the concept that someone would do anything other than exactly as he ordered. Well, I've never been one for following the rules…
He sighed heavily, threw his hands up and looked to the ceiling with irritation while muttering something pejorative under his breath in Russian.
"Mr. Antonov wants to see you." He said.
I cocked my head, feigning incomprehension. "Mr. Antonov? Remind me who that is again?"
He slammed his hand down on the table. "Enough! You met, tonight. He will see you. Tonight."
"You're in my house now, boyo." I remarked mildly. "A little manners would do you a world of good."
Pot gave Flower a look, shrugging his shoulders as if to indicate that they'd been mistaken, and that I was, in fact, alone in the motel room. I allowed my body to relax imperceptibly, my shoulders losing some of the tension they'd carried ever since I first started worrying about whether Maya had left something incriminating behind.
"Find what you were looking for?" I grinned cockily, safe in the knowledge that our secret was safe.
Where’s Pot gone?
A second later, I wished I’d kept my eye on him, because that was the exact moment that something hard hit the back of my head, and I crumpled, unconscious, to the floor.
10
Conor
A wheezing, yet still somehow imperious Russian-accented voice rang out above the foreboding sound of boots scraping against an old stone floor, and the rustling of my jeans as my legs dragged against the cold, hard flagstones.
"You can drop him there."
Brain still fuzzy from being knocked out, I had barely a second to process my the fact that my knees were no longer smashing against uneven pieces of rock before my arms were relinquished without warning by the two burly halfwits who had dragged me into their master's presence. I fell unceremoniously to the floor, with a thud that knocked the wind right out of my lungs.
"Lads," I groaned, grabbing my midriff and massaging it tenderly with my thumbs. "You don't have to take everything so literal, like. You could have put me down nice and gentle, no harm no foul – you didn't need to drop me like that."
My guards stared attentively straight in front of them, as if whatever lay in their eye line was every bit as interesting as the Mona Lisa in Paris, or the latest exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, instead of an old, dirty brick wall.
Idiots
I hauled myself to my knees, my body not shy about protesting every one of the indignities that had been heaped on it over the past few hours – from fighting in the octagon, regaining consciousness while being shoved in an old, rickety haulage truck with old pots of paint and other construction supplies which then drove here, wherever here was, at top speed across what seemed like the entire town, if not further, and then finally being dumped on my ass, on this solid stone floor.
Oh, and that's without even accounting for the fact that I was wiped out from what had been one of, if not the best, fucks of my life…
"Mr. Regan," the Russian voice rang out. "So good of you to join me in my humble home. Don't be upset with my boys – they did as they were told. You will too, soon enough."
Now
that I couldn't hear the shuffling of my guard’s boots dragging against the rough floor, I couldn't help but notice that the room – it had to be a basement, judging by the gloom and bone-chilling cold – was creepily quiet. There wasn’t even a hint of street noise, or even the normal creaks and groans which formed the familiar, comforting soundtrack to most old houses. It was the kind of place, I thought, that men went to die.
I blinked a couple of times, allowing my eyes to acclimate to the basement's lack of light. The foreboding scene in front of me slowly came into focus, but as I waited for it to clarify, I spent the time cracking my neck and stretching it out. I was sore as hell, half because getting tied up and thrown in the back of a moving truck is never a comfortable way to travel, even at the best of times; and half because I figured that if I'd been brought here to die, then one thing was for sure: I was going to put up one hell of a fight.
Mikhail Antonov, unsurprisingly, came into focus in front of me. I'd known that the fat, dumpy Russian gangster was behind this from the moment his half-witted henchmen had turned up at my door – well, my neighbor’s door – to pick me up. One thing was for sure, though – I hadn't expected Maya to be standing next to him. Shit, I was just impressed she’d made it back at all.
Just my luck, I finally find my dream girl the day a mobster decides he wants to off me…
Whether he'd intended it or not, her presence threw me off my game. I'd spent two years searching for the girl, and when that failed, another two years drinking to forget her – so her turning up out of the blue like this was still more than a little confusing – and a little more than I could handle. Just because we'd fucked didn't mean we'd actually resolved anything.
I still had dozens of questions racing around my brain, like: "since when was her dad a Russian mobster," "why did she lie to me about her name?"
The blood drained from my cheeks, and for a few seconds I was grateful that the lack of lighting in the dim, gloomy basement meant that the mobster was highly unlikely to notice my reaction to his daughter's presence. Whatever Antonov's plan here was, I was pretty sure that I needed to avoid giving him any more bargaining chips – and fast.
I knew Antonov, or more precisely, men like him. I'd grown up on the streets, surrounded by petty gangsters and mob muscle, and they all had one thing in common – they preyed on weakness. Like sharks sensing blood in the water, they not only smelled uncertainty from a mile off – they took advantage of it.
"Mike!" I grinned, going on the offensive. "Buddy! You don't call, you don't text – and then, out of the blue, you send two thugs to pay me a visit. What's that about?"
I kept my gaze fixed on Mikhail's eyes as I needled him, but secretly I was paying almost as much attention to Maya's response. Her eyes darted around wildly, as though she was deathly afraid that she was being watched, and when I started to mock her father, her mouth formed an ‘O’ of shocked surprise – almost fear.
My mind was roiling, and I wasn’t even close to making sense of what it all meant. Why was she in here? Was Maya on her father's side? No – that didn't make sense, not in the slightest. There was no way Maya could have faked her reaction when we'd been startled by the banging earlier on – not unless she'd suddenly become an Oscar-winning actress. I could still smell the scent of pure, unadulterated fear on her, and if she could fake that, then, hell, I was in a whole lot more trouble than even I could handle.
"Don't call me Mike." He grunted, gruffly, as if outraged by my rudeness. I almost choked laughing – I could hardly believe that he, of all people, could possibly think that I was the rude one in this situation! I bit my amusement back down, reasoning that I could only push the man so far before he finally snapped.
"Then how about we make a deal," I joked. "You stop sending morons like those two," I jerked my chin toward my slow-witted minders. "To pick me up, I'll stop calling you Mike. How's that for a plan?"
Maya cringed, her body rocking backward as though my upbeat tone had physically assaulted her.
What happened to that happy, sensual girl I met back home in Dublin?
Because the girl in front of me didn't seem like the same person at all. Oh, sure – all the physical assets were there. She was easily as attractive as the day she'd disappeared from my life – the girl was a freaking bombshell, a dime – but something else had changed, something far harder to quantify but no less significant for it.
The glimmer of light in her eye, that sparkling personality that I'd first fallen for had dimmed, and as I stood in front of her father I was left to wonder whether that flame had been snuffed out entirely – or whether it still smoldered somewhere, deep down, where it could be coaxed back to life.
"Mr. Regan," Mikhail wheezed. "I wouldn't come into your house and insult you, so will you pay me the courtesy –"
"You're a goddamn hypocrite," I burst back. "You've already done that by sending these two goons," I gestured to my side. "To knock my door down."
My outburst sparked another reaction from Maya. I was more worried about her than I was about myself – by a long shot. She'd make a terrible poker player, that was for sure. I still didn't know what was going on, but I knew one thing: Maya wasn’t any better at hiding her emotions than a kid!
Her face was more expressive than any catwalk model – it was partly why I'd once fallen in love with her. More beautiful too. I like my women full and healthy, not gaunt. I like to throw them around in bed, and I don't like worrying that I'm about to break their matchstick legs.
Eyes on the prize, Conor. There'll be time enough to let your prick do the talking when you get out of this mess.
If you get out of this mess…
I refocused, concentrating on the task at hand like I was still in the octagon, and tried to attack the problem from another angle. Perhaps Maya was playing me; perhaps the goal she was working toward was too big for me to even comprehend, but as strange as the situation was, I still couldn't bring myself to believe that she'd changed that much, or that she would – even could – be so callous.
Anything’s possible.
Beside me, my two guards stiffened, glancing nervously at each other. I had a suspicion that one of them, perhaps both, had seen me fight in the cage earlier that night, and hoped that neither had any great desire to get into a confrontation with me.
One-on-one, we all knew there'd only be one winner – me.
Hell, I'd fancy my chances taking on the pair of them with one hand tied behind my back, and if their boss decided to throw his hat in the ring as well, then as far as I was concerned, the more the merrier.
"Sergei," the mob boss called out. "Get in here."
Sergei?
The name sounded familiar, and I realized I'd met the man earlier that night. He was another one of Antonov's henchmen. I cracked my knuckles. Apparently the odds weren't going to favor me quite as much as I’d hoped…
And just as disconcertingly, I realized, Mikhail was a far more formidable opponent than I had anticipated. He wasn't as stupid as his pig-like exterior suggested – not by a long shot. Behind those thick, jet-black eyebrows and long forehead lay a mind every bit as sharp as my own.
I heard a door swing open, clattering against the hard brick wall, and I glanced toward the source of the sound. Another black-haired Russian gangster with more muscle than sense waddled through, none-too-subtly cradling a sub-machine gun that looked mean enough to take down an elephant.
I couldn't have guessed what make it was. Guns were a touchy subject back home since the Troubles, and besides – they'd never been my style. I preferred to take down my opponents the old-fashioned way: with my fists.
Three against one? I’ve faced worse odds.
Unfortunately, things didn't stay that way. Another four Russian mobsters filed in behind Sergei, and even I began to accept that my chances of winning against this lot were slim. I loved a fight as much as the next Irishman, but the only way I could see this ending was with me lying in a broken heap on the floor.
"Grab him," Mikhail ordered dismissively. He thrust his hands into his pockets and turned to face the wall. I knew it was all an act – he was playing the intimidating bad guy's role down to a tee, but hell if it didn’t work.
My two guards sprang into action, as if finally glad to have something to do. Each grabbed one of my arms and held it tight between their vice like fists, their big, meaty fingers digging painfully into the muscles of my exhausted arms.
I could have chuckled. I knew more than a few fighters who paid good money to have their triceps kneaded out after a bout in the cage – I'd done it myself, in fact, and here I was having my arms massaged for free!
"Hotel?" Mikhail continued, a sly grin on his face at my sudden turn of fortune. "I think you do the Sunset a great favor by calling it that. That's where I have my pimps do their trade – you know that? I sure wouldn't want to sleep on one of those mattresses…"
I screwed your daughter on one of those mattresses, I thought. I bit back the retort – it was grade school, at best, and wouldn't do anything but inflame the situation I'd somehow found myself in.
Fifty grand. It was supposed to be an easy fight – fifty grand, in and out. What the hell have you gone and got yourself into, Conor?
"Motel, hotel," I replied. "Who cares. My point stands."
"I don't want to argue with you, Mr. Regan," Mikhail smiled, opening his arms in wide, friendly gesture. "I'm afraid we got off to a bad start. But you know what they say – the night is always darkest just before the dawn."
I eyed his henchmen warily. It was a bad start, and it could easily get a whole lot worse. I didn't like where he was going with this dawn stuff.
Oh, great – now I have to listen to a speech, too?
A broad, cheerless smile stretched out across his pig-like face. "So – first things first," Mikhail clapped. "I have to address the small matter of your manners."