Smoke: A Bad Boy Romance

by Paula Cox

  “You’re very determined about that,” I say.

  “I’m a very determined man,” he says, and I believe him. “The auction, it’s done with photographs, isn’t it?”

  I nod. “From what I’ve heard, they take us all to private rooms and then show the bidders photographs. Then the winner comes through and . . . Anyway, I guess they’re worried one of us might shout or cry or something and that would ruin the atmosphere.” Despite my plan, I’m unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice. Like dogs, I think. That’s what we are to them. Dogs to be auctioned off.

  The man laughs grimly. “And people say romance is dead.”

  He flinches, as if he’s said too much. I study his face. Hard, dark, impossible to read.

  “What does that mean?” I ask. “If you’re here, you must agree with it all.”

  “Of course I do,” he says. “I was just shooting the shit.”

  “Didn’t sound like just shooting the shit.”

  “Well, it was,” he grunts. “Tell me, Fiona . . .”

  There’s another tell that this man is different, I think. No other man has used my name—my fake name, anyway. It’s always pretty or sexy or gorgeous or whore or slut or once, even, hole. But never my name.

  “. . . what do you like to do?”

  “What do I . . . like to do?” I’m shocked, not only taken aback, but thrown aback, smashed into wherever aback is and sucking in deep desperate breaths. “I have to say, Alexander, that’s a strange question for you to ask me.”

  “Is it?” He shrugs. I think I see something in his face. Uncertainty, maybe. But I can’t be sure. Just focus. Make him bid! Make him buy!

  “Oh, I like many things,” I say, my voice sickly sweet. “My main hobby is pole dancing,” I go on, my voice getting even sweeter. That’s a lie. I’ve never pole-danced once in my life. But if I can get the image of me pole dancing into this man’s head, I might be one step closer to my goal. “I love the feel of the pole between my legs, I love the way my body moves when I’m grinding on it. It makes me really horny—”

  “Stop,” the man says softly. “I don’t want a damned lie. I want the truth.”

  “I’m not lying—”

  “That voice you’re using, it’s not your own.”

  “I have a feeling I could say the same to you.”

  He searches my face, eyes flicking down to my lips, then up to my eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?” A blank wall of a face, except for the ever-so-slight pulsing of his temples.

  “You’re not behaving like any other man here,” I say.

  “Don’t make the mistake of thinking that’s a good thing,” he says, baring his teeth in what could be described as a smile only if you were feeling generous. “Maybe I’m not like any other man here. But why don’t you think about whether I’m better or worse?”

  “I think better.” Without thinking, I lay my hand on his arm, feeling his taut muscles beneath the fabric of his suit.

  “I know what you’re doing,” he says.

  “Do you?” I tilt my head, as sexy and cute and buyable as I’ve ever been in my life.

  “Yes.”

  I make to remove my hand.

  He catches it at the wrist, holding it in place. “We are being watched,” he says. “Don’t you move.”

  “Is that how you talk to every lady you meet?” I dig my fingernails into his arm.

  He winces, but he doesn’t let me go.

  “It’ll take more than that,” he says.

  I dig my fingernails in even harder, letting all the repressed anger I’ve felt these past days—first being kidnapped from my peaceful holiday, and then forced to wear this ridiculous lingerie and serve drinks whilst being slapped and groped—I let it all surge into my hand, and I squeeze. But the man doesn’t respond. It’s like he doesn’t even feel the pain.

  “You’re brave,” he comments, letting go of my wrist. “If I do buy you, I’ll remember that.”

  A thrill of fear and something else, not excitement but not far off, moves through me. “Why did you ask me to sit here?”

  “Two reasons,” the man said. “Firstly, I wanted to see if you were well-behaved. Zherkov and his cronies wouldn’t let you serve anybody one-on-one if you were a troublesome one. Secondly, I wanted to be seen with you.”

  “And why’s that?” I say. I try and force my voice to be sweet again, but something has passed between us, something I don’t understand, can’t pretend to understand. We’re more comfortable around each other than the circumstances should allow for.

  “That’s not for you to know,” he says. A shadow of a smile touches his lips. Or do I imagine it? His face doesn’t change at all.

  “I’ll make you happy if you buy me,” I say, hating the words. But if I have to choose between a man who will let me dig my nails into his arm and one who would beat me purple for even trying such a thing, I’ll choose the former.

  “Will you?” He arches an eyebrow. “And how would you do that?”

  “Use your imagination.”

  I won’t say fuck you or anything like that, because I have absolutely no intention of letting any man here do that. That’s what the knife is for. If anyone tries it, their lecherous leer will get a hell of a lot wider, right up to their ears. I tell myself for the hundredth time: No man will force himself on me.

  “Maybe I don’t have a very good imagination,” he says.

  He doesn’t speak with the sickening tone most of the other men use. His voice is without inflection, almost mechanical. That could mean one of two things, I think. Either he has zero interest in any of this or he has ulterior motives. I try once again to search his face for a meaning, but it’s like trying to find meaning in a calm pool of water. There’s nothing, no reflection, no shimmer. Just cool calm.

  I’m about to respond when Zherkov claps his hands together. “Right, time for the bidding to commence. Ladies, please allow my lovely friends to escort you to your booths. And please, no funny business!”

  The man meets my eyes. “I’ll see you soon,” he says. And then I’m being led away by a burly man who has the look and swagger of a bouncer. He grabs me by the arm and leans down into my ear, whispering with way too much excitement in his sick voice. “If that one wins, he’s going to rape you raw, little girl. He’s the sickest bastard in this place. He’s a real sadist. I heard he likes to make ’em bleed.”

  I swallow and it’s like shards of glass are wedged in my throat.

  Have I just made an awful mistake? Have I just persuaded the sickest man in this place to buy me?

  We’re all led to the end of the ballroom, through a door, and to booths which are like prison cells, only a bed bolted to the wall, nothing else.

  I sit on the end of the bed and finger the blade, wondering if my hope, my unwavering dedication to hope, is misled.

  *

  I can’t hear the auctioning, only muffled sounds through the walls, laughter and cheers and what I think of as merrymaking, a phrase I only ever hear in the fantasy books I sometimes read. Merrymaking, yes, like a happy tavern where everybody is friends and nothing nasty ever happens. Merrymaking, where there is laughter and clapped backs and grinning and cheering and all the rest of it. Merrymaking, when men are led to women like farmers are led to cattle to do with as they please. But even farmers respect their cattle, need them; these men are monsters.

  I try to convince myself that the Alexander Smith is the man I first thought he was—in truth, the man I rashly assumed he was—and not the sadist I’m now convinced he is. Maybe it’s my frayed nerves, the constant fear I’ve been living in . . . my mind is like a pinball, smashing here and there, without any definite through-line. One minute he’s my savior and I have to convince him to buy me, the next I’m certain he’s going to kick the door in and do horrible, sadistic things to me. I can’t decide. I don’t know. I’m lost, literally and metaphorically. Adrift in the sea, upon a stranger’s yacht, a prisoner . . . and adrift in my own judgmen
ts, uncertain, just as much a prisoner. Just because he isn’t as openly lecherous, it doesn’t mean he’s a nice man, does it? How many nice men have turned out to be monsters when you scratch away their well-crafted masks? And the bouncer’s words . . .

  I pull down my underwear and take the blade from my hip. There’s a clear outline from where it has dug into my skin and a bead of blood drips down my leg from where it’s pricked me. I kneel down and place the knife under the bed. My hand trembles, but I ignore it. This isn’t a time for trembling hands; this isn’t a time for fear, or cowardice. This is the time to fight, to get angry. If he comes in here thinking I am some girl to be taken, used as he wills, he’ll get a damn rude awakening, that’s for sure.

  After a while, the sounds of the auction die down. Dozens of footsteps sound through the walls, growing louder. The men are being led to the booths. I think of Fiona, this woman I have become. What sort of woman is she? A woman to lie down and take it, or a woman to cut and spit and fight? I grit my teeth and tell myself: I am strong. I can do this. I can fight. I will not be hurt. I will not be used.

  I don’t let myself think about what will happen once I’ve defended myself, just as stranded, just as alone. I can’t afford to think that far ahead.

  Two paths lay ahead of me. In one, Alexander Smith is the man I briefly glimpsed, the man apart from the evil of this yacht.

  In the other, I am covered in blood and searching for a way out.

  Then the door swings open and I don’t know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or fear.

  It’s Alexander Smith. He has won me.

  Chapter Three

  Roma

  She stands next to the bed, watching me with the eyes of a woman about to either cry or scream. I know those eyes, have seen them enough times. The eyes of somebody torn between being a victim and being a hero. Often, that’s when people are most dangerous, because they act bullet-fast so they don’t lose their nerve and go back to victimhood. I reckon the look in her eyes—the look in all their eyes, all the people caught up in the whirlwind of the life—has something to do with Bear backing out of the game. Bear, my mentor, my friend, the toughest bastard alive . . . I sigh. Focus, I tell myself.

  “Fiona,” I mutter.

  I don’t move from where I’m standing, just close the door behind me and watch her. Her arms are at her sides and despite the lingerie, she doesn’t look used-up or broken.

  “Alexander,” she says.

  “You’re scared of me,” I comment.

  “Am I?” Her face gives me nothing. She brings a mask down on it, covering her emotions. Even her bright green eyes are glazed over.

  “It looks like it,” I say. “I just want you to know, there’s no reason to be.”

  “And I should just believe that, should I?” Her voice gets higher in pitch, cracking a little, and I wonder if perhaps I’m wrong about her. Maybe she does feel the cold prick of these mad, absurd events more than I can tell. Maybe I’m not as expert at reading women as I think. Watching her is like watching a kite in the wind. One second it’s carried to the west, so strongly you think it’ll never come back. The next, it ducks and dives and whooshes to the east. One second her face is hard; the next it is panicked.

  “It’s the truth,” I sigh.

  “I was told otherwise,” she says, watching me closely.

  “Is that so? By whom?”

  I take a step into the room, but she holds her hand up, palm flat. “No closer.” Her voice trembles and her face, almost impassive, tics: at the corner of her lips and her eyebrows. “I was told by one of the bouncers that you’re a sick man who enjoys sick things.”

  Well, that’s true, in a way, I think. A sick man who enjoys sick things. I can’t deny that when Mr. Black sends me to tool up a pedophile or a woman-beater or a kid-strangler I get a certain thrill from it. I can’t deny that when I leave an evil man’s apartment, I sometimes whistle a tune. And, yes, I can’t deny that I haven’t sometimes wondered if that makes me a sick man. Smashing another man’s face in with a knuckle-duster shouldn’t bring somebody pleasure, should it? And it doesn’t to me, not usually. But if the man you’re beating is also an evil man, you can’t help it. I return to Bear again. That’s why he left. He wasn’t a sick man and he didn’t enjoy sick things. Then I push it all from my mind. I know they’re not the sick things she’s referring to.

  “You’ve been lied to,” I sigh.

  I take another step.

  “No closer!” she hisses.

  “Goddamn, one second you’re talking about pole-dancing, trying to get me to buy you, the next, this . . .”

  “That was before I was told what you were. I misjudged you.”

  “If I was what you say I am—let’s be blunt, a sadistic rapist—do you think I’d just be standing here?”

  “Maybe that’s how you work.” She looks me dead in the eye. “I won’t be raped, never. I won’t let that happen.”

  “I have no interest in that,” I say.

  I make to take another step forward. The room is so small I’m closer to her now than I am to the door. She throws her hands up. “Get back!” she screams. All around us, similar screams rise into the air. Some are wordless. Some contain words just like Felicity’s. Others are filled with terror in languages I do not understand. All have one similar thread. They are repulsed and depressed and indignant that this is happening to them.

  “Don’t. Come. Any. Closer.” Her voice oscillates between ice and water, which is my not-very-philosophical way of saying between frozen calm and flowing anxiety.

  “I don’t know what you think I am, Fiona.”

  “Listen,” she says slowly. “I thought I’d make you bid on me because you seemed better than the others. You didn’t grope me or call me names or slap me or anything like that. But then the bouncer said something disgusting to me about you and it got me thinking. Why would a good man be on this boat? What purpose could a good man have of being on this boat? So, you can’t be a good man. And if you’re not a good man, you must be a bad man. And you’re fucked in the head if you think I’m letting a bad man anywhere near me when I’m dressed in this ridiculous goddamn outfit.” As she speaks, her cheeks become red and her hands quiver. She clenches her teeth and stares daggers at me.

  “We’re in one tiny room with one tiny bed and the Russians don’t expect us to come out for some time,” I say. “I’m not standing here like this for that entire time. Why don’t you just let me sit down? I’m not going to do anything.”

  I see indecision cross her face. Then she sets her jaws firmly. “No,” she says. “Just stand there.”

  Fine, I think. I’ll have to tell the truth. My version of it, anyway.

  Holding my hands up in a sign of peace, I walk toward her, meaning to calm her. “Listen,” I say. “My name isn’t really Alexander Smith and I—”

  She doesn’t hear my words. She doesn’t hear anything. She only sees, and what she sees is the man who just bought her walking toward her with his hands raised. Stupid, I think, as she dives under the bed and springs back up like a jack-in-the-box, waving the knife at me. She doesn’t hold it like most amateurs would, limp at the wrist like they’re scared they’re going to hurt themselves. She holds it like her life depends on it. She swipes at my head. I duck. She stabs at my belly. I hop back. She jabs all over; I dodge easily. Dancing aside, I dart my hand out and grab her wrist. She swings at me with her other hand. I catch her fist and push her up against the wall.

  “No!” she roars, spitting at me. Unfortunately, spit in the face is an occupational hazard. The globule which sticks to my cheek doesn’t surprise me. What does surprise me is the stab of shame I feel at the sight of her fear. She really thinks I’m going to rape her and it makes me uncomfortable. Me, Roma, a man mentored by Beast, a man with more kills under his belt than most veteran soldiers.

  “No! No! No!” Her body is like a fish plucked from the water and set onto the deck of a boat, one solid muscle flopping madly
without care for its surroundings. She cracks her head against the wall and kicks out. I twist my body and pin her against the wall, stilling her.

  Then I lean into her ear. “Listen,” I hiss. “Just fucking listen to me, okay?” She keeps screaming, so I pin her harder to the wall. Strange, too, but I’m careful not to pin her too hard. That never normally crosses my mind. A threat is dealt with. That is what usually happens. Cold, calm, calculated, precise, and a hundred other words which all boil down to one thing, really. Killer-trained. But now, I press into her almost softly. I’m oddly aware of her body against mine, soft and supple and warm. But not in the way she thinks. I would never, even if my life depended on it, force myself on a woman.

  “Listen,” I repeat, and her screaming grows quieter. “My name is not really Alexander Smith. I am on this yacht to rescue you. That’s why I bought you. Okay? Do you fucking understand? So, for the love of God, stop screaming. You’re not doing us any favors.”