Fayroll
Book Five
Sicilian Defense
By Andrey Vasilyev
Copyright © 2017 Litworld Ltd. (http://litworld.info)
All rights reserved.
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Contents:
Contents:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Book recommendations
Fayroll 6
Chapter One
In which we meet some new characters.
Needless to say, I was less than cheery-eyed and bushy-tailed that morning. I’d started with the palace coup, moved on to the shrewish cheapskate of a goddess, and finished with an hour and a half spent walking alone with my thoughts. There wasn’t much point logging out of the game—it was a great place to think. Soon dawn broke, which it did in the real world, too, even if the sun there was in no hurry to come up. Winter was closing in, the days were growing shorter, and the nights were extending their reach. That didn’t really change anything for me, though. It was too late to go to sleep—sleeping less than three hours is pointless. A doctor I knew had drummed that into me: you don’t wake up feeling refreshed, and it actually leaves you with less physical and mental energy than you started with. You’re irritable and more impatient than ever, too. Given the choice, it’s better to just go without sleeping. You’ll get absolutely knocked off your feet at around 2 p.m., but that’s only if you live that long, so…
By the time I climbed out of the capsule, Vika had already gotten up and taken a shower. She was sitting in the kitchen blowing on her tea. Wrapped in colorful robe, she was as cheerful and freshly washed as a carrot.
“Yeah…” she said, looking at me. “You gamers really are weird. Honestly, I’ve never gotten why you enjoy spending the whole night like that. It doesn’t mean anything, and you can’t wake up the next morning.”
I didn’t say anything in reply, primarily because I didn’t have a good comeback. She was right on the money.
“Coffee?” Vika asked, correctly diagnosing my silence. “Go and take a contrast shower in the meantime. That’s what Elmira always did when she climbed out of that bathtub with the wires looking like you do now.”
My body yelled at me the whole time I subjected it to the hot and cold sprays of water. You bastard! First you don’t sleep, then you won’t leave me alone, and now you’re torturing me. A pox on you and your kind!
Still, the radical (I don’t generally bother with things like contrast showers, and so it was a fairly exotic way for me to spend a few minutes) therapy turned out to work pretty well. I perked up a little, didn’t feel quite so tired, and found myself ravenously hungry.
Vika watched me greedily sucking down coffee and eyeing the door of the refrigerator, sighed, tussled my wet hair, and started rattling some pots and pans around.
“Maybe we should take the metro,” she said with a touch of caution in her voice as we walked out the door downstairs. “Are you sure you won’t fall asleep while you’re driving?”
The food in my stomach had slowed me down, though not enough to nod off behind the wheel. I told Vika as much while I smoked a cigarette.
“Well, if you say so. It’ll be so romantic to die in the flower of my youth next to my lover in his car. My parents will be thrilled when they hear the news.” Vika adjusted the collar of my fall jacket, which I’d worn to ward off the chill in the air. “We need to buy you a good coat, or maybe an overcoat. You’re a serious person now, making good money, and you still dress like this. Like a student.”
I decided against arguing that point, knowing very well that I’d lose. But I couldn’t help but note her use of the word “lover.” Well, the siege is going strong, complete with trebuchets, sappers, and cut water lines. The besieged are going to need a miracle if they’re going to withstand this one. I was a ways away from eating horse meat, however. We still had New Year’s in front of us, when that sister of Vika’s would have the perfect opportunity to stick a knife in my back. She had it in her.
Vika spent the drive silently lost in her thoughts—that much I could tell by the wrinkle creasing her forehead. I’d long since noticed that it only appeared when she was trying to work out the big problems in life. There was no point asking what she was thinking about, though I figured it was either our future or the new people we had waiting for us at the office.
My mind was a complete blank as I started to come down from the previous night’s high. I’d really hit a home run by finishing off that quest. What will Zimin and Valyaev say about that? And what kind of bonus are they going to give me this time? An island? Maybe my own rocket?
My ancestral and lawful home in the parking lot was occupied by someone’s silver Mercedes, which was enough to knock me a bit akilter and anger Vika to her very core.
“Visitors are unbelievable sometimes,” she said loudly, her heels clacking down the tile in the hall. “It says right there: ‘For newspaper employees only.’ What do we even have security for?”
One guard was eying her legs, another was working on a crossword puzzle, and both were excellent representatives of private security in Russia: they were checking out everyone and everything except what they should have and were supposed to be watching.
Just as we got to the doors to our office, we were hit by peals of laughter coming from inside. Vika stopped and looked at me.
“Wow,” she said, her faced tightening and her expression taking on a predatory shade. “They’re having fun. Too much fun.”
I shook my head and pushed open the door.
It was crowded inside the room. The three usual suspects, who were nonchalantly laughing when we walked in, had been joined by another four. Three of the newcomers were girls, which disheartened me. Judging by the threatening sniff I heard from behind me, Vika tensed up.
The only guy there would have been better termed a man. He was large and lithe, with short-cropped hair and broad shoulders, and he walked over to me with his hand outstretched.
“Good morning. Sergey Zhilin, just letting you know I’m here.”
I shook his hand, noted how firm it was, and grunted.
“You served?”
“I did,” the burly guy responded. “It was my fault I got sent to the army, though I don’t regret it. It sure was hard getting back into university, though.”
“I think we’re going to get along fine.” I liked that Zhilin from the first glance. He was obviously the solid kind of person you can rely on.
There are people like that, the ones you can get a read on with a single look: the idiots, the good guys, the snitches… The person in front of me was li
ke a Casio G-Shock. He wouldn’t let me down, he wouldn’t break if I dumped too much on his plate, and he’d keep plowing forward no matter what else as going on.
Suddenly, he was shouldered aside by a girl with enormous eyes, a fiery red pimple on her forehead, and hair that was either styled to look like the last day in Pompeii or just hadn’t been combed. Her clavicles, I couldn’t help but notice, also stuck out noticeably. There were no pleasing mounds down around the chest area either. After bowling me over with whatever flowery perfume she was wearing, she stuck out a sweaty palm.
“I’m Marietta, Marietta Soloveva. Graduated with honors, six publications, six-month internship abroad.”
Muffled laughter came from somewhere behind her. It was a long-legged blonde with an incredible figure and gorgeous face. What’s she doing here? She should have been off shopping with some toy terrier under her arm. Where are the Uggs and the fur vest? Why isn’t she in a tanning salon or getting some guy to give her money?
“What’s so funny?” I asked with a shrug. “These days a lot of people get internships abroad, though there isn’t much point in that—we have our own rules here, and journalism in other countries is different. They have fewer headaches and more money.”
“But this isn’t quite what you think it is,” the blonde said, no longer disguising her laughter. “Pimp, tell them where your internship was.”
“Abroad,” Soloveva replied through clenched teeth. “And I have a name.”
“But where?” By then, I really wanted to know. Maybe in Holland, somewhere with plenty of good pharmaceuticals?
“In Mongolia,” Soloveva muttered reluctantly. Then she continued, shooting a nasty glance at the blonde. “It’s a good country, in case you didn’t know. And I got there myself, because I earned it, and not because…”
“Go ahead, finish your thought.” The blonde’s tone was friendly, and she took a couple of steps that left her next to me and Soloveva. She smelled like some kind of astringent perfume and raspberries. I get the perfume, but why raspberries? “What’s wrong? You tell me how you think I landed my internship in Germany, and I’ll tell you if you’re right.”
“I hope working here will be the start I need to become a journalist,” Soloveva said, giving me a line she’d obviously rehearsed, looking at me devotedly, and paying no attention to the ironically smiling blonde still standing there. The pimple on Marietta’s forehead turned a shade redder, her hollow chest rose and fell as she breathed, and locks of hair jutted out in every direction.
“And I’m sure that’s exactly what’s going to happen,” Vika said from behind me before stepping past and patting Soloveva on the shoulder. “I know a good employee when I see one. By the way, let me introduce myself: I’m Vika Travnikova, Harriton’s assistant. When he’s away, I’m in charge of the publishing house.”
My little lady was fluffing her tail a bit. I couldn’t quite agree that we were a “publishing house,” incidentally. A “publication” was more or less okay, but a “publishing house” was pushing it. I was just glad Mammoth hadn’t heard her, otherwise he’d have convinced himself that we were making a play behind his back and about to leave him in the street collecting bottles. She’s in charge… I hadn’t really noticed that. Or maybe it isn’t vanity? Given the amount of time I was spending out of the office and in Fayroll, she could very well have taken charge.
Vika stood there, her gaze fixed on the blonde. The latter was just enjoying the situation.
“Travnikova, Travnikova,” the beauty said, wrinkling her nose. “Wait a second, are you the Travnikova who spent all five years at school getting straight-As and boring everyone to death until you just about blew the state exams when you had a nervous breakdown? You still got a diploma with honors, but then, when we were on the ship, you got so drunk you threw yourself at the provost. You had to do something to thank him for all the knowledge he gave you, you said. But you fell overboard, and we had to pull you along behind the boat in a life preserver for half a kilometer. Was that you? Or do you just have the same last name?”
The crimson spots flashing across Vika’s face and the smiles she got from our three original doofuses told me two things: first, my little treasure was enraged, and she looked a lot like her sister when she got that way. Second, that really was her. And there I was thinking she’d been a heartbreaker at school, even if she had studied well. But no, she was a nerd. This was news to me.
I didn’t need to see Vika’s face to figure out a third thing. Until one of the sides was dead, our office was going to be a battlefield set between the tight-lipped and pink-cheeked Vika and the as-yet nameless blonde bombshell, who was looking at Vika mockingly as she twirled a lock of hair.
Maybe it would be better to avoid the whole thing and just show Miss Who-Knows-Why-She-Needs-Work-Here-Anyway the door? Ah, no, that won’t work. The bosses had an interest in one of the four, and I had to keep them all there until I figured out who that was. It was a shame, really, because I’d have just as soon replaced them all—except for the guy, of course.
But I did need to put the blonde beast in her place, otherwise she’d rally the rest of the group behind her and spend her time ridiculing my Vika for fun. I knew her type. And that wasn’t going to happen—Vika was mine. You can avoid a lot of diseases if you just get out in front of them.
I glanced at the clock and shook my head worriedly.
“Ay-ay-ay, how could you?” I looked at the blonde sadly. “How could you be so heartless?”
“What are you talking about?” she asked innocently, eyes blinking in the picture of confusion and integrity.
“But how?” I clutched my cheeks. “Unbelievable! You missed your second morning bath, and you’re about to be late to the tanning salon. You probably came with one of my boys—maybe with Gennady? By the way, Gennady, we pay you too much if you can afford this kind of…um…girl.”
I stuck out my lower lip as I looked mockingly and a bit greasily at the now-uneasy blonde. Of course, I knew I wouldn’t be able to throw her with just one trick—she had to be used to hints like that. She’d probably heard much worse in her five years at school, in fact. I wouldn’t have been able to say something like that to pimply Soloveva, though the blonde would have heard more than her share of jokes, curious offers, and drunk lines—“come on, it’ll be fun!” I was putting her in her place without hurting any feelings.
“Where would I get that much money?” Stroynikov didn’t let me down, as he picked up on the situation and jumped in with exactly what I needed from him. “My girls are simpler—they’re all I can afford.”
The blonde clearly didn’t expect Gennady, who’d just been eating her up with his eyes, to turn on her that quickly.
“That’s for sure,” I agreed, letting my eyes wander quickly over what the beauty had to offer. “You can’t have that much fun with the money they pay us…”
“Okay, stop it,” the blonde said, jumping in and offering me her hand. “I get it, and I agree: I stepped over a line, and I was wrong. You’re right, you’re in charge around here, and I understand now. Elena Shelestova, though you can call me Lena, Lenka, anything you want—just not Helen. I can’t stand when people call me that.”
“You’re still missing something.” I stared at her, ignoring the hand she was holding out. There was more respect in my voice, however, as she’d broken the stereotype by giving in that quickly. Still, I needed to press my advantage. “There’s something you forgot to do.”
“What else?” This time Shelestova was actually surprised. “Peace, love, and all that. You’re the boss, and you’re always and unquestionably right. I made a mistake, I apologized, and tonight before I go to bed I’m going to cry in shame and pull out some hair. I can start with a few locks right now if you want.”
“No, nobody needs your hair. This young woman is my assistant, and therefore also your boss,” I replied, pointing at Vika. “And you weren’t exactly tactful with her. If I were you, I’d apologize to her, an
d I’d make it sound sincere. I’m no Stanislavski[1], but I’ll be the first to yell ‘I don’t believe you.’ Well? We’re waiting.”
A shadow of satisfaction flitted across Vika’s face. Shelestova looked as serene as ever.
“Vika, I’m sorry,” she said, clasping her hands. “My big mouth gets carried away sometimes. I’ll be more careful—really, I will. I promise.”
Her blue eyes flashed mischievously, her lashes batted at twice their usual speed, and her whole face breathed sincere repentance. Screw Zimin and Valyaev for sending the devil to come work with me.
“So what do you want me to do?” Elena smiled happily, and I could understand why. She’d gotten herself out of a sticky situation pretty much unscathed. “I can do quite a bit, and I have some experience already.”
Vika grunted, and the boys grinned.
“Oh, I’ll bet you do,” I assured her.
“No, not that kind of experience,” replied an absolutely unperturbed Shelestova. “As far as that goes, I’m sure you all have a leg up on me. But I’m talking about publishing—how does a year and a half working at Entrepreneur sound?”
Entrepreneur was a big deal: a business magazine published by a major holding company called the White Sign. They didn't just take attractive women in to “show them the ropes” like many other publishers did; you either worked as hard as you could or you didn’t work at all. All that mattered was what you could do—nobody cared about your connections or friendships. In a word, working there stamped you as a professional at the top of Russian business journalism. But the fact that she only lasted there for a year and a half meant that she didn’t have what it took. Either that, or there was something else going on…
“Impressive,” I said without the least bit of irony. “But this isn’t Entrepreneur, and everyone starts with a clean slate. You aren’t there; you’re here. I’ll tell you what you’re going to be doing, and, in the meantime, it’s nice to meet you.”
I shook the hand she was offering, the gesture straightforward and free of any double meaning.
Sicilian Defense Page 1