Page 30 of Hate to Love You
“W…what?” she asks, confused.
“Oh, that’s for your family,” I shrug. “We’ll need something on file to show them for the negotiation of your release, of course.”
“Mr. Antonov, oh God, please!” Kristinah wails, now standing at the top of the scaffolding that lines the perimeter of the wax drum, feeling the searing heat radiating from the bubbling and boiling liquid below her. “I’ll do anything to make it up to you, I swear! Anything!”
“Anything?” I ask, pulling out my wireless headphones from my pocket.
“Yes! Anything! You name it, and I will do it! Whatever you need!”
“Well, if it’s really anything,” I say, scrolling through my music until I find the song I’ve had stuck in my head all night. “Then why don’t you just go ahead and die.”
I wave my hand before pressing play and I am immediately lost in Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 6, drowning out her curses and screams as the two men toss her into the boiling hot wax.
They stand watching as she slowly drowns…and melts.
God, sometimes it’s just fucking great to be me.
Chapter Six
ABBY
I swear my nipples could cut glass right now.
It’s my own fault, as it’s just past 11:30 p.m., and I stand waiting outside of The Studio for Igor Ivanov in a skintight black jumpsuit, with a plunging neckline down to my belly button and an open back design exposing my tattoo that my late husband would have hated.
Where are you Igor?
The Studio is busy tonight, with the entry line curving all the way around the side of the building. Occasionally, an entitled or simply impatient partygoer breaks the line to try their hand at gaining early entry.
But when I see who’s posted on the door this chilly evening, a smile pulls at my lips, knowing none of them will be successful in that endeavor.
Teddy is on duty, and he’s the strictest bouncer the Studio employs. And while he does seem to enjoy sending the scandalously clad bitches with Daddy’s plastic back to the end of the line, he’s also always double-checking ID’s and occasionally saving girls from the touchy-feely regulars. His muscular frame dominates the archway, his arms crossed over his chest, the muscles in his forearm flexing, threatening to tear out of the standard black polo shirt he wears.
The neon lights above him highlight his red shaggy hair.
I asked him once why his hair was so poofy, he said it wouldn’t be if he had time to cut it, but work keeps him busy, and the unpredictable weather makes his hair frizzy.
Almost as if he’s aware of my eyes caressing his body, he glances my way, his baby face lighting up the moment we make eye contact. He nods at me, shooting me a dazzling smile.
I know that if he wasn’t working, he’d already be across the street in a heartbeat.
Our stare off is momentarily interrupted when the club doors burst open, the strobe lights pulsing on to the street, illuminating the faces of the people waiting anxiously in line. I watch as a handful of tipsy partygoers stagger from the doorway, bumping into the bouncers and tripping over their own feet, laughing as they fall.
Drunk people are annoying as hell, but at least they are amusing.
I rub my hands up and down my arms, trying to expel the chill that threatens to seep into my bones as I stand here, waiting for my mark.
I don’t bother scanning the constant flow of arrivals popping out of the cabs. Because even with the little I know about Igor Ivanov, I’m certain a man of his status would rather be caught dead before arriving anywhere in a cab.
Even despite deploying my best resting bitch face, occasionally, some stumbling, sleazy, and royally desperate man approaches me, mistaking me for a working girl.
“Come on, Sweetheart, I promise I’ll make it worth your while. Just name your price.”
Hah! I promise, you couldn’t afford me, buddy.
Even if they weren’t drunk enough to piss on themselves, these assholes give me “one-pump-chump” vibes. They’d probably just end up smashing their limp whiskey dick against me and giving my poor vagina a rug burn.
No thank you.