Katerina’s lips pressed against mine. She bit at my lower lip, her eyes were closed and her breathing had the rhythm of arousal. Her hand wrapped around the line in my jeans, she let out a small gasp. I ran my hand up her thigh. Continuing the kiss, I pulled her down on top of me. And like two Catholic teenagers, we went at. She ground herself against my bulge, pushing her tongue into my mouth. How many songs came and went while we pounded against each other I haven’t a clue, I was lost in the rush. Her breathing turned into a deep rasp. Suddenly her eyes popped open in crazy surprise. She sank her teeth into my shoulder to muffle her scream. Then like a rag doll, she collapsed into the couch next to me with her head on my shoulder.
“Oh, oh… you didn’t finish… I sorry… I,” she said with weak but genuine concern.
“Ain’t nothin but a thing.”
“But…”
“Hush… you smell so human.” I nuzzled her neck.
“What?”
“You don’t cover up with a bunch of perfume, you smell human.”
Her eyes drifted closed, maybe she wanted to block out the room around us.
“What’s your name? It’s not ‘Katerina’.”
“You don’t like it?”
“It’s fine, just not yours, least not the one you were born with.”
She thought about this for a long moment, screwing up her fine features. “What is your name?”
“Moses McGuire.”
“That’s funny.”
“The only book my mother ever read was the bible. Brother’s name is ‘Luke’. Guess we’re both lucky we didn’t get stuck with ‘Jesus One’ and ‘Jesus Two’.”
She opened her eyes, making sure I knew what she was giving me. “Anya Kolpacolva.”
Somewhere out in the club, the DJ was calling for all the girls to line up for a two for the price of one lap dance special. Anya let out a laugh. “Oh my god, how long have we been here? You are bad for business, I know this the moment I see you.”
“Do you mind?”
“No,” she said laughing. Jumping up, she pulled on her shirt and skirt in faster time than an Indy pit crew. Reaching down, she tugged me up and out of the couch. Arm in arm and giggling like high schoolers, we walked out of the VIP room. When I slipped $200 into her purse she rolled her eyes but she didn’t refuse. She had rent to pay like everyone else.
From the bar, I watched the money mating dance gyrate around me. Anya slipped like a shark through the sea of men, hustling them, then stopping by to give me a wink or a kiss in between trips to the VIP room. I realized one of these fat fucks was gonna wind up dead if I didn’t get out of there soon.
“Want a dance?” Anya had slipped up behind me while my concentration was on buying a last shot of scotch.
“Love to, but I’m broke.” I don’t know why I lied, fact was I had a wad in my pocket and more cash stashed in my hideout hole in the car. I guess I was hoping she would offer me a freebee, a way she could show that I was different than the other slobs.
“We have ready-teller.” She made it sound sexy, purring like it was some exotic love toy.
“Do I look like the kind of guy they’d give a bank card to?”
“Everyone has bank card.”
“I don’t.”
“Too bad,” she was leaning into me, making sure I got a grand glimpse down her dress at what I was missing. She kissed my neck. “You are so bad for business.”
“When do you get off? I’ll take you to breakfast,” I whispered.
“A date?” She closed her eyes, smiling inwardly at the idea. “No, not tonight.” Past my shoulder, she surveyed the room for her next client.
“Whatever.” I turned back to the bar, trying to pull off indifference, though petulant may have been closer to the effect.
“Here.” She was on the move, she slipped a piece of paper into my hand. “My cell number, call me.” She started to disappear into the crowd, then turned back. “You do have a cell phone?”
“Nope, but I’ve got some change and a working finger.”
“My beautiful man. Are you sure you are American?”
“Only because my parents fucked here,” I said. Anya laughed, running her hand through my hair. I gave her a stolen kiss the manager didn’t see and promised to come back the next night. Then stumbled out into the evening.
CHAPTER 4
The Vietnamese car park was sleeping in a chair leaned against the building. I climbed behind the wheel of the beast, but lacked the will to make my hand turn the ignition. What kind of candy-ass falls for a dancer’s bullshit?
I held the napkin with her number on it, like somehow it proved she wanted me for more than the money in my wallet. I knew, had clear evidence that it would all end bad for me. But here I was, sitting in my car, hoping we would ride off into the sunrise together.
I had watched the slobs at the club and puffed myself full of superiority. This was a job for these girls and the men were the work the girls had to do to knock out their bills. And here I was, sitting behind the wheel hoping to catch a glimpse of Anya when she came out.
Every promise I’d made myself, no more drinking, no more lap dances, had been shot to shit in one night. The new and improved me would have to take a rain check.
At one forty-five, the drunks and dandies left the club in one long stream. The younger men who had come with buddies joked and whooped at each other. The older men moved with heads down, hoping to hide their secret shame. Within minutes, the lot was almost empty.
At two ten, Anya and a short red-haired dancer walked out of the club. Anya was dressed in jeans and a hooded sweat-shirt. Street clothes only made her look better, more real. I was about to get out and call to her when a black Mercedes pulled to the curb. The redhead opened the door and they climbed into the back.
On the Westside, Mercedes are more common than skin cancer. But this was the second time I had seen Russian dancers get into a black S class. I couldn’t swear it was the same one that had picked up Marina, but what were the odds?
Maybe I saw a mobster where there was a car service, but I didn’t think so.
For a moment, I tried to convince myself that it was none of my business who they were or how Anya was involved. But when the Mercedes pulled off, I followed. Slipping into traffic a few cars back, I gave them just enough room to roam without noticing me.
The difference between stalking and looking after someone is a fine line, one I decided not to look too closely at as I followed them up Wilshire. At Santa Monica Boulevard they hung a left heading past Beverly Hills, towards Little Kiev, West Hollywood’s Russian neighborhood. Cruising up to an intersection, they slowed down, timing it right so they could blast across the street at the moment the light turned red.
The cars in front of me stopped, blocking me in. I angled into the right-hand turning lane and mashed down the gas pedal. The V8 roared its deep throated war cry as I blasted through the red. I swerved to avoid an oncoming 4x4. They fisted their horn, but I was gone in a cloud of burning rubber.
Two blocks up, I saw the Mercedes squealing left down a small side street. My heart thumped to an adrenaline-driven beat. I wished I hadn’t left my piece at home. With two felony convictions on my back, I never carried unless I was expecting trouble. The three strikes bullshit meant that a firearms bust would buy me the bitch.
I lost sight of the Mercedes when they ripped a quick left down a narrow alley that ran behind a two-story office building. Pulling down the alley, I discovered it was blocked off at the other end by a cement block wall. The Mercedes had vanished. Rolling to a stop halfway to the wall, I searched for their escape route.