Besides the lack of curves on Vera, we also don’t approve of the tattoo on her lower back. It’s of Madonna holding the baby Jesus. When we fuck someone doggy-style, the last thing we need is a religious symbol staring us in the face, particularly since the tattoo artist made Madonna beautiful. Probably wanted to mess with the heads of everyone who’d ever fuck Vera in the future—which is a large number of people. Or, just as likely, the bitch arranged for the tattoo to have this effect herself.
As our thrusts deepen, she moans louder, and that brings us closer to the edge. In an effort to prolong the sensation, we direct our mind off the fucking and onto irrelevant things, like the dimples above her ass.
Unfortunately, they’re actually a turn-on.
So then we try focusing on the little mole on her right shoulder blade. That works for a bit until we notice the way the sweat slicks her skin. Smooth, gleaming skin. Fuck. We lift our head to stare at the blank walls of the VIP room.
I, Mira, disassociate, albeit hesitantly. This is the first time I’ve ever caught a man fucking a woman, and it’s . . . hot. It’s nothing like Reading them while they fuck me. Of course, I’m not here on a hedonistic vacation. Each moment I spend watching this, a double moment is subtracted from my Depth—because that’s how Reading works. Eugene explained that we share the time with the target. I guess that means that on some level, everyone can get into the Mind Dimension when touched, but non-Readers are pulled in only enough for us to Read them.
I fast-forward Victor’s memories a few minutes into the future.
We’re approaching the table and noticing the girl. She’s the prodigy we’ve heard so much about, the only female katala we’ve ever met—though, to be fair, we met most of those card-shark shysters when doing our time in the all-male Gulag.
We look at her, this girl who’s squeezed so many people dry at our establishment. She has the cheekbones and nose of Russian nobility. Someone in this girl’s lineage must’ve survived the October Revolution back in 1917. Her features have a slight sharpness to them, along with an air of dignity. It’s a contrast to the matreshka-like round face of someone like Vera, who looks like a common Russian farmer’s daughter—and probably is.
With those big blue eyes, long eyelashes, and dark waves of hair, this girl reminds us of our daughter’s latest pictures. Only Nadia looks much more innocent than this one, we think with a mixture of longing and pride. Keeping Nadia innocent is why we made the sacrifice of not being in her life all those years ago. She probably doesn’t even know who we are, so there’s no point dwelling on it. And even if she knows, she’s in Russia, and we can’t go back there.
“It’s so smoky in here; it’s like someone set off a bomb,” the girl who reminds us of our daughter says.
That word—bomb—brings back flashbacks of that day in Chechnya when we lost two of our best comrades. Our heart rate increases, but then we calm down. The girl is just being a spoiled American princess. It happens to all the kids who arrive here. Her Majesty probably expected this illegal gambling club to enforce New York’s non-smoking laws.
I, Mira, separate my mind from Victor’s and feel a hint of disappointment. The fact that my words bring up his experience in Chechnya, which must’ve happened a long time ago, makes him unlikely to be the guy I’m looking for. Especially since he seems to have an aversion to explosions—almost a PTSD-type of reaction. It’s not a certainty that he wasn’t involved, of course, but it’s enough for me to clear him. I’d crossed people off my list based on less credible evidence.
Thus decided, I exit his head.
*
I’m back in the silent room. I’m not going to Read the other players’ minds. I’m going to conserve my Depth instead. I have two more things I have to do.
First, I take a look at the cards everyone else is holding. With the outcome of the next round in my head, I proceed to the second thing and run out of the room. Swiftly, I go through the dark corridor to the nearby bathroom. I check what I came here to check and confirm that it’s still there—the thing that’ll give me a chance when dealing with Shkillet. I’m a little calmer now and glad I took the time to explore this establishment in another Mind Dimension excursion; otherwise, I wouldn’t have known about things hidden in nooks and crannies.
I run back to the room and approach my body. It’s always strange seeing myself like that. Being able to examine myself from all angles used to magnify my teenage insecurities. Normal girls can drive themselves crazy with a mirror, but Readers have it much worse. I remember being depressed about the shape of the back of my ankles not long after my fifteenth birthday. Of course, since my parents’ death, I haven’t thought about shit like that ever again.
I prepare myself for exiting the Mind Dimension and reach out, placing my hand on my frozen self’s face.
And just like that, I’m back in my body.
The sounds are back, and so is the smell of smoke. Victor completes the motion of sitting down in his chair. The dealer finishes dealing. Shkillet stops staring at me, and looks furtively at Victor to see if he would reply to my weird statement.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” says a bald guy who’s smoking a cigar. “If someone brought a bomb in here, Victor would put that bomb into that yebanat’s ass.”
Chapter 3
The next few rounds of poker proceed predictably, given that I know which cards everyone is holding, as well as the top cards of the deck. So obviously, I win every round I can. And as I win, I watch Victor’s amusement grow. I’m not sure if it’s my winning that he finds amusing or the men’s reactions. They dare not give me any attitude, but when I sneak a look at Shkillet, I can tell he’s barely hiding his anger. Today, out of spite, I’ve been winning more than I usually do, and two rounds ago, I called Shkillet’s bluff—a bluff that would’ve probably worked if not for my Reading powers.
Since I don’t have a lot of Depth left, I decide that now is the time for me to get out of here. Before I wear out my welcome, so to speak.
“Gentlemen.” I stand up. “It’s been a pleasure.”
“Pleasure taking our money, you mean?” Victor, surprisingly, doesn’t sound angry. More like he’s teasing.
“Sure, that, and it’s nice to finally put a face to the name . . . Victor.” That might’ve come out too flirtatious, but hell, I’m too wired for finesse at the moment. As I start gathering my stuff, I see Shkillet begin to fidget. I can tell he’s about to leave, too. He’s determined to put that plan of his into motion.
I put my winnings into my purse and slowly walk out, trying not to look suspicious.
I know I should make a run for it once I’m in the hall instead of implementing my more dangerous idea of confronting him. But I don’t. That would be like playing the last rounds of poker so Shkillet would win—something else I could’ve done, but didn’t. He needs a lesson, and I’ll enjoy giving it to him. Maybe with him, I’ll finally get the chance to figure out if I’m capable of doing what must be done when the time comes. My brother doesn’t think I’d take someone’s life. He means it as a compliment, but that’s not how I take it, and tonight, I’m betting my life that my brother is wrong.
I arrive at the bathroom door. Shkillet hasn’t come out of the game room yet. I take out a pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter from my purse. I don’t really smoke, but pretending to smoke has come in handy at times. Being a girl with a cigarette in her hand is a good icebreaker when the room is full of men with lighters. So I’m a sort of social smoker, I guess. But unlike others, I hate every inhalation. Sometimes when I smoke, I can almost feel the stuff making my lungs and teeth yellow and gross.
As I put the disgusting thing in my mouth, the game room door opens. I light up, inhale, and try not to cough while glancing at the door. Shkillet’s there, and we make fleeting eye contact before I exhale the smoke.
Bait set, I walk into the bathroom.