Unfortunately, my dick wasn’t paying attention to anything except the sexy woman snuggling against my chest and sitting with her hot pussy over my crotch. It had been a while.
Carefully, I shifted Yveta from my lap and gratefully took a sip of the cold beer that a waitress brought.
“Fine,” huffed Gary. “I’ll pay for one beer, Mr. Hot-pants, then the bitches can buy your drinks.”
“You’re the biggest bitch,” laughed Honey.
“I’ll drink to that,” Gary said, raising his glass.
It was so damn easy to sit in a bar and have a few drinks and talk about dance. It made the easy hours pass too quickly and it was time to go and meet Volkov. My mellow mood slipped when Yveta told me that the new boss’s surname translated as ‘Wolf’.
Gary raised his eyebrows.
“I’ve worked here four years and I’ve only met the boss once. I wonder why he wants to meet you?”
His glance was speculative, but I saw concern there, too.
I shrugged, trying to hide the fact that my heartrate had kicked up a couple of beats.
“I don’t know. But as long it’s not that creepy bastard Oleg, I don’t care.”
Gary pressed his lips together but didn’t say anything else.
Yveta was a happy drunk, but at nearly six foot, she wasn’t the lightest weight to prop up. She sobered slightly when Galina reminded her that we had an appointment, but giggled all the way back to our hotel, wobbling dangerously in her high heels, until I clamped my arm around her waist and steered her through the early evening crowds with Galina’s help.
Galina’s English wasn’t as good as Yveta’s, but she told me that they’d met at a dance academy in St. Petersburg and had been friends ever since. It was Yveta’s dream to be a Las Vegas showgirl.
She was silent for a moment, glancing at me nervously.
“I don’t like it here.”
Then she lowered her voice, even though we were on a noisy, crowded street.
“Where are those other girls, the ones who arrived with us?”
“I don’t know.”
“But it’s strange, yes?”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
Her lips trembled and she looked as if she might cry.
When we arrived back at the hotel, I waited outside the ladies’ bathroom while Galina tried to sober up her friend some more.
Trixie saw me leaning against the wall and hurried across, her high heels click-clacking on the marble floor.
She stared critically at my chinos and plain white shirt, then gave a sharp nod. Her eyes narrowed as Yveta and Galina exited the bathroom.
Yveta seemed a lot more sober when she saw Trixie’s grim expression, throwing a nervous glance at Galina, who looked as if she was about to pass out.
Without a word spoken, we followed Trixie to the elevator, watching in silence as she keyed in a private code for the Penthouse.
“Don’t speak unless Mr. Volkov asks you a question, give yes and no answers, and smile.”
She’d missed her calling as a cheerleader.
When the elevator doors swept open with a soft thwump, we were facing two heavy-set men with dark suits and emotionless faces, guarding a pair of thick oak doors with ornate handles.
They ignored the wide smile that Trixie sent their way.
“Mr. Volkov is expecting them,” she said, sweeping her arm toward us.
The bodyguard with pale icy eyes held the door open so we could pass inside. He could have been Oleg’s twin: not a reassuring thought.
I’d been expecting an office for a business meeting, but instead we were standing in an expensive suite with thick carpet and muted lighting.
The air was heavy with cigar smoke and I could smell weed, too.
Squinting through the clouds, I counted three men and a woman, all lounging on the wide Italian sectionals, drinking champagne.
One of the men was out of place in the classy room. He was heavily tatted and bearded, with a leather vest over a black t-shirt, and heavy biker boots on his feet. He also had a massive hunting knife in a sheath at his waist.
The other two men wore suits. I was no judge, but they looked expensive.
Then beside me, Yveta gave a soft gasp and I turned to look at her.
“Marta,” she whispered.
The woman sitting on the couch was dressed in a plunging tank top and short skirt, heavily made up, and wearing stripper heels. I wouldn’t have recognized her if Yveta hadn’t said anything.
But then the biker guy laughed and clapped his hand on Marta’s thigh, making her jump and spill her drink. That made him laugh harder as he gripped her leg.
Yveta’s smile froze and she bit her lip as she glanced at me worriedly.
“Ah, my young dancers,” said the man in the center of the room.
I didn’t need to have ESP to know that this was Volkov—the Wolf.
He was well named, with thick gray hair like a mane around his large head and yellow-hazel eyes. He was lean and rangy like a wolf, but it was the way he exuded power that told me he was the man in charge.
“Sit, please,” he said, but it was an order.
I sat on the section furthest away from him, trying to ignore Volkov’s amused expression.