by Nicole Fox
“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. I know better than to ask questions. I need this job, Sergei. Please forgive me.”
He steps back and his hands hit his thighs with a slap. “Why don’t you get on your knees and prove to me why I should keep you.” It’s not a question.
“I don’t … Sergei …”
“Where’s that can-do attitude?” he asks, his voice syrup-sweet and full of venom. “You need this job so bad? Need those good paychecks I sign every week? Then get on your knees and show me why the fuck I shouldn’t just go find someone else to do this job?”
I lower myself to my knees, my skirt bursting at the seams. He loosens his belt and unzips his pants. When he pulls out his cock, I almost gag. It’s only semi-hard. He rubs it a few times before nodding. “Get on with it.”
Tears burn at my eyes as I take his nearly-flaccid dick in my hand, then into my mouth. I choke back my gag reflex as the tears spill down my cheeks, which are hot with humiliation. He gets harder as I go, and I just try to imagine Finn in order to make myself go through the motions.
Sergei at first looks bored, but gets more excited as the act continues. He closes his eyes and pumps his hips a bit. It only takes a few moments before I feel the hot liquid of his release shoot into the back of my throat. He lets out a moan, pulls out of my mouth, and suits himself back up.
“Stay on your knees,” he orders, shoving his forefinger into my face. “Ask me one more question, piss me off one more time, and having my cock in your mouth will feel like a gift.”
I stare at the floor in front of me, afraid to say anything at all. I just nod.
“And lose some weight for fuck’s sake. You look like a whale lately,” he says sharply as he walks into his office, slamming the door behind him.
I run immediately out the door to the hallway bathroom, throwing up the entire contents of my stomach in three violent bursts. My forehead is coated in sweat when I stumble back into the office, searching desperately through my purse for some gum, a mint, anything to take the taste of Sergei from my mouth.
When he emerges an hour later, he throws some files on my desk and tells me to copy and file them before leaving. As he breezes out, he barely looks at me, a scowl cutting deep into his face.
As I start to scan the documents, I realize that in between the pages and pages of Russian documents, there are a few images here and there. One of a woman bound and gagged, her eyes wide with fear. Another of a severed finger, definitely female from the long, painted nail. These are threats. They have to be.
For the first time, I feel real fear. I have been fearful of him, of his power and the extent to which he will go to retain it, since reading through those files. But after being forced to my knees, forced to suck him of right here in the front office where anyone could walk in on us, I realize how unhinged he is. Seeing those photos … now I know he will hurt me, maybe for only the indiscretion of asking a question about what is on his ships. Definitely, if he finds out I have hacked his accounts and stolen sensitive information meant to take him down.
We need to finish this. And soon.
***
Finn
I’m at the diner, enjoying a greasy burger with loads of unhealthy toppings, when two guys come in. They’re both in suits. Both in sunglasses. Both have that greasy look about them. They sit in the booth behind mine, ordering in English but conversing in Russian. This perks my ears.
The waitress comes back with their drinks and they flirt with her. One asks, “Why’s a pretty girl like you serving slop in a diner?”
“Girl’s gotta pay the bills,” she says. “So be good tippers, okay, boys? None of this ten-percent business.”
“Buddy of ours is lookin’ for a new assistant in his office,” the other goon says. “Says the position should come open in the next week or so. Easy work. Mostly answering phones, copying, filing, managing his calendar. Interested?”
“I’ve never worked in an office before,” she says.
“I think you’d do just fine,” the first goon says. “A beauty like you would be a joy to have in any office.”
She giggles. “Don’t sweet-talk me. Where’s the office?”
“Not too far from here. Kovolov’s the guy’s name. He runs a family shipping business.”
“Well, let me know when it opens,” she says noncommittally. “I’ll go check on your lunches.”
I finish my lunch, acting like nothing is wrong, paying my bill and hitting the restroom before slipping out the back door so the two guys can’t see my face. I’m surely on Kovolov’s shit-list since that night at Selena’s and they might be on the lookout for me now.
As I walk to my car, I run through the conversation in my head. If Kovolov is looking for a new assistant, he must be getting rid of Selena. Is it possible he knows she’s been in his files? Or perhaps he’s just grown bored of her since she won’t sleep with him? Either way, in Kovolov’s world, getting rid of someone doesn’t mean the person will walk away with a reference or a severance package. It usually means they leave in a body bag.
I’d heard a rumor once, through some of my clients, that Kovolov had been under suspicion for the disappearance of one of his assistants. She was young, only barely twenty, I think, and she just up and went missing. The police questioned Kovolov but released him. Four months later, parts of her body showed up throughout the five boroughs.
I’ve got to get her out of there. Now. I know it’s risky to go near his office, but I need to see her. Need to know she’s okay. I try calling but she doesn’t answer, so I drive to the office and park right out front in the loading zone.
The front-desk security person yells at me as I come in the front door. “Hey, dude, that’s a loading zone only. You can’t park there.”
“I’m just picking up my girlfriend for an appointment,” I say, hands in the air.
“Well, then go park in the garage,” he says. “Seriously, you can’t park there.”
“Just give me a minute,” I say sharply, running to the elevator. The doors open and I press three, hoping I can get to her before the security guard goes ballistic.
When the door opens, I sprint to the door of Kovolov’s office. I see her at her desk—her face looks puffy, as if she’s been crying. I tap on the glass door and she looks up, her eyes going wide. She walks to the door, peering out.
“What are you doing here? This isn’t safe,” she whispers.
“I was worried about you,” I said. “I came to get you out of here.”
“I’ve got a few things to finish,” she says. “I’ll see you at home at five.”
“You look like you’ve been crying,” I say. “What did he do?”
“Everything’s fine,” she insists. “Just go. If he comes back and you’re here …”
The elevator dings and she stiffens, her eyes darting to see who’s coming. It’s the security guard, who stomps over and grabs me by the elbow.
“I told you; you can’t park out there. Get on out of here, buddy,” he says. “Otherwise we’re going to have a whole other conversation.”
This guy has no idea that I could have him on the ground before he says his next word, but I don’t want to make a scene. I let him lead me to the elevator and down to the lobby, but as I go, I look over my shoulder. I say, “Call me if anything weird happens.”
Selena nods. The security guard says, “Thought she had a doctor’s appointment?”
“She canceled it, I guess,” I say with a shrug.
“Well, whatever,” he says. “Go find a parking spot if you want to come back in. Don’t make me chase after you next time. I don’t get paid enough for that shit.”
All in all, he’s pretty nice about it, so I just give him a salute and head back out to my car.
It’s going to be a long afternoon, waiting for her to get home from work. I’m tempted to stick around, just to see when he comes back, but I just have to hope that she will be all right. I can’t protect her until she is in my line o
f sight, so I can only hope that I am wrong about Sergei’s plans, or that he won’t carry them out right away.
Chapter Twelve
Selena
It’s only two. I have been sexually assaulted and had Finn in here freaking out and it’s only two in the afternoon. How can that be?
After a quick check to confirm that Sergei is in a scheduled meeting, I head back into his office and hack back into his files. He hasn’t changed the passwords, which I hope means he hasn’t figured out that I’ve been stealing information.
This time, I don’t look at files, I just copy them to a thumb drive. I am quick and efficient, in and out in only twenty minutes, back to work, all the while hating and fearing Sergei in equal measure. I still can’t get the taste of him out of my mouth. It makes me gag again just thinking about it.
Sergei comes back around four, a wide smile on his face fading as he faces me at my desk. He leans in and says, “I fucked a woman twice as hot as you at lunch. Ate pussy and made her scream with pleasure.”
“That’s nice for you,” I say, looking at my computer.
“Stand up,” he says sharply. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
I look up and see that his eyes are dark. Rage? Sadism? Challenge? Arousal? Maybe all of the above, and it scares me, but I stand, hands at my sides. Act normal. Act normal. Don’t act scared.
I stand, and pain in my stomach feels like a knife. It’s like menstrual cramps times ten and I feel my face contort as I double over. “I just,” I gasp, “Just one second, please.” I run out the door and down the hall to the restroom, shutting myself in the stall, sitting bent half over as I wait for the cramping to subside.
I focus on my breathing, using my yoga practice to guide me. Maybe I’m just stressed out. Anyone would be under these circumstances. It’s going to be fine. I just need to get up and go back to work and tell him I’m fine.
Finally, the pain subsides and I walk slowly back to the office. Sergei is back at his desk, on a phone call, when I sit back down. He eyes me warily but seems less angry, less contentious. He speaks in Russian, as usual, and fiddles with a rubber band as he talks. I get back to trying to finish my day, reading email, though the cramping persists, and I feel suddenly extremely nauseated.
A little after five, I get up and collect my things, but just as I step out from behind my desk, my skin goes cold and clammy and my vision goes fuzzy. I reach out, trying to find anything to brace myself, but find nothing as my knees buckle.
I wake up with Sergei standing over me. He’s saying my name, snapping his fingers in my face. I blink a few times and then realize I must have fainted. Great. I manage to sit up, collecting my things. My purse has fallen, contents are scattered across the floor, including the thumb drive of evidence. A pit forms in my stomach. I’ve got to get that in my purse without him seeing it.
“What happened, Selena?” he asks. “Are you okay?”
“I’m just …” I start, reaching out to pull all of my things toward me. I manage to grab the thumb drive and a hairbrush together, throwing them into my bag, flustered. “I just don’t feel well today. I’m sorry.”
“Well, perhaps I should drive you to the hospital,” he says.
“No,” I say. “No, that’s not necessary. I’m sure it’s just a stomach bug or something.”
He narrows his eyes as he looks at my stomach. I’m not more than seven or eight weeks pregnant. I don’t even have an appointment to confirm it for another two weeks. I can’t possibly look pregnant, though he told me earlier I looked like a whale. I give him a rueful smile as I gather my things back into my purse. As I stand, though, I feel woozy again, the cramps forcing me to sit back down in a nearby office chair.
“That’s it,” he says. “I am taking you to the hospital. No arguments.”
Sergei holds my elbow the whole way out to the parking garage. He insists on helping me put on my seatbelt. As it clicks into place, I feel sick with a sense that I am not safe, even as he says, “I’ll take good care of you, Selena.”
He drops me at the emergency room at Brooklyn Hospital and says he’s going to go park the car. I assure him he doesn’t need to stay, that I’ll be fine, but he says he insists. He wants to personally oversee my care.
I head to the check-in desk and share as quickly as I can that I believe I’m pregnant. I tell them my boss brought me here, that I don’t want him to know any of my medical business. I can hear in my voice the threat of tears. The nurse assures me that she’ll make a note that doctors and nurses are not to discuss my medical information with anyone but me. I breathe for the first time since I arrived.
After filling out paperwork and getting a plastic wristband, a young woman in a candy-striped dress brings a wheelchair. She wheels me to the elevator, up a few levels, and then down a few hallways. I’m taken immediately to an area cordoned off into four tiny triage suites, surrounded by curtains and each with only enough room for a bed and a sink.
I’m helped out of the chair and told to put on the hospital gown that is neatly folded on the bed, that a nurse will be in in just a moment. After doing as told and climbing onto the bed, I send Finn a quick text.
Selena: Hospital. Don’t Come. S is here.
Finn: Hospital?
Selena: Cramping. No stress.
I delete everything as soon as I get a thumbs-up in response.
When the nurse comes in, she takes my temperature, blood pressure, and asks me my weight and height. She says, “The notes say you fainted today, and that you experienced extreme cramping. And that you’re pregnant? Do you know about how far along?”
I give a little shrug, peering past her just to make sure Sergei isn’t waiting outside the curtain. “My boss brought me here,” I say in a low, desperate voice. “He can’t know I’m pregnant. Not yet.”
She gives one big, knowing nod. “What does he look like?” she asks.
I give a description and she promises that he’ll be asked to wait in the waiting room and not permitted into my hospital room before she tells me she’ll be back with the doctor in a few minutes.
A few minutes stretches into a few more, and it has been nearly an hour before anyone comes back into the little triage suite. A squat but kind-looking female doctor introduces herself as Doctor McElroy.
“Have you had any bleeding?” she asks.
“No,” I say.
“Morning sickness?”
“Lots, yes,” I say. “And I’ve been stressed at work, so it’s probably just that.”
“Well, maybe,” she says before giving a pointed look at my wedding rings. “Husband?”
I open my mouth then shut it quickly. “He’s not around.”
“Asshole,” the doctor says with a wink. “And I’m told that you’re worried about your boss learning you’re pregnant?”
“Yes,” I say. “It’s so early, and I just started this job a few weeks ago. I just … he can be volatile. I’m not ready to tell him. I need this job. You know?”
“I got you, girl,” she says, patting my arm.
“Thank you,” I say with a relieved sigh. “Do you … do you think the baby’s okay? I mean … do you think I’m miscarrying?”
“I need to do a few things before I can answer that question. For now, I need you to lie back and relax.”
Doctor McElroy pokes around my abdomen, asking me where things hurt. She finds a tender spot and I cringe, which makes her cringe and ask a nurse to have an ultrasound machine brought in. When that nurse leaves, another comes in and whispers something in the doctor’s ear. She frowns and excuses herself, scurrying out of the small space, the sound of the surrounding curtain scraping on the rail and sending a shiver down my spine.
***
Finn
Well, shit. Now I’m worried. Selena’s at the hospital and that murderous criminal is there with her. What would Kovolov do if he knew she was pregnant? I have images of him kicking her in the stomach in my head and it makes me sick, bile rising in m
y throat as I debate about going in and just putting the guy down right there in the hospital, come what may.
Of course, walking into a hospital and blasting away like some gangster is not the best course of action. I know that. So I decide I need to use the empty office to my advantage. If Kovolov is focused on Selena, and Selena is in a fairly safe and public place, then that means the office is dark. Selena’s given me a lot of good stuff, but I need more. And I need to see it myself. This is my chance.
I park a couple of blocks away, happy to find a new security guard on duty at the front desk. He’s on the phone, engaged in what sounds like an intense argument with someone. He doesn’t even see me slip past him and to the stairwell.
