Viper

by Marata Eros

  “And you need it,” she quips.

  Maybe.

  I tell Ashley then let Gia drag me to Club Alpha.

  *

  I find it very difficult to let this man, whom I don't know at all, circle me like a cow on the auction block.

  I stifle the urge to moo.

  “I have a copy of your questionnaire, Ms. Dahlem.”

  He butchers the pronunciation.

  “It's Dahl-em. Like doll then em.”

  Rich hazel eyes scrutinize me, and I curse under my breath as my fair complexion springs to life in a blush I don't have to see to know that bright pink color has flooded my cheeks.

  “You betcha, darlinʼ,” Zaire Sebastian replies in a droll voice.

  “Cut the cute, Zaire. I told you Greta's a little shy.”

  Zaire winks at her, tipping his huge cowboy hat, which hides curls of moppy dark-blond hair. His gaze moves back to me, appraising me. “Not that shy. I'd say detail-oriented is more Greta's style.”

  I kick my chin up a little at his assessment. “Have you seen my paperwork?”

  His eyes are shadowed as they meet mine. “I've skimmed it. But soon I'll practically know it by heart.” He crosses his fingers over his muscular chest and puts two fingers up, mimicking a Boy Scout pledge. “Promise.”

  Zaire's eyebrows plunge, his expression instantly morphing to seriousness. He looks at an image of me as I was when I first arrived. I was wearing a silk shell blouse in a soft pearl so lustrous and light it resembled a cup of cream instead of white, a deep red pencil skirt, and four-inch heels in nude, which matched my stockings to perfection. I buy only Italian-made hosiery. They have the sizes someone of my height needs for a true fit.

  I'm a sweaty mess now, though. Yoga pants and a sheer T-shirt cling to every crevice of me. I swipe a strand of hair out of my face. The tight dutch braid that sinks into a low knot at my nape never quite holds all of it.

  “What did you say you do for conditioning?”

  His eyes boldly rove my body. I feel the blush swim back to healthy life.

  Damn.

  Gia grins.

  I scowl back.

  “I ski during the colder months...”

  His eyebrows jerk up. “You're...” He appears to think about it, then says, “Twenty-four?”

  I nod, puzzling over his bewilderment.

  “It's not typical for someone your age to be a skier; snowboarding's more like it.”

  I shrug. “I'm Norwegian. They toss us out the front door as toddlers with skis instead of shoes.”

  “Yes,” he says with a thoughtful small smile, “I read that in your nationality breakdown.” He gives me steady eyes. “Pure, yes?”

  My heart thuds, and fresh sweat dampens my palms. I feel Gia at my back.

  I push images of fair flesh on hands, pale eyes in shades of blues and greens far away. My attackers are Caucasian.

  I lick my lips. “Yes, one hundred percent.”

  Zaire turns toward his desk and picks something up. “That's a rare thing in America nowadays. Melting pot and all.”

  I nod. I know. I so know.

  “Dual citizen?” he asks, turning with a tape measure in his hand.

  I shake my head. “No, orphan.”

  Zaire says nothing while taking the measurements of my waist, hips, and bust.

  I blush again when he tightens the tape around my breasts.

  “Don't breathe,” he says, winking. “You're five-ten?” His eyes rise to mine.

  I nod.

  He writes nothing down.

  “A few things off the bat we should straighten out before yʼall get started down this path.” He looks at me expectantly.

  “Okay,” I say, cupping my elbows and retreating a step.

  “There are a few candidates who have a very narrow idea of what they find attractive.”

  Gia makes a disbelieving noise in the background. “She's so perfect it's sick, Zaire—you know this.”

  I think I'm going up in flames at this point.

  Zaire raises his palm while I study my feet. God, Gia.

  “She is a wonderful specimen of the female form, yes. A regular Eve. However...” He pauses, and my head snaps up from admiring the lush carpet of his office. “She is tall, very blond, and thin. Not every man wants to be with an Amazon who looks like a Nordic goddess.”

  I suddenly feel as inept as I did when Gia first coerced me into trying Club Alpha. Of course, the fee of fifty million dollars made participation unlikely for me to ever be a part of it.

  But Gia is old money. That’s nothing for her. She makes Paris Hilton look like a pauper.

  “Hey, girl, quit that face,” Zaire says, placing a gentle finger underneath my chin.

  I stare into his face. Zaire's eyes are kind, and he says nothing about the sheen he must see in mine.

  “Some of us gents think a filly with legs longer than ours is primo.” He pushes the blond tendrils of hair still loose from my unraveling bun behind an ear. “Some of us love a girl so fair, she's skin and ice in the flesh. With eyes like glacial seas.” He clears his throat, clearly somewhat embarrassed by his verbal poetry.

  “I forget the golden tongue you have,” Gia comments wryly.

  Zaire grins. “Helps in court.”

  “Though you make so much money now you don't bother with law much anymore, do you?”

  “No, I'm cupid for the rich.” Zaire mimes nocking an invisible arrow in a bow. I can almost hear the whisper as he lets go for his imagined target.

  I shake my head. “That's not really true. There's—there is stuff in here about dismemberment, injuries... things.”

  Zaire sets his jean clad butt up against his desk, his eyes at half-mast. He crosses his feet at the ankles, regarding me. “True. I'll try to keep you out of the true danger but these fantasies have a way of progressing in a natural way. Exponentially.” He spreads his arms away from his body, and I notice how big his hands are. A trigger niggles, and I quickly look away.

  “That line I gave you about your looks?”

  My face swings back in his direction.

  “Well, there are a lot of clients where you're not within the standards of attraction.”

  I deflate, air sliding out of my tight chest.

  “Then there are a few where you fall in like a round peg in a perfect circular hole.”

  I open my mouth then close it.

  Gia steps forward. “So there are a few possible matches for Greta?”

  Zaire grins. “I think we can give it the old college try.”

  He sees us to the door. Having been weighed, cataloged, and measured, I feel as though Zaire knows me better than he should. Once he reads through the questionnaire, he'll know me better than anyone alive.

  Zaire opens the door. He touches my shoulder as I pass, and I flinch.

  His eyes tighten imperceptibly at my reaction. “One question?”

  “Okay.”

  “You're not racist are ya, darlinʼ?”

  I laugh. Hell no. “No.”

  “Good.”

  His eyes meet Gia behind my shoulder. “Three days.”

  “My accountant will square up with you, Zaire.”

  “Always a pleasure, Ms. Township,” he says. His gaze moves to me.

  “So long, Ms. Dahlem.”

  He says my name perfectly as he takes my hand. Instead of shaking it, he squeezes my hand softly and lets it drop.

  I turn away and don't look back.

  Three more days of my old life.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Paco

  My hands are loose as I face Tallinn. He feints and I follow his movement like water through a cleft in a rock. Still, he moves to where my elbows don't guard closely enough.

  Jab.

  His knuckles sink deep, stealing my breath.

  I slap him; his face rocks back from the speed and force.

  He spits blood out. “Paco,” Tallinn reprimands, “what is this hitting like a girl bullshit? I t
ry to teach you boxing, and you slap me?”

  I punch him in the gut.

  Tallinn doubles over.

  With a roar, he moves to my torso with his head, picking me up like a bull with horns.

  I wrap my legs around his midsection, and he slams me onto the dojo mat.

  “No karate!” he bellows, and I give a low curse.

  With my level of proficiency, I often dream in karate. I counter smoothly anyway, heaving him off. I leap deftly to the balls of my feet, bouncing. I’m ready for whatever he'll bring.

  “You are such a prick, Paco.”

  “Yes,” I say without a hint of disagreement.

  We sway slightly as we circle each other.

  “You sure this will be part of the fantasy—boxing?” Tallinn's voice is strong with his disbelief.

  I throw a strike, hard and fast, to his jaw, but he blocks it. I'm very good with my left hand, though it's not dominant, and I follow the blow closely with a jab meant to disable him.

  It glances off his forearm.

  “Fuck! You're strong, you Latin dick!”

  I smile.

  Tallinn flings insults at me. However, I am not diminished, but edified by strife.

  He rolls his brown eyes in a face that is just as dark. Muscles roil beneath finely honed arms and legs. Tallinn is here for his athletic grace, prowess, and his ability to guard—and because he is my friend, though not so much when sparring.

  “Technically, I am Hispanic in origin, my friend.”

  He wallops me in a fine move in what Tallinn terms the breadbasket. My insides spasm. Instinctively, I move into his body, leaving my awesome reach behind, and scissors kick his legs apart.

  “No—oh!” He drops like a ton of bricks.

  Tallinn blinks up at me. “No karate.” The words come out of a tight throat.

  I shake my head. “That is more the flavor of jujitsu.”

  Our stares collide, and I throw out a palm.

  “Douche,” Tallinn says, slapping his hand into mine.

  I grin.

  “Yeah”—he nods, jerking a towel off the wood tree full of pegs to hold such things—“keep smiling.” He peeks at me from behind the bright-white terry cloth. “Not bad today, by the way.”

  I incline my head.

  “Were you ‘bringing it’?”

  Tallinn looks up into my face and begins to chuckle, then it morphs into a guffaw that sounds like a tortured donkey’s braying.

  I frown.

  “Man, just don't try, will ya? Leave the slang for the naturals, such as my wise ass.”

  I nod. “Yes, wonderful.” I stalk off, and he follows.

  “Hey, don't get your silk boxers in a twist, Romeo. You'll do fine.”

  I whirl, and he stops—ready for my attack. I smile despite my annoyance. “I love that about you, Tallinn.”

  His eyebrows hike. “You do?” He folds his arms, and his face portrays pure skepticism. “What do you love?”

  “You are ready to fight at any moment.”

  “Pfft.” He scrubs the skull cap of his dark-brown curly hair. “Well, yeah, man. Anytime.”

  I point my finger at him. “That is what I wish for.”

  He pulls a face, his jaw jerking back. “Stop wishing and start being, Paco. If this fantasy thing”—he palms his chin—“is some kind of slice of random all the time, that is your best defense—a good offense.”

  He looks over my lean frame. “And I recommend bulking up, pal.”

  I glance down. My body fat hangs at six percent.

  “You got the nice Benedict Cumberbatch cheekbones. The green peepers the ladies dig, but you want to beef yourself up with some muscle mass, look menacing.”

  “Do I not look as though I could be threatening?”

  Tallinn throws his arms apart, and the muscular planes of his chest strain against the taut material of his shirt. “I know you are, Paco, but with your fancy clothes and refined vibe, it's not expected.”

  “I do not wish it to be.”

  Tallinn rolls his eyes. “Okay—whatever. All I'm saying is give the dudes the feeling that you got potential.”

  “Potential?” My lips quirk.

  “Don't give me your vaguely amused look.”

  I try not to look amused and it makes my mouth ache instead.

  “Okay, now you look constipated.”

  I burst out laughing, and so does he. Tallinn claps me on the back.

  “What I'm saying is: if you look the part, they might not mess with you.”

  “I believe the sort that Club Alpha employs will be very interested in messing with me.”

  We stare at each other.

  “What about the girl?”

  I look at Tallinn then away. “There is no girl.”

  An image of the blond angel from the bar over two years ago floats to the surface of my mind—it never leaves the tombs of my mind.

  “Not yet.”

  My eyes slide back to his as the memory dissipates like vapor. “I have never been the protective type. If that's what you're inferring.”

  Tallinn snorts. “There's an inner Alpha in you, begging to be free, man. And I'm here to tell you, if the right chick comes along, you'll die to protect her.”

  I sigh. What have I gotten myself into?

  We begin to walk out of the dojo. My dojo. The metal door slams behind us, echoing loudly. We walk down the long hallway, seeking the indoor pool that will serve as my cardio friend for the next half hour.

  “Isn't this the point of the entire fantasy? You're rich, really rich.”

  I narrow my eyes at him for restating the obvious.

  He ignores my look and moves forward. “Every bitch from here to Timbuktu would love a piece of the pie that is Paco. And you're not interested. You want a bushel of bambinos but on your terms. Thinkinʼ you can avoid that prenup and have real L.O.V.E.”

  “Fantastic synopsis, Tallinn.”

  “Why didn't you just try eHarmony or some shit?”

  That would have been the path of least resistance. “Zaire guarantees a set of circumstances tailor-made to flush out the merit of the women.”

  “Women?”

  I nod. “Apparently, there might be more than one perfect match. And she is wealthy in her own right, so my money should not be a factor.”

  Tallinn whistles quietly. “What about your merit?”

  I fold my arms across my chest. “What of it?”

  “Well, if she has to jump through hoops to... what? Prove her worth? What's to say the same isn't happening with you?”

  I answer with silence.

  “Ha! Knew it. We've got some rich babes signed up for the fantasy freight train, and you don't know who the passengers are or how you'll hold up under their inspection.” Tallinn nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, that's dee-lish. I want to watch.”

  “You're a pest,” I say, smiling.

  “Yeah, I am. Anyway, you're not allowed to blab about what paces Sebastian puts you through?”

  I shake my head, stripping my sweats off to my swim trunks below. I push through the glass door and breathe deeply of the mildly chlorinated air. I jerk my sweat-soaked shirt over my head and toss it into a pile by the edge of the pool.

  Tallinn follows, of course, walking in a loose perimeter around me. “Damn, man! Are you Adonis or what?”

  “Not that I'm aware of.”

  I dive in, slicing the water smoothly. I twirl underneath then come up for breath. I break the surface, and Tallinn is there, seated on his haunches.

  “So when does it all begin?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  Tallinn leaps up. “Damn, better get you in the boxing groove.”

  I turn away to begin laps.

  Tallinn races along the pool's edge. “Cut this cardio shit short, Paco—it's keeping you too lean. Come to your million-dollar weight room instead. I'll beef ya up. Hell—you have the size. Am I not your personal trainer or what?”

  I push off from the pool's
end, turning to backstroke. I count the strokes as I move to the other side of the pool.

  “What do you say?” he bellows from the other end of the pool.

  I heave an internal sigh. “Yes,” I reply.

  The door flaps shut, and I try to concentrate on fluidity, but my mind is on other things.

  Danger.

  The unknown her.

  *

  I do the sequence of yoga exercises on the floor of my office, as I have for six years.

  My body screams with the soreness caused the day before. Tallinn put me through a weight-lifting regime he promises will have me bulked up quickly.

  I arch, my palms and feet a bridge above the floor, with my chest facing the ceiling.

  The shrill beep of the intercom buzzes and my form wavers.

  “Yes?” I say, and the voice recognition kicks on, turning it to speaker and relaying my response.

  “Mr. Castillo, Mr. Estrada is on line one for you.”

  “Thank you, Esmerelda.”

  I slowly break form, caving and shifting to my knees. I stand, hold my position for a full second, then stride to the phone.

  I hit the button, trying to stifle irritation.

  “Bueno?” I bark into the phone.

  “Paco, how are you?” my cousin asks in Spanish.

  “I am well, and you?” I lean back on the desk, crossing my legs at the ankle, wondering if Club Alpha employs relatives for their scheme.

  Perhaps.

  My suspicion knows no limits. My heart rate ticks faster, sending a pleasant flutter of anticipation coursing through me. It is the first day of the three months.

  I expect everything—and nothing.

  We chat about our mothers and the weather. Finally, Ramiro comes to the crux of it.

  “We are having some trouble with the narco, Paco.”

  My stomach tightens. My upbringing is remarkable, in that, I spent only a few years in Mazatlán, Mexico. I’ve been frequently in the states ever since, and I am American educated. Though my accent is flawless, the cadence of my speech sometimes gives me away as foreign born.

  And apparently, so does my less-than-stellar grasp of American idioms and vernaculars; so says Tallinn.

  I spin my pen between the webbing of my fingers absently, contemplating how I can break from work to travel south and smooth the feathers of the local drug cartel so they will not infringe on my family who remains there.

  Dealing with the narcos is a necessary evil.