Chasing Sergei: Dark Romance

by Aubrey Collins

  Every time she mentioned therapy he would grow angry, turn red with rage and shame.

  He didn’t need any counseling. Sure, he had nightmares for the first year or so after returning but that was all behind him. He was fine now. He was a man. Again. Restored. He didn't need to talk to anybody. Those memories weren't going to come back and haunt him. No, they weren't. He was going to live in the present. Focus on today. Only worry about what he could control.

  But as he thought back to that night, sitting in the driveway, drunk, the rain pounding down on his car, knowing that Cindy was inside, knowing that she would frown when she saw him stumble through the door and she curse under her breath when she smelled his whiskey fire-breathing breath.

  “Fuck it!” He’d said before opening the garage door and pulling into it. When he got up to the living room he saw Cindy sitting on the couch, a glass of wine in one hand, the remote in the other.

  She must have heard him stomping up the steps. She must have known that he was standing behind her, towering over her with a drunken snarl on his face. She took a sip from the glass and began flicking through channels.

  Nicholson stood behind her in a drunken daze. He couldn’t figure out why she wasn’t turning around. What the hell was wrong with her?

  He reached out and put a hand against the wall, trying to steady himself. “Is dinner ready?”

  Cindy slowly stood up from the couch. She kept her back turned to him as she lifted her glass of white wine, tilted her head back, and finished it off.

  He took several steps closer to her. He repeated the question. She slowly turned around.

  “AHHHHHHH!!!!” Nicholson screamed.

  Cindy had launched her empty wine glass at his head. He hadn’t been able to get out of the way. It had smashed into his forehead. He could feel trickles of blood. He looked at his hands. His eyes grew wide with shock. He glared at her.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  She smirked and stared at him defiantly.

  He charged at her. Grabbed her by the neck. Shook her, then brought her down to the floor, straddling her. She looked up at him terrified.

  He paused, arm poised above his head, eyes red with rage. He would make her pay. He wouldn’t let her talk to him like that. Fucking bitch! Didn’t she know that everything he did, every fucking thing was for this family? Didn’t she know that?

  “DADDY! STOP IT!”

  “DON’T HURT MOMMY!”

  Chapter 14

  Sergei got up from the hotel bed, walked to the window, pulled back the curtain, and looked down into the parking lot. His eyes scanned left then right: still the same six cars that had been there thirty minutes ago.

  He knew that his time was running out. He regretted ever coming to the United States. What had he been thinking? How foolish had he been to agree to this mission? He should have known that he wasn’t cut out for this kind of work.

  He paced around the room, mumbling to himself, cursing his luck, cursing how naive he had been. He had been living the life, everything paid for, every night a party, champagne, caviar, grilled lobster, fried calamari, the best cocaine and whores that money could buy.

  “Tomorrow at 5PM,” the husky voice had said in a Russian accent. “We’ll come get you.”

  He hadn’t been able to get those words out of his mind. It was the first call that he had ever received a call on that phone. Something about the shrill ring contrasted with the deep scratchy voice on the other end of the line made his legs wobble and flooded his entire body with fear. They wanted to meet. They would be picking him up in three hours. That’s what they told him. But there was no way that he was going to sit around waiting for them to come grab him, blindfold him, take him somewhere threaten him, torture him, and then…BANG BANG. TWO SHOTS IN THE BACK OF THE HEAD. Or maybe they would make him suffer for hours before finally finishing him off, stuffing him in a black garbage bag and tossing him into a river.

  He was going crazy. This was no way to live. What did he know about politics, international relations, the Americans? Why the hell had they recruited him for this mission? Maybe the whole thing was a big joke. And the bullet in the back of his head would be the punch line.

  After chewing his nails down to the skin, he went to the freezer and pulled out a near empty bottle of Stolichnaya. He poured some into a cup over ice, hoping that it would calm his nerves. He took a long, slow sip, then smacked his lips together, wondering if this would be the last time he ever enjoyed this sweet biting taste, wondering if this would be the last time that he ever enjoyed luxury and comfort, wondering if his next resting place would be in a ditch or maybe at the bottom of a body of water.

  He shivered.

  This was a game of chess, a deadly one, and he was terribly outmatched. Running appeared to be the only option. Trying to reason with the Kremlin’s goons would have been absurd. By the time that they brought you into the interrogation room, your fate had already been decided. At that moment, all of your crying and pleading and pledging of loyalty meant nothing, especially if your work didn’t require any particular specialization. Any dandy or playboy with a taste for leisure and the finer things in life, who relished wild, uninhibited sexual encounters with models and actresses could replace him. Anybody who didn’t mind being tailed by the FBI could step right into his shoes.

  Suddenly he stopped, froze, his eyes opened wide. The FBI. Those two agents. What were their names? He tried to remember. Yes! Grabowski. He smiled. Blonde hair, full breasts, curvy, sweet alabaster flesh. What a deliciously slutty woman, who had swirled her tongue around the rim of his asshole, then jabbed it in and out as she sucked and slurped and swallowed every last drip drop of cum juice that squirted from his thick rod.

  Damn! She had been so much fun! And her partner Nicholson, dark, brooding with a big veiny cock that he didn’t mind using on men or women. Sergei had thoroughly enjoyed playing with him as well. Never before had he been intimate with a man but at the time it had seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

  He smiled wryly and shook his head from side to side, marveling at how the Americans never ceased to amaze and surprise him, constantly figuring out new ways to ensnare and entrap their enemies. Or maybe there was some other reason why they had come up to his hotel room with lust burning in their eyes and loins. He would have time to figure that out later or quite possibly he wouldn’t. Whatever the case, he needed to get in touch with them. In all likelihood they were the only thing, as absurd and strange as it sounds, standing between him and a Kremlin bullet to the back of the head.

  He reached into his wallet and pulled out the card that Nicholson had given him right before leaving. There was no name on it, just a phone number on the back. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes. Was he really going to call the Americans, the FBI, the people that were hunting him, the people that were at war with his country, was he really going to call them, asking for help, asking for them to save him from his own government? Was he really going to do that?

  No! There was no way that he could commit such an act of treason. There had to be another escape route. For a moment, he considered ripping up the card, flushing it down the toilet, and burning that bridge. But he decided against taking that, measure that would have too harsh and perhaps foolish. If he had absolutely no other options and found himself staring death straight in the face then maybe he would…

  He didn’t want to finish the thought. Just thinking about having to turn to his enemies for help made him feel weak. He hated that feeling. He gritted his teeth. Anger shone in his eyes. He put the card back into his wallet.

  He spent the next 15 minutes on his laptop, researching and then buying a one-way Amtrak as far across the country as he could get. Chicago seemed like a good destination. He’d be able to lay low in a few of the remaining Russian enclaves.

  He packed a small travel bag and prepared to leave the hotel room and head to Union Station. If he could just get on that train, get out of town, lay low,
he would be able to weather the purge that was apparently underway. If he could only get to the station and on the train without them knowing.

  But that was precisely the problem. They seemed to know everything and be everywhere.

  Chapter 15

  Grabowski unwrapped the towel from her waist and stepped into the shower. As the hot water, cascading down on her flesh, she closed her eyes and sighed. There was so much weighing on her mind and spirit. So much had happened over the last week and she had a strong feeling that things would not be slowing down anytime soon. The world seemed like it was on the brink of a massive war. Tensions between the United States and Russia didn’t show any signs cooling off anytime soon—quite the opposite actually.

  And then, of course, there was the matter of her threesome with Nicholson and the Russian spy Sergei. Within the next 24 hours, they would have to hand over the damning recorded footage to their regional director. When he saw how exactly they had chosen to engage the spy, there was no telling how infuriated he would be. It might end the investigation. It might end both hers and Nicholson's careers in the Bureau. She was only a damn rookie—an overzealous, passionate, hardheaded rookie. Had she already thrown this opportunity away? Would she ever be able to get another job in law enforcement? And maybe the most troubling question of all, How would her father, a longtime lawman react when he found out—and he would find out one way or another—why exactly she had been fired?

  But maybe all hope wasn’t lost. Before dropping her off several hours ago, Nicholson had told her that he had a plan, something that would get them off the hook from having to show Mackenzie any of the video footage.

  Of course, it was common knowledge that the Bureau had a long history of nefarious deeds, decade’s worth of dirty dealings with enemies of the state both real and imagined. When thought about in that context maybe what they did wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe their wild orgy, which had put the Russian spy in a very compromising position, maybe they could sell it to Mackenzie as a brilliant tactical move. He wanted information on this Sergei, wanted to know that the time and money spent on following this dandy, playboy, and bon vivant was actually worth the effort.

  Well, now they had him by the balls, literally and figuratively.

  The hot water continued to land on her flesh, gently massaging it, gradually calming her spirit. Steam rose around her. She squirted body wash onto a soft blue sponge and rubbed it all over her body, smiling wickedly, wondering what Nicholson would think of her idea. Sergei, that silly Russian bastard. He had fallen into their trap. Yes, that's the way they would play it. It wasn't some spontaneous burst of uncontrollable, animal lust that had led them up to his hotel room, and inspired the hours of no holds barred, sweaty, monkey love. No, that wasn’t it at all. It had all been planned and calculated. Like a perfect combination in chess. Once again an American had taken down a Russian over the board of 64 black and white squares.

  Sergei might not have been one of Putin’s most clever agents, but he was still so damn sexy—rock hard muscles, lusty green eyes, and pulpy lips. And that horse cock, the way he pounded her with it, shoved it down her throat making her gag while her pussy leaked and dripped and dropped sweet honey nectar fuck juices, the way he had made her suck and lick and slurp and swallow every last drop of his cum. Wow! What an incredible lover! Too bad, he would probably end up in a Gulag before the month was over. Or maybe at the bottom of the river. Too bad for him.

  As she continued to rub the soapy sponge against her skin, she imagined that it was Sergei’s and Nicholson's hands caressing her, imagined that the two men, virile, masculine, and well hung, were both ravaging her, both of them horny, eyes lit up with desire, and then they would start playing with each other, the two men, one Russian, one American, on opposite sides of this war, they would reach across that line, grab at each other's stiff rods, stroking them back and forth, and their mouths would lock, and they would kiss, and she would smile and play along with them, and maybe Sergei would top first, shoving his thick, veiny, purple-headed cock into the FBI man's ass, pumping him deep and good, fucking him hard and strong, and while he was doing that she would get down on her knees and sucking on Nicholson's beautiful dick, stroking it back and forth, licking up and down the shaft, swirling her tongue around the head, flicking her tongue against the piss slit, savoring the subtle taste of his precum. And then she would stick a finger or two into that tight asshole, which was almost completely filled by Sergei’s powerful rod pumping in and out of it.

  She leaned her head back and began strumming her clit, mouth half open with desire, imagining both Nicholson and Sergei splitting her open, pumping her, pounding her, filling her with their hot semen.

  “Ahhhhh!” She let out a deep moan and shivered as an electric orgasm passed through her body as her juices began to spill onto her fingers. What an incredible feeling! For several minutes, the shower water continued to cascade down on her as she leaned up against the wall, panting, glistening, bliss etched on her face.

  She wasn’t going to let anything happen to Sergei, at least not yet. She looked forward to playing with him and Nicholson again, again, and again. This was going to be a hot, sticky, wet, tension and orgy filled summer.

  Two hours later, Grabowski was on patrol detail, across the street from the Park Hyatt on 24th. This was one of Sergei’s alternate hotels. He would come here when things got too hot at his preferred hotels—The Four Seasons on Pennsylvania Ave. And the Ritz-Carlton in Georgetown.

  Nicholson was behind the wheel, finishing up the last of the meatball wedge. The smell wrinkled her nose. She hated when he ate in the car—no matter what the food—and ended up stinking it up for the rest of the day. Normally, she would have said something. But something about the energy that he was giving off made her hold her tongue. For the last hour or so, they had both been silent. When he was this quiet it was usually a sign that he was trying to suppress a strong cluster of emotions. She desperately wanted to find the right thing to say to cut the tension, yet feared upsetting him and making things even worse.

  In less than an hour, they would be heading to Quantico to meet with the regional director. They would have to hand over the USB with the recorded footage from Sergei’s hotel room, specifically the footage from the night of the orgy. Nicholson supposedly had a plan for how they were going to get out of this perilous situation. She had been counting on him—something that she was beginning to question given the current state of turmoil in his life.

  Not only was she afraid of breaking the silence in the increasingly stinky patrol car that she was even wary of looking in his direction. All she could do was watch him out of the corner of her eye. He seemed stressed and distracted as if his mind were a million miles away, maybe back overseas, on a battlefield, in a theater of war.

  He twisted the cap on a half-filled Snapple bottle and took a long gluttonous gulp.

  She frowned, then furrowed her brow. “There’s no booze in there, right?”

  Nicholson ignored the question and didn’t pull the bottle away from his lips until it was empty.

  Then he replied sharply, “Why do you care?”

  She snapped her head in his direction. She didn’t like his tone. Not one bit. “Just answer the question.”

  He remained silent, didn’t even turn towards her.

  She sighed and crossed her arms against her chest. “Is this how you’re going to communicate today?”

  “Yep.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yep.” His tone was biting and bitter. He still wouldn’t make eye contact with her. She could tell that he was in pain and hurting badly. If only he would tell her what was wrong…Was it his PTSD flaring up? His upcoming child custody hearing? Or did all this brooding have to do with the thing that she couldn’t stop thinking about, the thing that they never should have done, the thing that they would be held accountable and most likely punished severely for? And how did he really feel about having been so intimate with her, even
if they weren’t alone? Would their relationship ever be the same again?

  So many questions bubbled inside of her. His silence was only heightening her anxiety. If only he would drop the tough guy, cop act and allow himself to be vulnerable, enabling her to comfort and help him through this difficult time. She wanted to just come right out and say that to him. But she knew all too well how the macho culture that he belonged to functioned. He would grit his teeth and bare it, grunting, cursing, drinking, fighting, anything to avoid having to truly confront his pain.

  She still remembered the file that she had seen on him before they began working together— specifically the photos that she had seen of his wife, showing in no uncertain terms the beating that he had given her that day when he had snapped. They were brutal. Even thinking about them almost a year later made her tremble.

  He turned the key in the ignition and started the engine. She turned towards him. “Where are we going?” She asked, dreading the answer.

  “To hand in our resignations?”

  “What?”

  “It’s the only way,” he said, still refusing to turn towards her. “Once that asshole watches the footage we’re done for anyway.”

  “That’s your plan? Give up? Resign? Are you kidding me?”

  No answer. Moments later the troubling silent tension was broken by the sound of a voice coming through the radio system, “APB! APB! Agents Nicholson and Grabowski! Are you there? Repeat, Are you there?”

  “Yeah, we’re here,” Nicholson replied.

  “Get over to the Potomac Boardwalk. ASAP.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Another dead Russian. I think you might know this one.”

  Chapter 16