by Tia Siren
Nicki said it suddenly with no warning of any kind, and it shocked Lela. “Why?” she asked in a Sherlock Holmes kind of way.
“Because we aren't compatible. He's too different. He likes to be messy and casual, and I like to be neat and tidy and plan things. I felt sick when I got into his car yesterday. He hasn't cleaned it out in years.”
“But surely a messy car can't be the reason. I thought you guys were the real deal,” Lela said as she picked up a book with a half-naked hero on it.
“No. It's more than that. I realized in Moscow that we aren't right together. I don't love him. I want to feel heat in my lower half when I think of my boyfriend.” Lela nodded in agreement. She'd been out with so many men, and not one of them had set her alight. “All I think of when I think of Nathan is chaos,” Nicki added.
“How did he take it?”
“Badly. He called me some nasty things and dumped me at the door. I guess I deserved it. I said it so suddenly; it must have been a shock for him.”
“You're so intelligent and beautiful. You'll find someone at the drop of a hat.” Lela picked up another book. This time the hero was holding a blond woman who was looking at him as if he'd saved her from certain death. “Look at you. You're tall and thin. Your waist is invisible, and up top you've got a really nice pair. Your ass is the envy of all the girls in the class, and your eyes are stunning. Don't worry. You'll have men flocking to you once they know you're single again.” Suddenly Lela's eyes lit up. “Or have you already got some dark Russian prince?”
“No, I haven't, and can you believe it? I was a very good girl in Russia. Not once did I entertain a man in my chamber.”
“Your chamber? You're definitely reading too many of those ridiculous historical romances. So what are you going to do now? Have you applied to any newspapers yet?”
Oh no, not her as well. Why didn't people understand? She wanted to be a freelancer. “No. Don't you remember? I want to go freelance.”
“But...”
“No buts. I had enough that from Nathan on the way home. He doesn't think I'll be able to make a go of it. He thinks editors won't buy my stories.” Nicki pulled the trunk on her pink elephant and twisted it in frustration. “I'm going to do it. It's very important to me. I want to work for myself, not some ego-inflated editor. And as for them not wanting to buy my stories, I'm going to tackle such daring subjects that they'll be forced to buy from me.”
Lela cocked her head to one side. She had a habit of doing that when she didn't believe what she was being told. “Okay. If it's so important to you, I really hope it works. But where are you going to start? I mean, you need a story. You'll graduate soon, and your student loans will stop.”
“Maxim Sokolov.”
“What? He's a murderer. He killed the judge presiding over his trial. What was his name?” Lela asked.
“Hudson. But he was acquitted. In the eyes of the law, he's not guilty. Simple. But after he came to Brighton Beach, New York, back in the nineties, he set up a vast empire of extortion, drugs, and trafficking. I'm going to write about it.”
“You'll get yourself killed,” Lela said without hesitation. “Do you know how many journalists have been killed by Russians? They are masters at it. As soon as you go sniffing around, he will put an end to you. Don't do it.”
*****
Nicki pulled her collar up higher. She was glad she'd worn a scarf. The wind was blowing off the ocean and whistling between the restaurant buildings on the seafront. Only the gulls were enjoying themselves as they surfed the gusts high in the sky.
The Crab and Lobster seemed like a nice place to eat. Sitting on the seafront, it looked like a giant beach hut. The wooden boards in the facade were painted yellow, and the small cross beam windows were white. The door was maroon and contained a ship’s porthole. There was a balcony running the length of the building where clients could eat in summer, and its roof was adorned with lobster pots and pieces of fishing net.
Nicki climbed two steps to the front door and looked through the porthole. It was as cozy looking inside as it was outside. There were about twenty round tables, all with red and white checkered table clothes, and a long bar down the left-hand side with wooden stools in front. The ceiling was covered in sailing paraphernalia. Oars, lobster pots, fishing net, anchors, even a brass ship’s bell hung down from the ceiling into the middle of the room.
She went inside. She noticed a couple sitting at a table in the far corner. They looked like they were making up after a fight. The woman had a blotchy face and the man had a hurt look on his face, but they were holding hands across the table. There were only two other people in the restaurant. The waitress was pretty and only about eighteen. Why such a pretty young woman would wear her hair in dreadlocks was beyond Nicki. The other person was a handsome blond man of about twenty-five. He was tall, and his T-shirt clung to a physique he obviously spent a lot of time honing. Unusual for the time of year, he was wearing jean shorts that showed off his long, tanned legs. Nicki wondered what it would be like to stroke the soft-looking blonde hairs that covered them.
“Coffee please,” she said, sitting on one of the barsstools. The waitress nodded. Nicki reached down to her bag and took out a notepad.
“You're a reporter then?” the waitress inquired.
“Do I look like a reporter?” she replied. She was wearing a pair of faded jeans and a white blouse covered by a gray cardigan. Hardly a giveaway.
“The notepad,” she said. “Plus we get hundreds of journalists in here.” She put a white cup and saucer down in front of Nicki.
“Why so many?”
“They're all after a mafia story.” She picked up a tea towel and started to polish wine glasses.
“Doesn't the mafia own most of Brighton Beach? Sokolov owns this restaurant.”
“I have no idea. I just come and do my job and go home again. Andrey's my boss, and I'm sure he's not mafia.” She pointed at the blond man. When he heard his name, he looked up from his newspaper.
“Talking about me again, Mel?” he joked. He got up and wandered over to Nicki. “I'm Andrey. It's a bit boring in here at this time of the day. Things don't usually get going until after 7 p.m.”
“That's okay. I only dropped in for a coffee. It's a lovely restaurant.” He could have been a Californian surfer, she thought. His fresh face was tanned, and his blond hair cradled his face in long waves.
“Yes, I love it. It's become part of me. There's always an opportunity to meet new people, like yourself.” He leaned on the bar and put his foot on the brass foot rail. “So are you?” he asked.
“Am I what?” she replied, looking into his blue eyes.
“What Mel said. On the lookout for a mafia story?”
“Okay, I am a journalist. A freelancer. That's someone who works—”
“I know what a freelancer is,” he said, interrupting. “If you're looking for a mafia story, you're fifteen years too late. All the shootings have stopped, and now it's a respectable area.” He laughed. “In fact, the only bad thing that can happen to you around here is a seagull messing on your head.”
“I don't know. There are secrets everywhere if you look for them. You, for example. You sound Russian, so you have a story to tell. Why did you come here? Where are you from? How many girlfriends have you had? I bet a lot of female readers would enjoy reading about you.” She put her hand on his arm, as if she would be one of those readers.
“I'm afraid it would be a disappointing story. Tell you what, you tell me how many boyfriends you've had, and I'll tell you how many girlfriends I've had.” He looked pleased with himself.
“One,” she said without hesitation.
“I don't believe you. A hot woman like you has only had one boyfriend? Get out of here.”
“What do you take me for?” she jested. “Are you suggesting I may be loose?”
“Of course not. Sixteen.”
“You've had sixteen girlfriends?” she exclaimed. “I don't believe you. You'r
e exaggerating, trying to be macho.”
“Sixteen not including the one-night stands,” he bragged. “Not too bad for a simple boy from St. Petersburg, isn’t it?”
“I guess not, but I still don't believe you. So why did you come here from that beautiful city?”
“Have you been there?”
“Last year. I studied for a year in Moscow and went to St. Petersburg by train to have a look. It really is a very special place.”
“I came here to better myself,” he said proudly. “I had a bad start in life. My dad was killed in the Chechen war and my mother never got over it. I found her one day asleep in the kitchen, except she wasn't asleep. She'd taken an overdose.” His eyes stared into the distance for a few seconds before focusing on her again.
Nicki was shocked. She'd had a relatively easy time of it in comparison. Her parents were both still alive and reasonably well off. “Jesus, that's horrible. Poor you.” She put her hand on his. “Does it pain you to talk about it?”
“No. Not nowadays anyway. It was nine years ago, and time heals.”
“So have you got any relatives?”
“No. I'm all alone in the world,” he said as if he liked it that way.
“Well, if you've had so many girlfriends, you probably haven't had time for relatives.”
“I guess not.” He liked her. She was beautiful and had the same sense of humor as him. He liked the oval shape of her eyes and the way her hands moved when she talked.
“Andrey, it's almost five, and where I'm from it's okay to have a drink after five. Would you join me?” She was beginning to enjoy herself and didn't want their conversation to end. In addition, she was hopeful he could point her in the direction of Maxim Sokolov. She had it on good authority that this was one of Sokolov's restaurants.
“Okay, but you're my guest. Mel, a couple of glasses please.” The waitress put two small glasses in front of them and handed him a bottle of vodka. “In Russia we drink vodka. Do you like it?”
Nicki hardly ever drank anything alcoholic, and she wasn't at all sure she could stomach a drink as strong as vodka. “Yes, of course. I love it.”
The way he concentrated as he poured the drinks fascinated her. He reminded her of a young boy she used to sit next to in kindergarten. When he drew a picture, he had always held his tongue between his lips. Andrey was doing just that.
“Nazdrovje,” he said. “We drink it in one go.”
“Nazdrovje.” Nicki opened her mouth and downed it in one. “Jesus, that stings,” she hissed as her eyes began to water.
He laughed. “You're not so cool after all, are you?” He put his hand on her shoulder and looked into her eyes. “You'll live,” he said as she coughed uncontrollably.
“Let me buy you dinner,” she said once she'd recovered. “I'm enjoying our chat.” What she really meant was that she was enjoying being with him. His easy manner and good looks had aroused her, and she didn't want it to end. After a glass of vodka, she was less focused on getting information about Sokolov and more interested in Andrey and his gorgeous body.
He talked her into trying one more vodka, but this time she took her time to drink it. He downed his in one go and poured himself another, which he took with them to a table next to the window. Mel came over and lit the candle that was standing in the middle of the table in a brass candlestick.
“How romantic,” Nicki said. The vodka had warmed her, and any inhibitions she may have had were gone.
“I think today was my lucky day,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“You. You are beautiful. Very beautiful.”
Nicki smiled and put her hand on his. “And you've made quite an impression on me.”
They both ate steak with fresh salad. Afterward, he asked Nicki if she wanted anything else. What she wanted she dared not ask for. But he did.
“Come up to my apartment with me. I live above the restaurant.”
“Don't you have to work?” she asked, buying herself some time to think about whether this was a good idea.
“It’s eight, and it's quiet. Mel and the chef can handle it. If it isn't busy by now, it won't be later.”
“Okay then. Let's go.” Strange, she thought. I have never done this in my life. Never have I gone to a man's apartment on the first date. Maybe that was why she’d only had one boyfriend and he'd had sixteen girlfriends.
His apartment was wonderful. It was under the gable and looked out onto the ocean. The end wall was made of glass and had a door in it, which led onto a balcony. He'd placed the sofa so he could look out over the ocean. At the back was a small kitchen, and in the middle of the room was a double bed. Nicki noticed how clean it was. That was a good sign, she thought, remembering Nathan and his disgusting car.
She stood and looked out over the veranda to the ocean. It was almost dark, and the seafront lights were glistening on the water. A gull came and sat on the veranda rail before impatiently flying off again. Once Andrey had made them each a mug of tea, he stood next to her.
“Beautiful, isn't it?”
“Yes, very.”
He put the mugs down on the floor and put his arm around her. She turned her head to him, and he kissed her. It was a gentle kiss of exploration. When she opened her mouth to him, he put his tongue inside her. They kissed for several minutes, neither of them in a hurry to get to the next stage. When he eventually made a move, she helped him. She stood back from him, took off her cardigan, and began to open her blouse. He quickly took off his T-shirt, and when he did, it made her stop. There wasn't an ounce of fat on him. All she could see was brown skin on top of perfectly formed muscles. She had never seen a man with a ribbed stomach. It made her hornier still.
Soon they stood naked in front of each other. His penis prodded into her as they kissed, and he felt her hard nipples against his chest. He ran his hand down her back and cupped her buttocks. “You've got a perfect ass,” he whispered. She kissed his neck and put her hand on his shaft. Andrey sighed and let his head fall back. Soon, however, he picked her up and carried her to the bed. He put her down gently and opened her legs.
“I want to taste you,” he said as he put his mouth to her womanhood. She gasped as he licked up over her clitoris and then back down. “Oh, that's nice. Do that,” she instructed when she felt him press her clit between his lips. He continued as she'd asked, and soon she started to pant. The noise she was making turned him on more, and his rock-hard shaft poked painfully into the bed. When she shouted, “now, now,” he kept up the pressure, and she came.
“Was that nice?” he asked. She only nodded and held out her arms for him to come up and make love to her. The scent of her was driving him wild, and he quickly accepted her invitation. As he pushed into her, they kissed deeply and passionately. She pushed her pelvis up to greet his thrusts and rubbed her hands over his back. “You are more than beautiful,” he whispered into her ear. His words pushed her further toward another orgasm, and when he increased the speed of his thrusts, she clung on to him and cried out.
“God, your hard,” she moaned as she came down from her plateau. “You're so big and hard, and I love it.” He was covered in sweat now, and she liked the ease with which her hands could slide over his skin. When she dropped her hands to his buttocks, she felt him twitch inside her. She leaned into his neck. “Come on, give it to me.” When he came, she felt his hot semen shooting into her in jet-like bursts. She put her legs around his back and held on to him. It was only then that she really took any notice of how beautiful their bodies looked together: black and white.
“You want to do what?” Andrey said as they lay next to each other. He pushed himself up, leaned on one arm, and listened more attentively.
“I want to do an interview with Maxim Sokolov. He owns this place, doesn't he? Which means you must work for him.”
“I don't work for him. I work with him, and soon I won't be. I'm going out on my own. Why do you want to interview him?”
“Because he's
the big boss, the one who got away and the only one anyone is interested in anymore.”
“You're mad, absolutely mad. A young woman like you has no chance with him. You won't even get in the door. In fact, he's more likely to murder you.”
“Well, I can try,” she said defensively.
“Get your clothes on and leave now. And let this be a warning to you: If I hear that you have been anywhere near him, I'll finish you off myself.”
“But Andrey, it was so lovely this evening. Why are you suddenly so—”
“Because you're pissing me off. Now get your ass out of here.”
*****
“Hello, Mr. Sokolov,” Mel said as the short, chubby man entered the Crab and Lobster. “What can I get you?” He was fifty-three, and he'd been a boxer in his youth, a good one. He'd built up a fearsome reputation, and that had lasted all these years. To date, no younger man had dared challenge his authority.
“Vodka and ice.” It hadn't been a good day. He'd lost three hundred thousand at cards, and what was worse, he'd lost to Graham Sander, a small-time crook from Newark.
“Here we are,” Mel said as she put the glass and bottle on the table. “Shall I get them something?” she asked him, referring to the two large men at the door.
“Coffee,” he grunted. Mel never felt at ease when he was in the restaurant. He was unpredictable and explosive. Once he'd pulled her hair when she'd spilled some water on him. She'd apologized a thousand times, but it hadn’t mattered; he'd made her suffer.
“So what's happening, Mel?” he asked after he'd thrown back two shots.
“Steady away, really, Mr. Sokolov. As always.”
“Tell me, who was that black woman who was here the other evening?”
How the hell does he know about her? she thought. Then she realized that he had eyes and ears everywhere. “I don't know, Mr. Sokolov,” she said, trying to cover Andrey's back.
“What do you mean you don't know? Are you blind, deaf, or dumb, or all three?”
Mel knew she had to tell him now. He knew she'd been working then, and he probably knew that Andrey had taken Nicki upstairs. “She was a journalist. I don't know any more.”
