by Box Set
On autopilot, I walk over to the bar in the corner of the room, put down my gun, and fix him a drink.
“Have you opened your new club, yet?” Charlie asks. I assume he's addressing Rumo, given his club opened last week.
“Of course,” Rumo says, and he blathers on about his new adventure—the whores, as he calls them. “They're filthy as fuck, and for you all, my close friends, they're free.”
Men...I roll my eyes. They're so easily distracted with tits and ass.
“I think I'll pass,” Charlie says. “Don't like whores. I prefer my women clean and exclusive with a bad attitude.”
Carl chuckles.
I grab the brandy from the side and take it to Charlie. He's surveying me as I walk to him. My stomach won't stop rolling with anxiety, but I try to save face by being as impassive as I can.
“Hello, Señorita Blaire,” he says when I stop in front of him. His Latin infused voice makes every hair on my body prick. “It's nice to see you again. Did you enjoy an early night last night?” He smiles at me with bold seduction, his blue eyes glancing back and forth between mine.
He's so fucking handsome it makes me sick.
I nod at him by a way of forced respect.
“I’ve gotta say, you're even prettier in the light. Isn't she pretty, Carl?”
Carl agrees, sparking a lighter for his cigar. “Even when she was younger, she was a bonita girl.”
Charlie smirks at Maksim with mocking enthusiasm, then he smirks at me. “You really have to fix the lighting in your office. What's the point of owning something so lovely when you can't fully appreciate it?”
I gesture impatiently with the glass, urging Charlie to take it. He does, and he runs his thumb over mine, causing me to jerk away from him as that familiar tingly feeling spreads through my body. A black switch goes off in my head—the switch that says, KILL! The switch that flickers on when someone touches me.
I don't attack him. I don't know why.
I manage to keep my cool, and step back behind Maksim, training my eyes on the wall behind Charlie.
James gives me a weird side-glance, which I see from the corner of my eye.
“How's work coming along?” Charlie asks me. Pressing his feet into the ground, he slides his chair around to face me.
A few uncomfortable looks are thrown around, but Charlie doesn't care. He simply sits back and drapes his hands over the arms of the chair, holding the glass in one.
“You can answer our friend, My Little Pet,” Maksim says, centered on the cards in his hand.
“Things are coming along fine,” I say, squeezing the gun over my lap in both hands, fighting for composure.
“Just fine?” he asks.
I step around so I can see Maksim's face, and also to get out of Charlie's line of vision.
Maksim nods at me.
“Things are running like clockwork,” I lie. Now is not the time to confess that I'm not only failing to attain fifteen minutes, but behind schedule.
“Good.” A devious grin reaches Charlie's eyes. He looks me up and down, leisurely and with intent. “Hmm, I like what you're wearing.”
Oh, of course he does. My combat outfit is tight and black, covering every inch of my small frame but my face.
I think my cheeks heat up, but I don't show any other reaction—well, not deliberately.
James is wearing the same, but I doubt Charlie will compliment him.
“Can you breathe in those trousers?” he teases.
I shoot him a wolfish glare, and he winks at me. I press my teeth together. Why does this bastard have to provoke me?
Rumo and Umberto lewdly compliment my clothes too, saying what dirty things they'd like to do to me, if they were allowed.
“That was a private joke,” Charlie says, and the room submerges in silence.
I peer over at James. He's staring at me, baffled beyond belief.
“So, Maksim...” Charlie says after having a sip of his brandy, “about your offer to see Blaire in action.”
James and I look at each other—this is about the only communication we achieve in Maksim's company.
“In action?” Umberto's eyes light up. “Are we to enjoy a...fuck, show?” He hesitates to say the words, I assume because he's remembering what happened last night.
“No.” Maksim says in a deep note, lifting a hand. “No one is fucking my little pet.”
“No, they're not,” Charlie says.
Maksim blinks at him. James and I blink at each other. Charlie's presence is so intense, like walking on fire.
“So, what show?” Umberto asks, seemingly at a loss with a stupid expression on his wrinkly face.
“Maksim was telling me Blaire is a good fighter,” Charlie elaborates, speaking with his hands. “He offered to show me just how skilled a fighter she is.”
I detest how he addresses my master as just, Maksim, rather than Maksim-Markov, especially in front of his friends.
“Ohhh, I see.” Umberto emphasizes that he's never seen a girl battle with such raw fighting skills. “She's like a fucking cheetah because she's so quick. You never said she was fighting tonight, Maksim-Markov?”
“I was waiting on Charlie,” he says. “It is a surprise.”
My heart drums in my ears. I'm not often nervous, but I don't often have time to get my head around having a fight. I usually do, rather than think.
“Why don't we retire to the ballroom?” Rumo says, rubbing his hands together. “There is plenty of space for her to fight. We should bet?” Everyone concurs, then Rumo adds, “I've never seen Blaire fight before, but Carl has told me she's good.”
“That's because she is,” Carl says, though he doesn't sound as animated as the others.
Nonetheless, Rumo grins. “Well then, let us get a move on.”
5
Chairs scrape against the wooden floors as everyone stands up from the table, including Charlie.
He’s getting on my last nerve with all this curiosity bullshit. I'm desperate to ask Maksim if I can fight him, just so I can kick his ass.
James and I follow Maksim and the rest of the men through the entrance hall, down a wide lobby, and into a huge open ballroom. All these rich motherfuckers have them. The room oozes luxury with ivory paneled walls, a large sparkly chandelier hanging overhead, and decadent, highly buffed wooden floors. Their oxford shoes echo through the space as we go forth, stopping by the French doors that lead out onto the backyard.
“My Little Pet—” Maksim calls in Russian for me to stand in front of him, waving me forward. He takes my gun and tells James to put his down on the window ledge. “You and James will battle until one is unconscious, is that clear?”
Charlie steps in front of us and crosses his arms. “Unconscious?”
My face drops. He can speak Russian?
Maksim nods. “It will be a good fight, my friend. You'll see.”
“No way. I'm not up for seeing this little girl unconscious.” Charlie points at me, then tucks his hand back into his crossed arms. “I just want to see what she's made of.”
I almost huff. I'm insulted, truly, but quite eager to see the shock in this bastard's eyes when I knock James out cold.
Shit, no. What am I thinking? I don't want to do that to James. I don't want to hurt him.
“Charlie, relax, my friend.” Maksim pulls me under his arm. I lean into him, into his warmth like a cat getting petted. He always pets me before a fight. “James will not beat Blaire. She's too good.”
“She is,” Carl concurs.
Charlie frowns down at me. “Is that right?”
Tipping my head back, I peek up at Maksim, almost purring. Since before I can remember, I've been robbed of affection, so when Maksim is like this, I bask in his touch. I bask in the way he holds me. I guess everyone needs affection at some point in their lives, even me.
“Don't look at him!” Charlie snaps, making me flinch.
Everyone is instantly on guard, glancing at each other.
&n
bsp; “Look at me and answer me, Blaire.”
Maksim squeezes my arm to give me the go ahead.
“Yes, that's right,” I whisper.
I can feel James' anxiety behind us coming off him in waves. It would usually make my stomach turn over with guilt. Now, however, I'm too preoccupied with Maksim. He's so warm, and he smells like freshly burnt brut. At times like this, I can almost imagine myself as a different person. Someone who can and will thrive in another's tenderness. No more brutality. Just, this.
“Okay, Charlie?” Maksim says, holding me tighter under his arm. He knows I enjoy his touch. I've told him many of times when he's asked.
Charlie grinds his square jaw. “Yeah, but if I call it to a stop, they must stop. I don't want to see her half dead.”
Somehow, he's snapped me out of this needy trance. I'm not sure if I'm angry, affronted, or flattered by his demand.
I frown.
No one has ever broken me out of a trance when Maksim holds me.
“Blaire, you understand?” Maksim looks down at me. “If Charlie says stop, you will both stop.”
I nod, innocently blinking up at him.
“You too, James,” Maksim says, glancing back.
“Yes, Cэp Maksim.”
“Good.” My master gives me another squeeze before saying in Russian, “Now, the both of you go on and take your positions in the middle of the room.”
When I glance up at Charlie, he nods at me. I'm not sure why.
Turning out of Maksim's embrace, I come face to face with James. He appears very deadpan, but I know he's nervous. I can sense it on another level. I don't enjoy fighting my friend like this either, so I guess I am a little nervous too, but I have no other choice. Maksim will beat the shit out of me if I refuse, and like always, I'll do nothing to stop him.
While the men light up cigars and place bets, James and I walk into the middle of the room and stand opposite each other. His face is pale against short red hair, and his eyes a dark shade of blue under this light. My hair is tied back in a bun but that won't stop James from trying to get a good hold on me.
I won't let that happen.
“Form positions!” Maksim calls out in Russian, modestly annoyed because we haven't done so already.
Raising our fists to protect our faces, and opening our legs to create balance through our bodies, James and I nod at each other.
“Just go down,” I whisper, holding his uneasy gaze.
“He won't like that,” James mouths back. “He wants to show you off.”
My heart sinks because he's right. Maksim won't like that. He's boasting.
“I'm sorry,” I say truthfully. At least I tried to spare him, for this moment.
“Fight!” says Maksim in Russian.
———
James and I smile pitifully at each other to apologize for what is about to happen. Then, he goes in for the kill.
He swings for my face with a few steady punches. I evade his onslaught with effortless grace. I duck and weave to the left and the right, my muscles easing into my motions.
He always serves the first hit, I've noticed over the years. It gives me an advantage because one is off balance while trying to strike. I've never told him of his bad-habit, since we often have to fight each other to train or entertain, and it gives me a chance to put him down before things get bloody.
I dodge another punch. Then James pounces at me. I catch his wrist and fling him across the room with all the strength I have, letting out a harsh breath. I then run at him and dish out meditated jabs, landing a few to his hard stomach when I can get through his fist attack. He gasps, twisting his face in pain, but manages to keep focus.
I don't stop there.
I dance him around in circles, lashing out athletic kicks to bat away his punches until I'm behind him.
I'm trained with Wing Chun, a Chinese Martial Arts way of fighting. Since I was...well, I don't really know how old I was when I first started fighting, but I was young, I've always fought this way.
My muscles now warm and loose, I beat James' kidneys with perfect clenched fists, exhaling for each strike. My assault puts him on his knees, groaning in agony. Clutching the scruff of his neck, I ceaselessly beat him into a bloody haze. My knuckles are cracking and throbbing with pain. His eyes swell, red and bruised and puffy. He will look like hell tomorrow.
I boot him in the chest, knocking him over with brutal force. He doesn't get up, just lies there half curled up in a ball. So I wait, trying to filter the rush of adrenaline. I don't want to get lost in myself while fighting my friend.
The seconds tick by at a snail’s pace. I can hear the men over there by the doors muttering amongst themselves, though I can't make out what they're saying.
James is still crippled on the floor. I steal over to assess him, to make sure he's okay. He jumps to his feet and clouts me in the face, whipping my head back. My bottom lip splits. I spit out a pool of metallic flavored blood, and meet his blows with rapid movements, punch for punch. “Aargh!” I scream through clenched teeth with every strike, my knuckles smashing against his.
He's battling in his stride, and because I know I can't get through his ambush, I lash out a high axe kick, knocking his head back.
Dizzy again, he stumbles about.
My chest is on fire as I pant through my nose, watching him strive to gather himself.
“She's fucking unbelievable!” someone yells, keyed up. I think it's Rumo.
When James is back on par, he darts at me, growling, “Gragh!” He kicks my feet and jabs through the air like he's going for gold, forcing me around the room.
With my forearms, I block his storm, left then right, amid punting away his lazy kicks. He's trying to knock me over by kicking my feet, but he's not doing a good job of it. I'm a little angry with him. He knows I'm good with my feet.
I side-kick behind his knee to put him off balance, then I spin around and flip him over, scissoring him between my legs. I land on my palms as we hit the floor with a heavy thud, my hands throbbing with pain. I unfold my legs from around his body, kick him away, then leap to my feet and stretch out my thigh muscles.
The adrenaline rushing through me is intoxicating, tingly sensations swimming in my bloodstream, and my heart is pounding.
I'm slowly losing focus.
James struggles to get up, and when he does, he staggers back, I assume to put some distance between us for a breathing moment.
“What…what are you-you waiting for?” he pants every word, squeezing his eyes shut a few times.
Fast and smooth, I sprint at him. I land a nice clean blow to the center of his face, causing his nose to explode. My knuckles pulsate but the pain goes away after a few seconds of flexing my hand.
“That’s it, My Little Pet!” Maksim chants in Russian. “Kill him!”
“Kill him?” I stop then to look at Maksim and James thumps me square in the face, knocking me clean into the air.
I'm in a haze for a moment, plummeting backward, wondering if Maksim actually wants me to kill James.
My back cracks when it hits the hard floor. I wince, arching over on my side.
Maksim's control over my mind doesn't always serve me well. One word—one click of his fingers—and I lose focus.
I don't want to kill my friend. I have to clarify this before I do.
Booting me in the stomach, James winds me. I cough up thick, warm blood, struggling to breathe for a second. I manage to wrap my arms around his ankles, ensuring he cannot kick me again.
“Not literally, Blaire!” Maksim shouts in Russian. “Fucking get up!”
James grabs a fist-full of my hair and pounds me in the face, sending shooting pains right through my skull. My head lashes back and forth, but I'm still here. I'm not out cold yet.
“Stop the fight!” someone yells. “Now, Maksim!”
“Just wait,” Maksim says. “Blaire, Podgotovsja! Konchaj yego!”
My senses come to attention.
Bent o
ver me, James is weak in his stance. I dig my nails into the backs of his knees and yank him forward with a loud groan, dropping him on his ass. His grip still in my hair, he drags me forward with him, making my scalp tear.
He's trying to get up now, at the same time shoving me into the floor.
I fight to my feet, spin out of his grasp on my hair, and boot him where it hurts.
“Oh, fuck!” Cupping his crotch, he goes down like a sack of shit, all the color draining from his face.
I step back, panting like a wild cat, wiping damp strands of hair back out of my face.
“Finish him!” Maksim yells.
James wobbles to his feet, and I know this is my moment—any longer, and it'll be a bloodbath. I jump up into the air with facility, wrap my legs around his neck, and flip over to put him down completely. I land on the floor with open palms, and James' neck between my thighs. I use all my lower body weight to keep him facedown, tensing and gritting my teeth, pressing my hands into the cold wooden floors. The veins in my eyes feel like they might pop but I don't stop. I squeeze and squeeze and squeeze.
“Jesucristo!” someone shouts out. “I thought he had her!”
Gasping and wriggling, James tries to pry my legs open, digging his fingers into my flesh. It doesn’t work. I might be small but I'm strong.
“Davaj, devochka!” Maksim yells. “That's it girl. Put him to sleep!”
I do, my heart twisting with remorse. This doesn't happen often, me feeling a sense of guilt, but it's happening now.
I'm sorry.
After a few minutes, James falls limp in my thigh tight grasp.
6
Gasping, I loosen my grip on James and roll onto my back, relieved the fight is over.
A round of applause breaks out, echoing through the large room. I don't soak up the ovation. Lost somewhere in my mind, I turn over onto my knees and push to my feet, lengths of hair sticking to my sweaty, bloody face. Standing there, I look down at James. He's battered, bruised, and bested. My chest aches at the sight of him.
I hate that Maksim makes us do this to each other. Training together in my apartment is fine because we stop when one calls for a ceasefire, but in moments like this, we have to fight until one is cataleptic, or worse. I've had to kill others to entertain many times before.
