Obsession
I woke up sprawled out on a filthy blanket in the back of the murderer van. I guessed that was what they would bury me in. I wondered if seeing how they would dispose of my body was part of my lesson. I tried to sit up, but Playboy shoved me back down with his foot.
Skinhead had the wheel, Grimace rode shotgun. Playboy taunted me in Russian, probably explaining how the three of them were going to gang rape me before they strangled me, shot me in the face, or went at me old school and beat me to death.
Where was Boris in all of this? I had the feeling he’d wanted to “teach me a lesson” a half-dozen times at least, but once Vladimir and I were engaged, I’d thought…
Shit. Vladimir was right. I am naïve. Boris didn’t give a damn about me either.
Playboy lit a smoke and flicked the lighter at me over and over. I prayed it would be quick. If Boris had been in charge of cleaning up the pakhan’s mess, he would’ve popped me like it was another day at work, hacked my body to pieces, dumped my remains in the Ohio River, gone home, and toasted “the little shlyukha deserved it” to the boss.
My heart pounded when the van stopped, and Grimace opened the back door. We were parked in front of a XXX strip club. The pakhan was done with me for good. Instead of killing me right away, he was first going to teach me a lesson by forcing me to be one of The Girls.
No way.
I would rather die.
Screw him.
The plan: as soon as my feet hit the ground, I would run for the highway. Before I could take one step toward freedom, Playboy clamped down on my arm, cut the bondage from my wrists, draped his coat around me, and escorted me inside. He licked my swollen cheek where the pakhan had backhanded me and said something in Russian that made the other two goons laugh.
When the door opened, the stench of stale beer, cheap hairspray, and unscrupulous dirtballs hit me in the face. Inside there were two topless girls pole dancing on a stage in the middle of the bar. The music was loud, the girls were around my age, and the men stuffing cash in their panties turned to get a gander of the fresh meat that got ushered in by the Russian brigade.
Mr. Cusimano was one of the customers. He glanced my way, showing no signs of guilt or remorse, and went back to watching the show. Does he realize what’s happening?
Playboy sat me on a stool and checked out my lingerie peeking out from under his coat. He unzipped me, whistled, and laughed with his comrades as he pointed to the stage.
I wouldn’t let those losers yank my chain. I zipped it back up, crossed my arms over my chest, and sat unaffected by their stupidity. Playboy dismissed the other two with a flick of his wrist, and they settled in to watch the show a few seats down. Playboy flagged the bartender and held up two fingers.
“I’d like a Sierra Mist, please.”
The bartender ignored me and set down two generous pours of vodka.
No way. I could not handle alcohol. I hadn’t had a bite to eat all day. My nerves and hormones were so out of sync I felt like I might spontaneously combust. Playboy picked up one of the glasses and offered it to me. I didn’t take it. That amount of alcohol, which was, like, a double shot, would seriously compromise my ability to think clearly or defend myself.
If they tried to make me dance on that stage in an effort to try to put me to work—I wouldn’t do it. Damn the consequences. Playboy stood, hooked his hand around my elbow, and whispered something creepy in my ear. Despite the language barrier, I knew a threat when I heard one. I reached for the drink before he had a chance to set it down.
“Spasibo.” I lifted it to my lips and took a sip. I lowered the glass, but he put his hand underneath it and guided it back to my mouth. I took a deep, cleansing breath and downed it like a Russian.
Playboy pointed at one of the topless girls and offered his hand to lead me to the stage. Ironically, one of the songs from my House Party playlist was pumping as the strippers worked the pole. I shook my head. His smile faded. He downed his vodka and motioned to the bartender to refill our drinks. He held out his hand again to help me up to the stage.
“Nyet.” I watched another long flow of vodka refilling my glass.
Playboy scooted the drink in front of me. Before the alcohol completely consumed my clarity, I had to come up with a game plan. The Russians were leaving in the morning. I would walk away from this nightmare unscathed or be a corpse before the night was over. My life depended on outsmarting those dimwitted goons.
Play the game, play the game, play the game…
I wrapped my fingers around the shot glass, lifted my drink, and grinned at Playboy. He lifted his glass and smiled back. We clinked, cheered, and downed our shots. The boys laughed when I set down my glass and almost fell off my stool. I had to work quickly before the alcohol knocked me unconscious.
I needed to up my odds. I slapped my hand on the bar to get the bartender’s attention. I held up two fingers over our shot glasses and then extended my hand and pointed two fingers at Grimace and Skinhead. They whistled and clapped their hands. As the guy poured our drinks, I leaned over to Playboy and placed my hands on top of his thighs. He liked wherever I was going with that idea. I patted around until I felt his cell phone in the front pocket of his jeans. I tapped on it. “Boris.”
His smile faded. “Nyet.”
I shook my shoulders to the beat of the song. “Da.” I pointed to the stage. “Boris.”
The bartender set out our drinks. Grimace lurked over my shoulder, leaned forward, and sniffed my hair. I must have had a freaky expression on my face, because Playboy cracked up.
Win the game. I swiveled around in my chair and met my admirer’s shallow eyes. I pointed to myself and then to the stage. “Da?”
He nodded.
I held an imaginary cell up to my ear. “Boris.”
As Grimace thought it over, Playboy jabbed him in the ribs. Skinhead glared at me like he would rather gut me than watch me dance. I committed to my game plan. I put the imaginary phone to my ear again. “Boris.” I pointed to myself and then to the stage. I opened my coat and rocked my shoulders to the beat to give him a sample of the goods. “Da?”
He stared at my chest and pulled out his phone. The other two yowled at him, prompting him to lumber outside. Playboy yanked my hair and swiveled the chair around to face him. He pointed in my face and barked. I only needed one of them to call Boris. From that point on, I had to burn some time off the clock and pray my keeper would come to my rescue.
Playboy unzipped my jacket and Skinhead yanked it off, leaving me in a strip club surrounded by two bad dudes, wearing sexy lingerie I’d worn to turn on my lethal fiancé who ordered his thugs to teach me a lesson. Playboy offered his hand to walk me up to the stage.
From a common sense perspective, I should have done it. My goal was to buy time, and I was sure I could work a pole well enough to keep their interest until my keeper got there—but screw them! My vodka cup runneth over. I’d had my fill of Russian gangsters and their Bratva Code of Bullshit. “Nyet.”
Playboy yanked me off my stool and dragged me down a dark hallway. I called out to Mr. Cusimano for help. He turned and looked right at me, but instead of coming to my rescue, he stuffed a bill into a boney brunette’s G-string.
Skinhead snatched the vodka bottle and followed close behind. I had trouble keeping up, with my wobbly legs in pumps. I stumbled a few times, which prompted Skinhead to grab on to my other arm. I glanced behind and saw Grimace closing in behind.
They shoved me inside a small room with a brass pole surrounded by a few chairs and illuminated by a red spotlight. Instead of the pop songs that blared in the bar area, the music in there was a dirty bump and grind kind of instrumental beat. The only lyrics were moans and sex sounds coming from the next room.
Playboy shoved me toward the pole and yelled. When I didn’t respond, he shook me violently, reprimanding me for not following orders. I tried to fight back, but I was so disoriented, I didn’t have the strength or courage to defend myself.
Tired of my resistance, he shoved me backward into Skinhead’s arms. He squeezed me around the waist and dragged me down to his lap. He said something creepy in my ear, and I felt a cool blade pressing against my throat. I screamed. He covered my mouth. Playboy held out a fistful of my hair while Skinhead cut it off right next to my scalp—a memento for the pakhan, no doubt. He didn’t give a damn about me; I was his obsession. Our love was nothing more than a game to him, and he’d won the moment I’d agreed to marry him.
At that point, I lost faith. I’d been swinging so long and so hard I’d run out of courage—and hope. It was time to let go. I would spend the last moments of my life enduring beatings and spread apart with those filthy animals oozing between my legs.
As I lay in Skinhead’s arms, in shock, Grimace pushed a bottle past my lips. I drank willingly. I would rather die of alcohol poisoning than at the tip of a knife. I tuned out their catcalls and whistles and tried to drain every drop of vodka from that bottle.
Grimace took it away before I could drink too much and stole me away from Skinhead. I coughed from the acidic burn of the vodka, and he dragged me to the pole and motioned for me to have at it. When I didn’t do what I was told, Playboy saddled up behind me, held my hands against the pole from behind, and grinded against my body as he howled a victory song.
When I refused to give them what they wanted, he barked a final warning in my ear. Frustrated by my rejection, he flung my hair to the side and sank his teeth into the back of my neck. I screamed and wrestled to get free, but he jammed me against the pole. Paralyzed from the pain, I couldn’t fight back. The final chapter of my life was about to unfold.
I’m sorry, Sophia, Dad, Kiki, Megan, God.
Playboy flung me around. My body dangled from his arms like a limp noodle. As I prepared for my final breath, a big hand lifted my chin.
“Have you learned your lesson yet, lapsha?”