“Sure, Yan,” Sandir nodded his head in agreement.
“No guys, you don’t need to do that.” Jolie continued to pick up the glasses. “Just doing my job.”
“Tips made are on top of your wage, and you keep the ones you earn, yeah?” Sandir asked, making her blush again. “We can afford to put our hands in our pockets for excellent service.” Sandir had got there first. He knew and recognised her too. Tayte had been more than busy that night, not even noticing someone had walked into the room we’d been occupying, so he was unlikely to realise who Jolie was. Andrey would catch on in a second, he was never far behind.
“Whatever makes you happy, sir.”
“Some Russian vodka would make me happy, sweetheart,” he laughed.
“Shit. Yes, absolutely. Give me a few minutes.” Off Jolie went, skilfully holding that loaded tray with one hand while I watched intently.
“Jazz Club. Four years ago, when you cut off that guy’s thumb for dipping the till and getting loaded while working. He got a working over too if I remember right?”
Fuck, there it was. Fuckers. “And your point is?” Straightening my tie, I coughed into my hand.
“That’s the girl.”
“Yes.” No point in lying, besides, a liar I wasn’t, not to these men.
Andrey looked to Sandir then shrugged. “She was a hell of a cutie back then too, little young though.”
“All right. Shut it. Ten minutes, then we can get it out on the table.” I squirmed in my seat. “We’ve got a lot to talk about, Jolie isn’t exactly the topic of the evening.”
“Looks like she is now,” Greg grinned. “I think I might like to hear this story, Yan.”
He would, he hadn’t been there four years ago, not quite in the circle, not quite out. He hadn’t been a part of the whole sorry saga of the evening though he’d seen and taken part in many since.
“If you can call a two-minute meeting a story, I’ll indulge you. First, it’s down to business, this conversation has been years in the making.”
I glanced at each man around the table, the men I’d picked myself, the men I was closest to, then nodded my head. It was time to put my plans to fruition, they’d been a long time coming, fifteen years to be exact, and I didn’t want to wait any longer.
Jolie
A man I didn’t think I’d ever lay eyes on again just walked into the bar where I worked, turned out he was my bloody boss too. Yannick Ischmov was a name I’d heard in passing yet never paid much attention to because I didn’t move in those circles, although I knew first-hand how very dangerous he was. I’d met him only once, if you could call stumbling into a scenario I was ill-equipped to deal with, a meeting. Two minutes, maybe three, I’d stood in a back-bar room and watched with abject horror at the scene playing out. With my feet rooted to the spot, I caught sight of a bleeding man slumped in a chair in the corner of the room, looking minutes away from his last breath, it was not a fun thing to see.
Needless to say, it had been my last shift at the jazz club. Nightmares had plagued me for a long time, nightmares of that room and the people in it. Yannick Ischmov had been one of those men, the ringleader, but two others sitting up in that VIP area had been there too. I hadn’t realised until I’d taken a second look, but they were faces I’d never forget, and hoped to never see again.
Gratefully taking the ten minutes’ grace Mr Ischmov had given, I’d debated grabbing my bag and running. It’s what I’d done all those years ago, thanking my lucky stars I’d walked out of my very first bar job unscathed. Something held me back this time, instead, I took my leave and headed through to the back of the bar, bypassing the break room and making my way to the small store cupboard. Slipping inside, I sat down on the second rung of the stepladders stretched against the wall, unsure if my wobbly legs would continue to hold me up.
“Fuck,” I moaned into the dark space, my stomach wound tight.
A coincidence, a simple coincidence, evidenced by the lack of malice from him or his party. He wasn’t there for me. He wasn’t.
I’d have recognised the man anywhere, Yannick Ischmov didn’t look all that much different. I’d searched for that face on Tubes and buses, in crowds and in shops, and had never once seen him as I’d expected to. He’d given me a shitty reason for being extra vigilant over my safety. Fear was a motivator, and it had served me well.
Now, he was in the bar where I worked. No, scratch that, he bloody owned the bar where I worked, and I had to serve him without giving away how nervous he made me. I looked down at my hand, the one he’d held, then shook out my fingers. He hadn’t touched me when I’d stumbled into the room back then, couldn’t, because his hands were so bloody, they’d been dripping. Yet he’d touched me in the bar and the way his hand felt in mine - solid and capable - the way he’d spoken my name with reverence, saying it was beautiful, disgust had momentarily turned to lust. Crazy thing, so it was. I was so fucked up, the reaction I was having to him bordered on attraction, a dangerous attraction. Yannick had smelled amazing too, so damned good. What was a girl meant to do?
Icy fear had taken hold the moment I’d realised who he was, and he absolutely knew who I was in return, the subtle tug of his lips in an almost there
