Kill Cupid: Internet dating just got dangerous (16 page)

What she feared was tax audits, fines and penalties - losing money - more even than she feared the authorities themselves. The easy way to get to Alessiya was screw with her money and the potential to maintain her lifestyle. But why the FSB? They weren’t to be scoffed at like the police and more important, she had no inside contact there, unlike the local coppers.

              ‘I was only thinking it might help if we paid them.’ Rita’s voice was shaking as if suffering hyperthermia. On the other end of the line, Alessiya had stopped at her desk and was casting a hard eye over the burly, clean shaven ape lying unashamedly naked on a bean bag. In changed tone and mood she replied slowly and thoughtfully,

              ‘Actually, that may not be necessary… I’ve have an idea… I’ll speak with Zhana.’ She hung up leaving Rita holding a dead phone.

----------  * * --------------------- * * * ------------------------ * * -----------

Zhana smiled when she saw Alessiya’s number appear on her phone. She guessed precisely that the call to Rita would be enough to pull Alessiya into the open.

              ‘What can I do for you Alessiya?’

              ‘I hear you are very upset about Rita taking your boyfriend.’

              ‘You mean taking my name and identity – not to mention the money?’

              ‘Well that’s none of my business….’

              ‘Come on Alessiya. You and I both know it
is
your business. It’s what you do, and do very well - you’re a swindler. And good story about the nose job by the way, I’m sure that was your invention?’

              ‘Look Zhana, I don’t want any trouble alright? I didn’t call to make trouble. Tell the Australian to come to the agency tomorrow and he will get what he wants.’

              ‘Ha! We’ve both heard that before. First you kick him out of his apartment, and today you were rude and did nothing to help him. So why should he believe you and go again tomorrow?’

              ‘Today was Rita’s arrangement. Look Zhana I’ll say it again - tell him to be there tomorrow, the agency eleven o’clock. And tell your friends from FSB not to worry… it’ll be cleared up, okay? That’s 11 o'clock, don’t forget.’ Zhana’s phone went dead, Alessiya was gone.

              Zhana now felt a real element of satisfaction when she resumed work. She desperately wanted to exact some form of revenge on the two women. After contemplating numerous alternatives, getting to Alessiya’s purse through Rita seemed the logical method. She’d suspected the police would be a dead-end, despite her surprise they’d been referred to the FSB. Heavens, she’d never even been into that building before. She still thought of it just as papa used to speak about it. “Make sure you have nothing to do with the KGB or that place.”

Many times she’d pondered what might have prompted him to say that, until her grandmother explained father disappeared one night with men from the KGB. After that night, no one saw her grandfather again. Nonetheless, Zhana found it had been friendly enough in the place, even if the detective was a typical, rude cop. As he handed her his business card Sasha grabbed her ass. ‘You can call me anytime’ he said.
It crossed her mind to play the FSB guy after he patted her on the rear but the implications of owing his type a favour made her shiver. Although she had a good idea they’d do nothing, Zhana figured that by going to the police, she could at least threaten Rita with some degree of conviction. Judging by Alessiya’s call, it appeared to have worked. When Alessiya asked that she notify the FSB of a reconciliation and payment, Zhana was delighted.

              Now there was only the unresolved situation with Bronte to put to rest. If she was seeing him later that evening, she’d better be sure of what she wanted as the outcome. It wasn’t fair to either to delay dealing with their future much longer. And although fiancé Willy had to be considered, he was too far away to worry about right now. It was imperative Willy could never know about this. There was no way she wished to involve him in this bout of temporary insanity. In her present state, Willy fretting, sending a thousand messages and calling one hundred times a day was the last thing she needed. She must keep a clear head to work her way through her heart’s dilemma. Yes, she would speak with Bronte tonight about their situation and that was a must. She took consolation in delivering the good news about the money and the revised appointment tomorrow with Alessiya, even if the rest of the conversation might be a party pooper.

Bronte entered the large hotel foyer and headed straight for reception. An enormous counter ran the length of the back wall and gave the grand impression they raped a forest to build it
.
He struggled to imagine what they were thinking at the time to make the front desk so big. It was as though they’d anticipated one hundred guests three deep, all trying to check in at the same time, all fighting for rooms…
in Krasnodar?

Two women worked two metres apart but behind the splendid polished thing, looked like they were on top of each other. Such was the room behind it, they could have been standing twelve metres one from the other. He greeted the pretty brunette wearing the gold name tag,

              ‘Hi Dasha, I am a friend of Zhana, name’s Bronte. I believe she called and spoke with you?’

              ‘Yes, hello Mr Wake, I am pleased to meet you. Zhana indeed called and asked me to help you, so I have a very pleasant room picked out, just for you.’ She reached over and took a key from the pigeon hole.

‘Here is your key, if you will just sign here please. Oh, and I need your passport and visa documents.’ He surrendered the requested papers and she smiled with charm that shone straight through to the seat of his pants.

              He staggered upstairs, threw his bags on the floor and flopped on the bed. The room was a sad excuse for paid accommodation and like too much of regional Russia, was in dire need of an upgrade. The bed needed stuffing with fresh straw and the carpet must have been sprayed with defoliant, it was so thin. Whoever owned the place needed to put the hotel on an intravenous drip of cash. And one pillow signified there was to be no sneaking in women needing some stray affection for the night. Already after six, Zhana would be arriving in less than two hours. He climbed out of the mattress and into the shower, dressed and went downstairs and headed straight for the restaurant and bar situated left of reception.

As he passed through the foyer, he noticed two men standing at reception and talking with the other woman behind the counter, a surly looking type in her fifties. Dasha was not to be seen anywhere. When they noticed him the group appeared to look up from whatever they were reading and together stare as if to say in unison,
Bloody foreigner.
He found himself looking away quickly when he thought he recognized them. One of the men looked just like the thug security guard from the mafia bar, a big gymnasium type with a shaved head. The other, his partner, wore a black beanie. For that matter, every item of clothing they were wearing was black.

His heart was beating more rapidly when he sat at the bar. He hoped it wasn’t the gorilla from the other night, or that if it was, he hadn’t been recognized. He wasn’t sure he could recall the man’s features, but the physique and bald head struck an awfully familiar pose. Bronte ordered a beer and some nuts and decided to think nothing more of it. This time, the bartender got the order right without help from a three year old.

              Zhana arrived just before eight, took off her coat and sat next to Bronte. She looked so lovely, he had the sudden compulsion to grab her and plant a big kiss on her ambrosial lips. But after only casual hellos and a brief questionnaire about finding Dasha and his room she said,

              ‘I have good news and… well, maybe not so good news. Which do you want I tell first?’

‘I think the not so good news first.’ Zhana hesitated, and with eye to eye contact said,

‘No, I’ll tell you the good news.’

‘Why don’t you do that?’ He said. She took a breath then continued,

‘I sorted things out with Alessiya. She will pay your money tomorrow but she asked that you go again to her apartment - at eleven o’clock. I have to work again unfortunately so I can not go or I would go for you.’

              ‘Really? That’s great… but what makes you think she’ll keep her word this time?’

              ‘I pulled a few strings… and she called me.’

‘Well thanks but…’

‘It was her idea so I’m sure it’ll be okay.’

‘I don’t mind going back there… so how’d you manage to pull this new deal off… or maybe I don’t want to know?’

              ‘Yea don’t ask. I had to tell a white lie…’ hesitating and smiling. ‘I told her the FSB had all your paperwork and Western Union receipts.’ She giggled infectiously. Now he really wanted to kiss her. Slowly, he took her right hand in his.

              ‘You know, it’s not so important that I recover that money. It is only a small amount in the grand scheme of things.’

              ‘It’s important to me that you get your money and I can assure you, I did not receive it and spend it on my nose. In fact, I like my nose’ she said smiling.

              ‘I’m glad to hear that and I agree… I like your nose too. Hey Zhana, there is a lot more to like about you than just your nose.’

              ‘Thanks, I’m glad to hear that… but that’s why it’s important you get that money back. There never was any nose job so it’s a matter of pride.’

‘I understand thanks. But more important is that I have finally met you and at last we are together. I hope we can put all this crazy stuff behind us and enjoy just being together.’

              ‘It is very sweet that you say that, but it’s not so easy for me.’
There, I’ve said it. Now I am ready to approach the subject,
Zhana thought. She continued,

‘Bronte, I don’t quite know where to start, what to say or what to do.’ She paused. ‘I am engaged, engaged to be married to a German man.’

Someone sucked the air from the room at that moment. Bronte sat in a vacuum where he could not breathe, there was no sound and he could not speak. He was in bleak, deep outer space and no one, not even Zhana or bar staff could hear his screams. Zhana continued,

‘I used to dream about us. I had so many dreams about you and about you and me together. Oh Bronte, I wanted to know you so much back then and… I still have your photo in my kitchen. I think I daydreamed when I thought of you… I could look at that picture and miss all the things we used to do, before we’d even done them. Possibly every night, I wanted to feel your hands on my face, and hold me in my bed when I was so cold and lonely. But you were not there… so I met Willy. I mean… what could I do? I didn’t know...’ She started to cry.

Bronte was not having the holiday of a lifetime and the tragic wartime plot in the Hitchcock setting he’d imagined the night before had in a moment become real. His silent absence had rendered their relationship obsolete and having lost hope, she’d set on a course to marry another. He had seen light at the end of the tunnel after meeting her yesterday but now, it looked like that light had been a freight train headed straight at him. His use-by date had expired sitting on a Russian shelf and he’d been thrown out and replaced with a fresh product from Germany. In fact, the entire journey had finally been slain and sent to the mortuary just before it had begun to smell. It was starting to get that Russian smell about it already. It looked like the wicked Cupid had won after all and it seemed more and more that the wicked Cupid was in cohorts with Alessiya. Eventually he managed to respond to her statement,

‘I am sorry to hear that, Zhana. Obviously I am happy that you are engaged, but I cannot help feel sad.’ Truth was he felt shattered. Zhana sat in appropriate silence then weeping she mumbled,

‘It’s all so confusing. Why me? Why us Bronte? I am so confused.’

Like characters from Alice in Wonderland, they sat in a swirling giant tea cup ride that had no ending. It was all a muddle of upsets, one after the other. Bronte was upset, Zhana was upset, and now Bronte was upset that Zhana was upset. He put his arm around her and pulled himself to sit right by her side.

Zhana, lose the German and come with me. You should be with me. We both know it
he thought. ‘It’ll all work out for the best dear… there is no pressure. You must do what your heart tells you.’
What am I saying?
‘But you should know its sad news for me… I’d like to be with you.’

‘Thank you’ she said softly. ‘Be sure, Bronte I really like you and in fact I feel like I have known you for many years… I feel safe with you and calm in your company. Maybe I need more time to think about things and then we will talk, okay? Now if you can excuse me I have a terrible headache, I didn’t sleep a wink last night and… I really must go. It’s been a long day…’ She kissed him briefly on the lips and slid off the stool. ‘And I must drop in on my son before his bedtime. Don’t forget dear, 11 o'clock.’ Unexpectedly she kissed him smartly on the lips again and without waiting for his reaction, turned and walked away.

Watching her slink out the door he thought, w
hat was the good news, by the way?
For the second time in a week, he missed Lena. Miserable, thrown from setback to rejection, he stayed there alone at the bar which was probably the best thing for him then. There, he had alcohol and football, the best two frontal lobotomies he could possibly hope for. The television in the corner featured European Champions League. He ordered the largest mug of beer the bartender could offer. Just after half time, Dasha entered the bar and took a seat more than a few stools away. She swept hair behind her ear as she sat and crossed her legs with ladylike grace and work-like professionalism. Her posture was erect and as she retrieved her phone from her bag, engaged a brief exchange with the bartender. Obviously off work, she ordered a Bacardi and coke, lit a cigarette then turned and exhaled, looking directly at Bronte.

              ‘Good evening Mr Wake. How are you tonight?’ The black nylon from her stockings shimmered as she shuffled her legs. He almost missed Thierry Henry’s shot on goal.

              ‘Not too bad, not too good… please, call me Bronte. And how are you Dasha?’

              ‘Well thank you Bronte… and I appreciate you asking.’ Her English was excellent and as good as Katya’s he considered. He couldn’t help notice her rosy tongue wipe her ruby lips after sipping the Bacardi. ‘Where is Zhana? She is not with you?’

              ‘No, she went home. She said she wasn’t well.’
She has a headache!

              ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ She glanced momentarily at the football before making eye contact again, ‘Can I sit with you? Do you mind?’ He tried in vain not to look as her skirt rode up her thighs when she slid off the stool. The charming hospitality worker took the seat next to him then asked,

‘You’ll marry Zhana?’

              ‘Ha, little chance of that’ he said mockingly. Dasha raised her eyebrows. ‘And to give you the short answer, no. She has a fiancé from Germany and I am just a good friend.’ The sound of his own words made him cringe. He wanted to retract them even as he spoke, and caught himself running fingers through his hair.

‘What are you doing here alone? You do not try to meet a nice woman?’

‘I was hoping to meet a nurse… after the brain surgery I’m trying to perform on myself.’

‘That’s difficult… brain surgery on yourself I mean…’ Dasha laughed heartily and her black eyes gleamed.

‘It gets easier with enough practice…’ Bronte replied, pointing to his glass with his eyes. Dasha giggled,

‘Can’t see too many scars’ she said, carefully observing his forehead.

Dasha was good therapy, more than slightly witty and of striking beauty. Her choice of conversation ranged from climate to politics and money, family life, her ambitions and romances. When something even remotely funny humoured her, she giggled with the tender mirth of a love goddess, the unencumbered titter of a free spirit. Bright and stunning in every sense of the word, at the completion of the football Dasha looked at Bronte and with enthusiastic innocence said, ‘Let’s go to your room.’

              Inside, she cast a rather thorough look at their surrounds then stated proudly, ‘I gave you a very nice room don’t you agree?’ Before he could answer she giggled enchantingly and pranced off into the bathroom. After some moments he heard the shower. He turned off the light, switched on the TV and for the lack of a decent sofa, stretched out on the hay bale cleverly disguised as the bed. He waited and waited, but there was no sign of her and not a sound from the bathroom. He began to wonder if she’d done a runner.
She went out through the bathroom window?

He was dosing when she emerged wearing only skimpy black lace panties, her perfect figure a divine declaration of God’s highest design and finest creation. Towel dried, her gloss black hair was not long enough to cover her erect nipples which sat perched like lords, cheekily overlooking the plump, swollen landscape, still shimmering from the evening rain. Leaning across the bed she covered him and in one movement, turned off the TV and switched on the bedside lamp.
She knows that routine
he thought. Then she elegantly and gently swiped her damp, sweet smelling and lace covered crotch across his face, sliding slowly down his body to his feet. Holding his gaze she reached up, unzipped his jeans and while pulling them off, began running her wet and rosy tongue up his leg. Then she slid back down to the foot of the bed, this time taking his denims and underwear with her.

Her movements captured the majesty of a ballet dancer trained in the art of striptease. With the touch of an archaeologist handling fragile and priceless antiquities, she made her way back up his body. He closed his eyes and tensed as his senses roared to life, his skin bristling in anticipation of what was to come. Long, slender fingers and nails roamed strategically across his motionless limbs, stomach and chest, occasionally slipping down to caress his groin, ensuring she held his attention rigidly. Her tongue had the grace of an elocutionist with the power of an orator.
Actions speak louder than words
he thought. She let her mouth do the talking and while he groaned, she never said a word.