The Mak Collection (172 page)

Holy shit. This is getting crazy.

The man held his hands in the air, palms up, and didn’t follow, but Mak suspected she would see him later, if he was indeed the man in the baseball cap. Mak felt she had already outstayed her welcome. She was halfway down the staircase when her flame-haired protector spoke up.

‘But Belladonna hasn’t even gone on stage yet!’

‘I’m sorry. I have to go. Thanks for the drink.’

The bouncer noticed her on the way out. ‘Leaving so soon?’

She said nothing.

Mak arrived home humiliated. It should have been easy to follow Damien Cavanagh around for a few days, and figure out who his main contacts were, and what they were known for. If he was up to his old tricks, she’d soon find out. But what was the story with her being tailed everywhere? Did Damien really have security looking out for her?

Dammit.

She marched down the echoing hallway and fumbled with her keys. The door opened for her, and she found herself looking at Bogey, unshaven, his black hair slightly ruffled. In her boots she was slightly taller than he.

‘Hi, are you okay?’ he asked.

‘Sort of.’

It was one in the morning, and he was still awake. There were sketchpads on the coffee table. He noticed her looking at them. ‘Just working on some design ideas for a new chair,’ he explained. ‘Kick your boots off and relax. Would you like a drink? I made myself a rum and Coke. Would you like one?’

‘Sure,’ Mak answered. ‘Tonight was a damned disaster,’ she said flatly, and sighed. ‘At least a woman bought me a drink, so I guess it wasn’t a total failure.’ She plonked herself heavily on the sofa.

Bogey took her coat and placed it carefully over the back of a stool, walked to the stereo and turned it on. It was tuned to a station playing a Nick Cave tune: ‘Into my arms…oh love…into my arms…’

‘Is the music okay?’

‘I love Nick Cave. Love him.’

‘So what happened?’

‘It was stupid of me. I was trying to follow Damien Cavanagh, and I got made. Bad.’

There was the clinking of ice, and the sound of bottles. ‘Is he still up to no good?’ Bogey asked.

She looked up. At least someone sympathised with her side of things. ‘I don’t know yet. That’s what I hope to find out.’

He handed the drink to her, and sat next to her on the sofa. ‘I think you are very brave,’ he said.

Their faces were close, and without a word she locked her lips to his—the first time she had ever kissed him; the first lips she had kissed except Andy’s for what had been years. He tasted delicious. His mouth was soft, his lips like pillows, and so much warmer than hers. His whole body seemed unreasonably
warm and magnetic to the touch. They lunged at each other like lovesick teenagers for a moment, kissing and holding each other, until she pulled back, awash with guilt. Was it because she had wanted this so much while she was still living with Andy? She had only just broken with him, and already she was prepared to leap into this other man’s arms? Was this what her heart was made of? But, of course, he wasn’t just any man.

‘I…um…should taste this drink,’ she said, and laughed.

He smiled. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to…’

‘You didn’t do anything. That was me. I wanted to kiss you.’ She picked up her drink and downed half of it in one gulp. ‘I really like you, Bogey.’

Bogey took her in with childlike wide eyes. He put his hand in hers and looked at her with silent intensity. He clearly did not want to push her into anything she might regret, but his desire was palpable.

Again she leaned close, this time pushing her hips to him. The hollow of her lap connected with his hipbone, and they kissed again, falling back against the couch. She felt him throb and grow. He was straining hard against his jeans, and feeling that mound of warm sexuality aroused her further. She straddled him and positioned herself gently against it, straining slightly.

Delicious…

The heat between them grew, their kisses ever deeper. She felt herself letting go, feeling like she wanted to consume him completely. In that moment Mak cared little for regrets or expectations. She didn’t care about what anyone would think.

She sat up, still straddling him, and smiled. He smiled back, unsure. Her dress had rolled up to her waist. She stood up and took his hand and led him to Loulou’s bedroom.

‘Sit down,’ she ordered.

He sat on the edge of the bed, obedient.

In one movement she unzipped her tight dress and pulled it down to her thighs, letting the bundle of fabric drop from her hands. She stood in front of Bogey in her bra and panties, feeling bold and unashamed, feeling almost like someone else. He watched, entranced, with that same wide-eyed expression. He did not move. When she bent to pull her panties to the ground, his plump Cupid’s bow trembled, and he leaped to his feet, sliding his arms around her waist. She carefully took his glasses off and placed them on Loulou’s bedside table. Naked of his spectacles, Bogey appeared even more entranced.
Vulnerable
. She brought her mouth to his, and their tongues connected again, tangled eagerly. With increasing urgency, she found herself pushing against his growing erection with her hips, wanting more and more of him. There was a tension in her that was relieved only when he knelt before her and finally—beautifully—took his moist tongue and licked the soft cleft between her thighs, teasing at first, and then harder, followed by a gentle suckling that sent her into gasps, fading away into a temporary, death-like peace.

Mak did not know how long she swayed on her feet, pulsing inside. When she regained herself, a surge of desire reanimated her. He was sitting on the edge of the bed with his forehead leaning against her bare stomach, his eyes closed. She pushed him back and slid his black leather belt out of his belt loops with a forceful tug, the end flicking his exposed stomach. Instead of tossing it aside, she seized his wrists and—silently daring him to refuse her suggestion—she looped the belt over his wrists and pulled it back around his waist,
binding him. In seconds she had his dark denim jeans unzipped and thrown to the floor. The firm tent in his boxer shorts displayed clear arousal. He was hers.

Her mouth ravaged him, and before long she had removed their last scraps of clothing and climbed on top of him. Time was nothing. It neither passed nor stood still. She felt their bodies joined together, and at the point of orgasm her shoulders began to shake, her thighs, her lips. She cried out and warm tears collected in the corners of her eyes and rolled freely down her cheeks. In that instant she became deeply aware of a well of grief and sorrow, previously unacknowledged. In a blink she saw a black hole of loneliness in the centre of herself, terrifying and impossibly huge.

Bogey sighed beneath her, snapping her back into the physical world. He pulled out of her quite suddenly, his hard penis pouring warm jets across his naked stomach. She had a flash of his upturned face and his tattoos and pale skin, and she pressed down onto him, melting into him, sweat and moisture pressed tight between them, intermingling. Though her body still tingled with a deep pulsing pleasure, she worried about the glimpse of that giant dark hole of emptiness. She worried about what had been opened up, what it meant.

He rolled her to his side, still bound to her, limbs entangled. There was only the sound of breathing. No conversation. Nothing to distract her. For long minutes her vulnerability felt intolerable.

Accustomed to Andy’s habits in recent years, Mak prepared herself for Bogey’s physical departure, followed closely by the toss of a towel to clean herself, or worse, tissues, or the sound of the shower starting. But he remained against her, their
bodies touching. He watched her, and seeing her tears, spoke no words. Thoughts rushed through her head—urges to weep, to flee—but he only held her tighter. His warm semen was slick across their bellies and felt somehow comforting.

Communion.

‘Jolie! Come, come. Mr Roberts is here, and he wants to see you.’

Ms Rosalay stood in the doorway and held out her long fingers, gesturing to the young woman, who rose from the lounge chair as if manipulated on strings.

‘You remember what I told you about Mr Roberts?’ Ms Rosalay said, her brown eyes glittering.

Jolie nodded. ‘Yes.’ She felt confident. ‘I’ll get ready, then.’ She tried not to take notice of the sudden interest of the other women in the waiting room. Some looked up from their preparations, their reading, the television that was softly speaking in the corner. None spoke. She supposed they would ask her about him afterwards.

Jolie was not her real name, but no one in this place used real names. She liked to call herself Jolie, after the movie star. Her real name was Faith, and she was from Idaho, but she didn’t think that sounded very glamorous so she kept it to herself. ‘Jolie’ had been working in Ms Rosalay’s establishment in Mumbai for only two weeks, and so far she thought she was
doing pretty well. The money was excellent. One client had even given her a $500 tip, which was quite a compliment, she thought. Her mum in Idaho thought she was working part-time as some rich businessman’s secretary while she studied at the SK Somaiya College of Arts, Science and Commerce.

It was something like that.

Ms Rosalay had told Jolie about Mr Roberts. She had said he was a nice man, and paid very handsomely, but that some of the girls did not work out for him because they had some kind of problem with his appearance or something, and found it hard to perform their services satisfactorily. Jolie thought that sounded ridiculous, but then, she hadn’t seen him. The important thing was that he paid top dollar, and he wasn’t violent or into any of the weird stuff that she wouldn’t do. In fact, Ms Rosalay said that what Mr Roberts wanted was for a woman to stay with him for the entire night, so he could sleep with them in his arms afterwards. She thought that sounded kind of sweet.

Jolie sauntered to the bank of well-lit mirrors in the waiting area, leaned in and checked her reflection. She ran a tongue across her white teeth, and slicked her mouth with another coat of clear lipgloss, making her lips glisten alluringly. With her index finger she pressed against her eyelashes to curl them up further so her eyes would look even wider. She applied another coat of mascara to accentuate the look. When she was done, she stood back and patted her hips a little selfconsciously. Jolie wore an ankle-length silk dress in the elegant, sophisticated style Ms Rosalay approved of. It was a dark blue that set off her golden skin, and the design with its thin spaghetti straps and low plunging back offered tantalising glimpses of Jolie’s curves. At 155 centimetres she was petite,
and wore designer platform sandals, her toenails immaculately polished in a cherry red. She spun before the mirror, ran her fingers through her hair, took a breath and stepped into the parlour.

Ms Rosalay was waiting. She handed Jolie two fresh glasses of French bubbly. ‘The private room,’ she said, and pointed her long fingers towards the entrance to the small alcove. ‘Remember what I said.’

Look him in the eye when you talk, but don’t stare. Whatever you do, don’t stare.

The main room was a dimly lit place, comfortable and warm, illuminated with stained-glass table lamps and burning candles. A grand piano, now unattended, was the centrepiece. The walls were papered in dark, sensual colours, with subtle hints of carnal red. Incense filled the air. A few customers were chatting with some of the other girls, sitting as couples on lounges and sipping champagne. Most wore suits, and two men were in military uniform—no doubt they were of high rank to be able to afford such a place. Despite the troubles Mumbai and the financial markets had experienced in recent years, business was steady. The women of Ms Rosalay’s parlour were renowned as the most beautiful in India, and such a promise would always hold its currency. They came from Canada, Australia, Japan, Russia and America to work there. There were blondes, redheads, brunettes. The majority of the customers were wealthy foreign businessmen, mostly Englishmen and Americans. The establishment was a far cry from the infamous brothels of the Kamathipura red-light district. Rosalay prided herself on civility, service and class. She liked her girls to look classy, too, and have a good grasp of English and some Hindi. Jolie was trying to learn Hindi.

She glided past the other couples with her drinks, and arrived at the entrance to the private room. She pushed the curtain aside, smiling.

Don’t stare.

The man waiting for her, the man who called himself Mr Roberts, was one of the most startlingly nightmarish creatures—
men—
young Faith had set eyes on. She was Faith now. Her persona of Jolie had somehow vanished, along with her confidence and her ability not to stare. She had never seen anything like him in Idaho, or in her travels. Even sitting, his hulking size positively terrified her. His hands were thick, the size of dinner plates. His neck was knotted, his chest broad. But it was not just that. Most of all it was his face. There was something wrong with it.

‘Hello, Mr Roberts,’ she said, trying not to betray her revulsion. Her smile had faltered.

‘You can call me Luther,’ he told her, and cast his eyes downward.

His nose had been broken, she noticed. It sat strangely on a face already pulled and puckered with scars that ran from one side to the other like train tracks. Part of one ear was missing. She could not stop staring at him.

‘Why don’t you have a sip of your drink?’ Luther said, looking up at her.

This was her line. This was what Ms Rosalay taught them to say. But she wasn’t saying it, he was. She could not stop staring.
The scars.
He had them all over his face. What would his body be like? He would dwarf her. He was easily three times her size, and most of it muscle.

‘It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you,’ he said, and looked down again. He sighed heavily, annoyed.

‘I…I…’ she began, but the words wouldn’t come.

‘Go,’ he said. ‘I want to be alone.’

Faith backed away, apologising and shaken.