Russian Boss’s Secret Baby by Bella King
Chapter 2
Kostin
Ihave three more nights in Florida and a hundred thousand dollars in cash burning a hole in my pocket, from a weapon deal I closed with a Russian arms dealer. Tonight, I’m going to enjoy myself.
A shot of Grey Goose splashes the back of my throat as I take it, but the shot glasses in the United States are comically small compared to those in Russia. I barely feel a burn, and I take the second shot without so much as a breath in between.
“You look like a man who knows how to have a good time,” the woman next to me says, twirling the straw on her rose-colored drink and lowering her gaze at me.
“I like to drink,” I reply flatly.
She laughs and raises her glass. “Fuck, I’ll drink to that.”
I grab another shot from the four laid out in front of me and tap it against her glass, tossing it back and following it with the fourth, and final, like a chaser. It would be wise of me to slow down, but I never was one to care about steroidal bouncers and the consequences of my actions. As long as I’m spending, they’re not kicking me out.
“My name is Peach, by the way,” the woman says, stretching out her hand and pursing her glossy lips at me with a thin smile.
“Peach,” I repeat, refusing her hand. “Like the fruit.”
She nods, placing her hand on the bar smoothly, unwilling to let me throw her off her game. She’s good; but I’ve played this one so many times, I know it like the grip on my pistol.
Unlike some, who frequent strip clubs, I enjoy the game. It’s difficult to win, but I’m not always trying to. Sometimes the pleasure just comes from playing. Tonight, I’m just here to spend money and unwind.
“Maybe you’d like to see me dance?” Peach says, blinking her eyes at me like she’s trying to get something out of them.
She’s quick to the cut. That’s no fun. I like to have a little more time, a few more chances to throw them off, before I give in. I think a person should work for their money, especially when it comes in big wads of tax-free cash.
“Is it your song?” I ask, looking toward the pole toward the back of the club.
“Not yet, but I know how you can get to see me dance in private. No clothes,” she says, leaning in as though it were a big secret.
I nod, rubbing my chin. “I’d like to see you on the pole first. I like to know what I’m paying for.”
She feigns offense, pulling her chin back and frowning. She runs the backs of her fingers along the front of her tight-fitting outfit.
It’s something that would make a whore blush, but I’m into that. The more ridiculous, the better.
“Is this view not good enough for you already?” Peach asks, pouting her lips.
“It’ll be good after a couple of cold beers. Tell the bartender that I need two of their best.”
“I don’t drink beer,” she replies.
“They’re both for me.”
She gives me a strange look, but the money leaking from my pocket tells her I’m good enough to continue the game with. I’m sure she hates my guts, but at least I have them. Some men walk in here and spend everything on the first woman that feeds them a drop of attention.
I’m used to the attention. I want more than that.
Peach leans over the bar, waving her hand at the bartender. They have a deal. If she gets me drunk, and takes my money, then he gets a cut. This place is sophisticated enough for deals like that. It’s too nice for them not to work together.
When I’m finished eyeballing Peach’s ass, I look over to the pole. Another woman is there - someone familiar, that I can’t quite place. Even through the thick smoke and gleaming red lights, I never forget a face. This is one I know, but I don’t know where from.
I study her, watching her body as it moves on the pole. Her movements, although somewhat forced, are graceful and pleasing to watch. It’s like she’s swimming through the air, naturally talented but simultaneously uninterested in her work. The same goes for a lot of women in these places, but they never come off quite so elegantly.
I have to tear my eyes away when Peach slams a beer down in front of me. The head fizzes over, rolling over the sides of the bottle like a premature ejaculation. She wanted my attention, and she got it.
“I’m up next,” she says. “I hope you’ll wait for me.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I reply, lifting the wet bottle to my lips. “I’ll be watching.”
She smiles, but I can barely pay attention to her now. I have to know where that other woman came from. Who is she, and why does she look so familiar?
I’ve had too many drinks to retain what little tact God graced me with. I look back at the woman on the pole, catching her gaze for the briefest of seconds but long enough to see fear.
A former enemy? I don’t usually rub shoulders with women in the Mafia business.
“Do you want a double dance or something?” Peach asks, trying to bargain now that she’s lost my attention again. She knows she’s not getting money if I make a switch, but I think it’s a lost cause for her now. I have to know who that woman is.
“Who’s the one on the pole?” I ask, finally looking back at Peach.
Her exacerbated expression switches back to a smile in an instant. “Bubbles.”
I laugh. “Jesus, you girls choose some stupid names.”
“Well, I’m not telling you her real name. That’s not how we do things here,” Peach says, getting snippy.
I roll my eyes, as the music hints at an ending. Peach glares at me before slipping away to the dressing room, and I’m left alone to figure out who the hell Bubbles really is. I should go talk to her… but first, I’m going to finish my beer.
Both of them.
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