The King - S.R. Jones Page 0,45
you mean?”
“When the big K got here today, he had two guys with him who I’ve never seen before. Fucking drop dead delicious. One’s as big as a house, and the other, oh my god”—she fans herself—“So fucking hot. Hotter than the big K.”
“Don’t believe it,” I say, because I might hate him, but someone hotter than Konstantin doesn’t seem possible.
“Believe it, bitch; it’s true. I’ll show you. What’s your extension? If I see them around, I’ll call you, and you can come look for yourself.”
I give her my extension, and with one last glance at Konstantin and the mystery woman, I head back to my prison of a room. I used to like that room. I loved the comfy chair and the view, but now that room scares me because it’s where I’ve committed the sin of spying on a damned mafia leader. No, not mafia, no, no, no. It’s maybe much worse because Popov is Bratva. Russian organized crime. The alleged worst of the worst, scariest of the scary! And I’ve been snooping around in his shit.
Konstantin is obviously organized crime too, of some sort, but what? He’s not the same as Popov. He’s a very wealthy businessman, with lots of legitimate businesses, and he knows some extremely influential people globally. I’ve seen photographs of Konstantin dining with Prime Ministers and movie stars. Sure, he’s an oligarch, but he can’t be mafia, right? Or rather, Bratva, I correct myself. Maybe he merely dips his toe in that world?
My stomach is sour as I sit at my desk and stare at the screen I’ve come to loathe. The one thing I’m relieved about is that I think the help I got from my online friends, in helping me hide any trace of my actions, has worked. Thank god. Because otherwise I’d be a dead woman. I doubt Popov would treat me leniently.
Everywhere I go now, I see things I didn’t notice before. I see the seedy underbelly of life. I see criminal activity and thugs hanging on street corners. I think I’m getting paranoid.
Maybe, after this, I’ll go away. Spend a few weeks, or months, on a Greek Island. The idea is tempting. Help Grandma and Grandpa while he goes through his treatment and then bugger off for a long while, hide out until any possible heat has passed.
Why does Konstantin want this information on Popov? Maybe he’s going to give it to the police and bring Popov down? That would mean I would be safe. Or perhaps, he’s going to blackmail him? Reveal to the world that Popov has paid for his girlfriend. But then, would Popov care? I doubt it.
I bite my nail and sigh. I’ve wrecked my nails too. Not that I had long manicured ones; they were short and neat though, and now they’re a ragged mess. I need some sun and a rest. I look like crap. Hell, I might even get highlights like I’ve been considering because this morning when I saw my reflection in the elevator mirror, I actually grimaced. In fact, I glance at my watch, why not go now? I’ve worked tons of extra hours this week. Why don’t I take an extra-long lunch and do something I’d never normally do? Pamper myself.
I think about it for a moment. Should I? Taking out my compact, I look at myself in the small mirror. My hair is so dull, lifeless. My skin too. Damn it, I’m wilting like a flower that never sees the sun anymore. I’m not a particularly vain person, but no one wants to look sickly. I’m only another week or two away of no sun from starting to appear as if I’m suffering from consumption.
Mind made up, I grab my bag, make sure I’m logged out and the screen is locked, and then I close and lock the office door behind me and rush out of the building.
There’s lots of salons and beauty parlors around here, and I spy one that is small and relaxed looking after a five-minute walk. The big, swish places intimidate me. Pushing the door open, I walk in, and a friendly lady smiles at me.
“Can I help you?”
“Can you fit me in for a cut and color?” I ask.
She comes over to me and looks at my hair with a small frown. “What did you want to have done? I only have an hour to spare, so not long.”
“I just wanted a few highlights and a bit of a trim.”
She lifts my