The King - S.R. Jones Page 0,48
a grin. “You look hot, and I know who this is for.”
She does? How?
“You want Timbo to be jealous, don’t ya!”
I laugh, relieved more than anything that she’s got it so wrong. “Not jealous, no, but I was looking dowdy, and I wanted him to remember what I looked like when I worked in the coffee shop before I spent my days chained to a desk, or locked in a room as it is these days.”
“You’ve got to tell me what you’re doing in there? What has the big Kahuna got you doing? Huh?”
“Big what?”
“The big man, that’s what it means … I think. Anyway, we call Konstantin it because it suits him.”
“Why are you pretend smoking, and why am I here?” I ask her, impatient to know what is going on as I need to get back to work.
“The big Kahuna, of course.”
She points very indiscreetly to the far end of the courtyard, where under the deep recess of the building stands Konstantin and two other men. One is even larger than Konstantin; he’s huge. Like some massive, overgrown bear. His hair is a shaggy blond mop, and he’s rugged and tan. The other is leaner, but still big, maybe a little leaner than Konstantin, tall, and even from here I can see he’s very good looking. The sort of bone structure that could cut glass.
“Told you his henchmen were hot. How gorgeous are those cheekbones,” Suzy whispers in my ear, smoky breath making me want to gag.
“He is hot, but he smokes, so he’ll smell like an ashtray, as do you.” I purse my lips at her, and she shrugs.
“I’d lick an ashtray if he licked me after.” She winks.
“I swear you’re the lewdest woman I know,” I tell her.
“Lewd? Oh my God, did you travel back to the nineteen-fifties in your mind again, Cassie?” She laughs, and I join in. “And I might smell like an ashtray, but you smell like a tin of old biscuits left out in the sun. What the hell? Have you ground digestives all over your skin and sprinkled some rich tea on there?”
“It’s the tan. They said it smelled of coconuts.”
She bursts out laughing. “Nah, definitely moldy biscuits.”
Suzy can be cutting, but she’s always there for me. She offered to spike Tim’s morning coffee with laxatives and was dead serious. Only a bestie does such a thing. When I declined, she offered to spike his bimbo mistress’ coffee instead. When I declined again, she offered to roofie her and shave off her eyebrows. I think she meant that too, which is why I will never willingly get on her wrong side.
I watch the man who is smoking as he blows out a perfect smoke ring, before dropping the butt on the floor and stamping it out with his heel.
Then he picks it up and throws it into a nearby trash can.
He stares out into the brighter center of the courtyard where a lone tree stands, its roots planted in some soil below the concrete, a sign of life in this sterile brick quad.
His eyes are blue, I can see as much from here. A trio of blue-eyed men? I can’t tell from this far if the blond’s are blue or green, but they’re light. Konstantin’s are blue but dark, and they change. I’ve watched his eyes a lot, and they can go from an almost washed out gray, to a bluey hazel-like color, to a deep, dark blue. Dark like his hair, and dark like his soul. The one Suzy is admiring has eyes that are lighter, and they stand out against his hair and skin. He’s striking, great bone structure, great eyes, but he does nothing for me compared to the charisma whirlpool that is Konstantin. Plus, he smokes, and I hate that.
“There’s something deadly about those men,” Suzy whispers, her voice low for once.
Surprised at what she’s said, I turn to her. Does she know something? “What makes you say that?”
“Oh, come on. The big Kahuna on his own was different enough for me to believe he’s something more than simply a wealthy man. Then these two turn up? I’ve seen the ink on pretty boy; it’s Russian.”
“Yeah, so? Konstantin is Russian, isn’t he? Why is that such a shock?”
“It’s not, on its own, but I looked it up on my phone. One of the tats he’s got is a Russian prison tattoo. I think Konstantin’s friends are very bad boys indeed. Maybe they’re his friends from his previous