The King - S.R. Jones Page 0,71
As well as the woman, Michael seems to have the same group of friends over most days, including the idiot I slept with all those weeks ago. It means the outdoor pool area is a no-go.
The kitchen is full of staff, and the men Konstantin has hired are always in and out. The den is often full of men too, on their downtime playing video games. And Liza has taken over the formal living room as her own. She camps out every day on the huge cream sofa, watching the shopping channels and eating junk food and chocolate. She also polishes her nails on it, which I think is a dangerous mistake. I can see her covering it in gunky liquid that won’t come off.
It means the house is packed with people I dislike, and that makes my room the safest place. But the indoor pool is blessedly quiet, as is the sauna to one side of it, the steam room, and the jacuzzi. Apparently, there’s a gym downstairs too, but I can hear the men clanging weights in there often when I’m in the pool, and I don’t want to see any of them. This suits me.
So every night I go to the pool around six, and I swim and swim, getting in exercise and working off my anxiety.
Tonight, I’m late for my swim. I got engrossed in the book Konstantin bought me. The Brother’s Karamazov. It’s way past time for the evening meal, so I’m hoping there will be no one around as I take the back stairs down to the basement pool.
I pull my robe around me as I enter the back stairs down to the basement level. There’s always a chill on these stairs, and I’ve never figured out where it comes from.
Once I hit the pool room, I drape my robe on the farthest lounge chair and walk around to the other side of the pool and stop in my tracks. There are people in the steam room. I peer in, barely able to see through the steam clouding the glass.
I realize it is Konstantin and Liza. She’s wearing a turquoise swimsuit and high heels. Is she for real? I don’t know how she balances on those things on a good day, never mind heavily pregnant.
She’s saying something to Konstantin that I can’t hear. I don’t know what possesses me, but I crouch down and scoot nearer, hiding behind a huge potted plant to one side of the last lounge chair.
“Come on, K. I know you must be horny as hell. I won’t ask anything in return; let me suck you.”
She kneels, but it’s clumsy. God, those tiles must be hurting her knees.
“Not going to happen, Liza.” He grabs her elbow and hoists her up.
“What’s wrong with you? Have you been chemically castrated?”
He pushes her toward the door, roughly. “I swear, Liza, one more word and you’re getting a slap.”
“You won’t hit me,” she goads. “You never have. You don’t hit women.”
“I can always make an exception. Now. Fuck. Off. And no, I’ve not been chemically castrated. Do you want the truth? The real, unvarnished truth?”
“Yes.” She leans in as if about to get a juicy morsel of gossip.
They’re at the door now, and I can see his face clearly. He sighs, and his face falls. He’s not enjoying this. “You repulse me. I’d rather stick my dick in a meat grinder than you. You’re the last woman I want to be near, and honestly? If you and I were the only two people left alive, I’d probably remain celibate. There, that honest enough for you?”
Jesus.
His face isn’t cruel, though. I don’t think he’s goading her or being nasty. He’s telling the truth. A truth he wouldn’t have voiced if she hadn’t kept pushing him.
Her face hardens, her lips pressing into two thin cerise glossy lines, and her eyes narrow. “You fucking piece of shit. Who do you think you are? You’re nothing more than some jumped up street thug who thinks he’s someone now. You’ve bought into the hype your henchmen and the cheap Moscow street thugs build you up with, calling you a king. Well, you’re not. I’m a someone, and I can do better than you. This is the last chance you’ll ever have with me. We’re done, no matter if you come crawling over broken glass begging me to take you back.”
“Not going to happen.”
He’s out of the steam room now, still holding onto her arm, and I hide farther behind