For the Klub Chernyy name.
For the Madmen of fucking Moscow.
“He got his blood on my watch,” Zahkar sneers, wiping at the watch face with a napkin to try and clean it.
I’m amused that he’s not worried about the blood spatters all over his white jeans. Clothes are disposable, but the watches are precious to him.
Grabbing his wrist, I loosen the strap and pull it free. When Nikita brings over our prized Rainbow Vodka, and a glass for Zahkar, I toss the soiled watch on her tray.
“Dispose of that and then bring your ass over to the VIP section,” I order with a grin. “You know how Zahkar gets when he hurts someone.”
Horny.
He gets really fucking horny.
“That was a twenty-five-thousand-dollar watch imported from the US,” Zahkar grumbles, eyebrows pinching, tugging at the beautiful scar that cuts through his brow and down his cheek. “What a waste.”
“So, buy another, Z.”
Chapter Five
Alyona
“I’ll have a virgin Pina colada,” a brunette squeaks out as she slides onto a stool next to me at the bar.
Seriously?
Who comes to Club Vibe and orders a virgin drink?
I discretely size her up with a lifted brow as I swipe my own drink from the counter and take a sip. She’s young, probably too young to be in this bar, but I guess if you’re not drinking the good stuff, it doesn’t matter.
There’s something about her that makes me curious.
Maybe it’s the high-necked top and long skirt. She could be a fucking nun. All she needs is the white linen cloth to cover her head.
I catch the bartender’s gaze as she cuts her eyes to me, and then back to the virgin colada she’s holding ransom just out of reach from the new girl. “ID, kid. I’m not going down for allowing a minor to hang out in a twenty-one and over club. How did you get past Roman at the door dressed like that anyway?”
She’s right. They have a dress code, and her virgin nun outfit isn’t it.
Virgin girl’s brown eyes widen, and she blinks several times. “I’m twenty-three.”
“Just prove it, beautiful,” I interject with a teasing smirk. “Mazza is a hardass and won’t let up until you show her your ID.”
“It’s Marilyn,” the hardass bartender says through gritted teeth. “Not Mazza.”
“My bad.” I snort, roaming my eyes over her bleached-blonde hair, red lips, and fake beauty spot she’s stamped on with what looks like a permanent marker. “You remind me of someone else.”
Her copycat Marilyn Monroe vibe is embarrassing. I was only trying to help her.
“Shouldn’t you be over in the VIP area with your party?” Mazza, because I’m not thinking of her as Marilyn, shoots back, lifting her chin defiantly. She flicks her fingers to the rowdy laughter and chatter spilling from the small gathering behind a red, roped-off area, complete with its own bar.
Ignoring her, I rap my knuckles on the shiny surface. “ID, virgin girl.”
Nervously, the “twenty-three-year-old” scrambles to open her purse. Mazza waits with one hand on her hip while tapping her foot. Some idiot keeps waving at her at the other end of the bar, but his impatient ass can wait. My eyes scan over to the barmaid in the VIP section, who spends too much time flirting with my boyfriend and his brother.
I should care.
I don’t.
