Max barely thought of himself as someone who he could depend on because he never knew what each day might bring.
It was an issue when a beautiful, young woman breezed into his life and her only purpose was to be used and discarded. They could count on her greed to make her feel like she was a worthy enough adversary to keep around but in real life, she was nobody and no one. Not only easily replaceable but much more disposable than she could ever dream.
Why the hell did he care about her at all? He shouldn't have thought twice about her life and where she would end up after all of this was over but the more he thought about Magnolia, the more he realized he did feel something for her.
There wasn't anything insta-lust-or love-about his emotions where she was concerned. He'd begun to care about her the way a dog lover would grow instantly protective of a wounded bitch he found clawing for her life in an illegal dogfight. It was a much more master-prodigy kind of love. He wanted to protect Magnolia if only from herself.
"Do you understand?" Dimitri repeated, this time in Russian.
"Yes, I understand," Max replied without turning his head. "That is very thoughtful of you to offer something and someone so precious to me."
His mentor laughed. "Nonsense, my boy. I realize you have very . . . interesting sexual predilections. They need to be fulfilled, yes? How long has it been since you've been with a woman? The girl you find yourself fond of is used to depravity and should make a good plaything. I am only thinking about it from a pragmatic view. Men need to quench their sexual appetites. I truly believe she will be very fulfilling for you-sexually, that is."
Max nodded yet again before he opened one of the double doors and stepped through, closing it quietly behind himself.
He did need a woman . . . more than he cared to admit but would he choose Magnolia for that role?
Only time would tell.
Chapter Five
Magnolia
I'd never been the type to sit around and wait for a man. The fact I couldn't leave until Max returned bothered me to no end. Hotels weren't exactly my dream destination and were only good for two things: sleeping and fucking.
Since I had more than my fair share of time to kill, I showered, dressed in a casual pair of boyfriend jeans and a form-fitting white tank top. I brushed my hair repeatedly; clearing all the tangles from my silky, damp strands while trying not to think about my life or my past.
It wasn't easy when everything about this place-Northern Nevada-reminded me of what I ran from too. True, Brad had let me go, severed my connection from the White Knights but I was just as familiar with Black Oak as I was with Vegas. When jobs in the past brought me north, I usually stayed there on my way back to Southern Nevada.
I set the brush down on the magazine table, stood and walked toward the kitchen. Memories seemed to haunt me when I wanted to be bothered with them the least and this was not a good time. I grabbed an eight-ounce crystal whiskey tumbler and poured more than a couple shots of Macallan 25 before I set the aged scotch down. Like drinking water, the smooth whiskey slid down my throat in a long swallow. The slow warmth spread down until it reached my stomach and created the perfect barrier between loneliness, sorrow and depression.
I repeated the process again until the feeling of being intoxicated yet completely in control settled over me. The outside world no longer mattered and regardless what Max would come back to tell me, I would be able to handle it. Although no where near the barriers of what some might consider functional alcoholism, I conceded to enjoy the times when I didn't have to be fully in control or hyper-aware of my surroundings.
What I'd done was foolish. I didn't know Max or the people he worked for. Brad might have sold me into sex slavery and I wouldn't be the wiser. I knew-theoretically and logically-I was too old and too experienced. No one wanted someone like me, with my desolate green eyes and know-it-all smirk as a submissive. They wanted someone they could break and who would cowl at their threatened slaps and bruises to their skin. That person wasn't me. Not when I had more than a fair share of ink. Obviously, I wasn't afraid of bruised skin or I wouldn't have permanently marked up my own.
I strolled over to the sofa, quickly dug through my handbag until I'd located my black and slate iPod Touch along with the best earbuds money could buy. Funny how the same device I used when I was thirteen brought me just as much pleasure now. Except technology had advanced considerably, the devices had gotten thinner and could hold a lot more music.
Lana Del Rey sang to me in that haunted voice of hers and I settled onto the leather loveseat, my mind drifting off. Scotch had a way of making me feel completely lost in another world while keeping me aware of the real one surrounding me and so did Lana's voice. Whiskey soaked and bathed in the vapors of cigarette smoke, she sang about being young and beautiful though knowing it was all an illusion life played on you that didn't last. She whispered about fame, lost loves, being born only to eventually die, blue jeans and diet Mountain Dew. Hell, she could have pinned a song about her grocery list and I would have listened to it with the same stunned sense of awe and belief as I had now.
Not since Prince, Jimi Hendrix, Axel Rose, Jim Morrison or Billie Holliday could an artist put words to music with so many double meanings and messages hidden in plain sight, just waiting to be discovered, explored, and devoured.
Soon, it all became too much and I switched to Chevelle. How a band who took double meanings to a whole new stratosphere was considered lighter music than Lana to me was beyond most people's comprehension. What could I say? I adored a heavy guitar riff almost as much a stiff dick but if the two were in competition, most of the time, I would choose the guitar.
I was just that type of woman.
My mind and body, so completely wrapped in the music, the warm yet calloused palm of a large hand on my shoulder startled me to the point where my heart hammered in my body and I fought to catch my breath as I ripped the earbuds out of my ears.
I sat up and glared at Max, not the least bit happy with him scaring the shit out of me. "You couldn't just tap me on the shoulder?"
He smirked, his blue-green eyes bright yet mischievous. "That would have been too easy. Besides, I have to admit, it was quite fun to see you have a full on freak out."
It was my turn to laugh as I tossed my black and silver iPod aside and stood to my full height. Granted it wasn't much underneath him but he wouldn't be expecting me to pull anything either. "Babe, do you think that was me freaking out?"
"Uh, yeah! You jumped at my touch like your ass was on fire." He chuckled as he shook his head with a hint of arrogance.
I balled my right fist and sucker punched him in the gut. Max lurched forward, the air knocked out of him for a moment, as I advanced and promptly grabbed him by the balls and squeezed. Hard.
His gorgeous aquamarine eyes rolled into the back of his head while his breath hitched, uncomfortable and in a certain amount of pain most men wouldn't wish on their worst enemy.
"You scaring me like you did . . . I was only annoyed. This . . . is me freaking the fuck out. You understand the difference now, baby cakes?" I mused into his ear with a faint hint of amusement.
He nodded his head, his face growing scarlet by the minute, as his fingers dug painfully into mine in an attempt for my hand to free him.
Max's actions only made me squeeze harder and a groan that almost sounded like pleasure passed between his slightly parted lips. "Sorry, what was that? I couldn't hear you. Are we clear?"
"Yes," he croaked.
I immediately let go of his balls before wiping my hands together like I had dust on them. "Good to know we have an understanding."
My eyes scanned his but something in them had changed. Before I'd sucker punched him and grabbed his family jewels, he'd been playful and relaxed. That was no longer the case. Now, his eyes were stormy, two ocean blue orbs of fury surrounding pinpoint pupils. I took a step back but the Macallan affected me more than I'd previously thought.
Before I could step completely out of his reach, he grabbed my right arm and crushed me to his chest. Once there, he steadied me with a strong arm while in his free hand, a MR9 Eagle nine-millimeter materialized. He held the compact, semi-automatic pistol underneath my chin and pressed it hard enough into my flesh it would leave a bruise.
"Is this your idea of fun, sweetheart?" Max's accent became thicker and I could faintly hear the Russian inflections in his English-spoken words. "We can fuck each other up all night if that's what you had in mind. On the other hand, I'm too fuckin' old to play these games with you. So, if I take this gun away, will you promise to sit down and behave like a good little girl?"