Chapter 4 #2
I pull out a stool for Cartier. Her face has a golden sheen with the lights from the bar, and her eyes are like glittering emeralds as she watches one of the mixologists measure out a shot of a clear liquid from an unlabeled bottle.
The other bartender approaches us. He greets Cartier first, holds her gaze, offers her a formal handshake, and lets it linger. Anyone else, and I’d have been across the bar with my fist around his throat. But this is different: part of the service.
My turn. He wraps both hands around mine. Our eyes meet. I’ve been here before, but I’ve not been served by this guy. Again, it’s part of the service so that customers get the full experience every time.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
I nod. Cartier’s gaze flits between him and me, and then finally, she shrugs. “Sure.”
We watch the guy performing his magic in comfortable silence. I’ve never felt the need to fill empty gaps in conversations. If anything, the opposite is true: I thrive on making people feel uncomfortable.
But right now, I’m enjoying watching the beautiful woman by my side. Her emotions dance across her face, wonder, curiosity, excitement. I’m getting a quiet buzz from her experience. A first for me.
Her gaze follows the mixologist, wide-eyed, when he slides two vastly different cocktails across the counter towards us.
Cartier’s tulip-shaped glass is filled with a rainbow of liquids and served on a bed of dry ice. The rim, sparkling with diamonds, catches the lights as she examines her drink that shimmers and swirls making golden patterns inside the glass.
“What’s this called?” She blinks at the bartender.
“Whatever you want it to be called. It’s yours.”
“Mine?” She furrows her brow and turns her attention to my cocktail.
Served in a flat, saucer-shaped glass with black vines crawling up the stem and the side of the bowl, my drink is blood-red, with a shimmering black swirl across the surface.
Plain compared to Cartier’s concoction, the drink was prepared to whatever recipe the mixologist saw in his mind when he shook my hand.
Cartier’s eyebrows slide upward as realization sinks in. “Wow.”
The mixologist slinks back into the shadows of the bar. No glory. No gloating. They simply make a living out of reading people.
“Try it.” I gesture at her drink.
Cartier takes a tentative sip, her perfect lips kissing the tip of a clear glass straw. She savors it as it goes down, takes a second sip, a third, and then sits back, licking her lips. “It’s—” she shakes her head “—like nothing I’ve ever tasted before.”
“How does it make you feel?” Not a question I’ve ever asked before either.
Her smile grows wide, lighting up her face. “I don’t know. Good, I guess. No, better than good. Like I could literally sit here all night and feel like I’ve had ten hours’ sleep.”
I’d call that a win.
“Try yours.”
She watches me closely while I raise the black glass straw to my lips.
The liquid is unnaturally warm, denser than expected as though stirred through with farina, sweet but with an aftertaste that quickly turns sour on my tongue.
I’ve visited a couple times before, and my cocktail has been different each time, but this… This one hits the spot.
“It’s the flavor I never knew I was looking for.”
“That’s it.” Her eyes widen. “That’s what they should call this place: the flavor you never knew you were looking for.”
We don’t order a second drink. People rarely do.
I settle the substantial check, and we head back outside, hands entwined as if we’ve known each other for years rather than hours.
“What’s next?” Cartier asks. “No pressure, but that’s going to take some beating.”
I smile. “Challenge accepted.”
One of the benefits of being the younger son of a Bratva pakhan is the luxury of living my best life without any repercussions or obligations.
Unlike my brother, I don’t have to remember my duty to the family twenty-four-seven.
Leonid has no clue that places like this cocktail bar even exist. He has spent his life growing into our father’s serious footsteps, while I was sailing to Italy to purchase bespoke shoes made with the finest leather and meeting beautiful women from all around the world.
I fire a message through to my driver and we head south on foot.
It feels as if Cartier’s hand belongs in mine, like it fits, two hands molded from the same pot of clay. I put it down to the after-effect of the cocktail, but I’m almost disappointed when the sleek black car pulls up alongside us a few minutes later and we climb onto the back seat.
We don’t speak.
Ten minutes later, we emerge from the car into the livelier district of River North, but I pull Cartier away from the noise of the nightclubs and bars and pedestrian-heavy sidewalks. Down by the river, we enter a warehouse that looks as if it has been empty for decades.
Cartier is about to ask why we’re here when I stop her with a finger on her lips.
They’re soft and moist, and I want to smother her mouth with mine, breathe in her oxygen, taste every inch of her.
But for once, the anticipation of exploring Cartier’s body later, when she’s ready, is holding the reins to my loins, and who am I to argue?
New experience: you got it.
Inside the building, there are no posters announcing what to expect. Just a couple of burly guys watching the arrivals from behind black wraparound shades.
“Should I be scared?” Cartier stands on tiptoes and whispers in my ear.
I lean into her breath, as a shiver travels down my spine. “Not while you’re with me.”
We wait for the digital light above the internal door to turn green before we enter the first room.
We’re standing in darkness, the only light coming from a shipping container sized area designed to resemble a baby’s nursery.
The three walls are painted white. The rocking crib is white.
The blankets spilling over the side of the crib, the gigantic soft toys placed around the room, the painted-on windows, the flooring, the building blocks and toy cars and dolls in frilly dresses: everything is white.
Cartier takes it all in, her hand still in mine. I sense the rise and fall of her chest as she inhales the scene. Then, “It’s beautiful.”
On cue, a light flickers on behind us displaying an assortment of random objects. A single red rose. A baby shoe. A black table lamp. Silver scissors. Sticky tape, a cardboard carton, an envelope covered in stamps, an empty gin bottle, a vibrant chiffon scarf.
The sign on the table reads: Place one object inside the display.
“One object?” She faces me, chewing on her bottom lip, something that I never expected to find as fucking sexy as I do. “What should we choose?”
I shrug. “This is your night, Cartier. Your decision.”
Is her face flushed or is it the lighting in here?
She touches each object in turn as if a buzzer might announce when she finds the correct one. Then she picks up the envelope and studies the stamps.
“This one.”
“Where will you put it?”
I’ve visited the exhibition before, but the displays were different, and I was too drunk to care about the objects. Now I find myself trying to figure out the reason behind her choice, which I guess is the whole point.
Cartier enters the nursery scene with her head down as if afraid of disturbing a sleeping infant. Then she places the envelope carefully inside the crib. She turns around and smiles wistfully.
“The crib is empty because the family is experiencing life first.” She inhales deeply. “At least, I hope they are.”
The second scene is a classroom. The colors are real, but when we look closely, we see that the open books on the desk are filled with hieroglyphics, and the writing on the chalkboard is black, barely visible even with the stark overhead lamp.
When it comes to choosing an object, Cartier overlooks the white chalk for a colorful eye patch which she places on the seat at the back of the scene.
We don’t speak as we make our way around the exhibition. Occasionally, Cartier lets out a gasp of surprise, or a sigh when she places an object inside the display, but I sense what she is feeling as though we’re connected telepathically.
The final scene is unexpected.
A woman wearing a black corset and fishnet stockings, her face hidden behind an elaborate mask, is sitting the wrong way on a hard-backed seat on a raised platform designed to represent a stage.
The backdrop is an audience of blurred faces.
No other props. A man in a vest and suit pants a couple sizes too big for him, has both hands on his belt as if preparing to unbuckle it.
It's the only scene with actors, and the meaning behind it is unmistakable.
Had I known, I wouldn’t have brought Cartier because I feel the tension oozing from her pores, undoing the way the cocktail made her feel earlier in the evening.
“You don’t have to do this.” I place my hands on her shoulders and turn her around to face me. “We can go.”
She peers into my eyes as if she can see right through me. Then, “You brought me here for the experience. If I don’t finish it, I’ll never be able to let it go.”
I get it. This is art, and like all art and entertainment, it’s only as good as the emotions experienced by the audience. I nod and stand aside.
The objects in this scene are more personal. A silk-lined cloak, a gold-topped cane, some candy, a camera, red lipstick, a bus ticket.
Cartier doesn’t need time to consider her options. She picks up the bus ticket and places it in the man’s hand as if he is offering it to the woman in the corset.
But as she turns around to walk away, the actor takes her hand and raises it to his lips. Cartier lets out a cry of surprise and snatches her hand away, stumbling backwards.
I catch her easily before she falls. But a red mist has already descended behind my eyes. This wasn’t part of the attraction. The guy touched her without her permission, and I can’t walk out of here without making sure that he doesn’t do it again.
My hand is around his throat before he can react. I shove him against the back of the display, his skull connecting with the metal wall, the audience backdrop collapsing around us.
“Andrej!” Cartier’s scream barely penetrates the swirling fug inside my head.
The man’s fingers claw at my arm. His eyes are bulging, his face turning a peculiar shade of mottled red, but I don’t relax my grip. Behind me, the woman in the corset cries out, “Let him go. He wasn’t doing any harm.”
I ignore her. “Did she ask you to touch her?” My voice is cold.
He tries to shake his head, no, but instead, his eyes wobble.
“Here’s what’s going to happen: I’m going to let you go, and you’re going to apologize to the lady. Do you understand?”
Another wobble. Dribble collects in the corners of his mouth as his throat constricts against my palm.
I release my grip, and he slumps onto the floor, spluttering, hands clutching his neck.
The door bounces open, and the security guards pile into the room, destroying the ambience and replacing it with noise and bad breath and their sweat.
They pull me backwards. One spins me around, a baton in his hand, ready to use it if I attack.
The instant recognition sets in, he ditches the weapon and steps back, hands raised in the classical peace gesture.
“You should leave.” His eyes dart around the room.
It’s more than I deserve. But I know that when they watch the CCTV footage, they’ll understand why I reacted the way I did, and the incident will be forgotten without getting the cops involved.
“I’ll cover the cost of any damage.” It won’t stretch to pain relief for the guy with the sore throat and the bruises around his neck. He had it coming to him.
Cartier refuses to make eye contact while we’re being escorted off the premises via the fire exit at the rear of the building. I’ve crossed a line, and they don’t want us to use the front entrance.
When the door closes behind us, and she’s sure that we’re alone, Cartier shoves my chest with both fists. “What the fuck was that?”
She doesn’t hit me hard enough to make me lose my balance, and angry Cartier is even more fucking beautiful than the woman I met in my sister-in-law’s hospital room.
“He had no reason to touch you.” I’m not apologizing for protecting her.
“Did it not occur to you that it was part of the fucking show?”
Her chest is heaving with the effort of controlling her temper. The tip of her nose is pink with the bite of the cold November air. Her fists are clenched.
I lean closer, and she doesn’t back off. “He had no fucking right.”
“He probably kisses every visitor’s hand.”
“He didn’t kiss mine.” Closer. So close that I can see the dark green and amber flecks in her hazel eyes. I can see three tiny freckles on her right cheek.
She’s breathing heavily. “You’re a man.”
I can’t even think of a suitable response.
Instead, I fist her hair with my left hand, tilt her head back and smother her lips with mine.
Cartier doesn’t resist. Her eyes close. Her lips part to let me in, and I don’t even feel her arms slide around my neck until I’m crushing her body against me, and my cock is knocking at my pants to be set free.