The Witness, Page 5

  some fresh meat, and I’m fucking getting laid tonight. Don’t tell me you’re not planning to nail down the hot brunette, bro.”

  “She’s sweet.” A smile tugged at Ilya’s mouth. “And just a little underripe. She’s not so drunk as yours. If she’s willing, I’ll take her to bed. I like her mind.”

  Alex’s lips twisted. “Give me a fucking break.”

  “No, I do. It adds something.” He glanced around. Too much the same, he thought of the women who passed by, too much predictable. “Refreshing—this is the word.”

  “The blonde’s setting it up so we’ll go to my place. All of us. She said she won’t go unless her friend goes. You can have the spare room.”

  “I prefer my own place.”

  “Look, it’s both of them or neither. I didn’t put in over two hours getting her primed to have her walk her fine ass out of here because you can’t close the deal with the friend.”

  Ilya’s eyes went hard over his beer. “I can close the deal, dvojurodny brat.”

  “And which do you think will close it tight, cousin? The crap apartment you’re still living in, or my house on the lake?”

  Ilya jerked a shoulder. “I prefer my simpler place, but all right. We’ll go to yours. No drugs, Alexi.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

  “No drugs.” Ilya leaned forward, stabbed a finger on the table. “You keep it legal. We don’t know them, but mine, I think, would not approve. She says she wants to be FBI.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “No. No drugs, Alexi, or I don’t go—and you don’t get laid.”

  “Fine. Here they come.”

  “Stand up.” Ilya kicked Alex under the table. “Pretend you’re a gentleman.”

  He rose, held out a hand to Liz.

  “We’d love to get out of here,” Julie announced, wrapping herself around Alex. “We’d love to see your house.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do. Nothing beats a private party.”

  “This is okay with you?” Ilya murmured as they started out.

  “Yes. Julie really wants to, and we’re together, so—”

  “No, I don’t ask what Julie wants. I ask if you want.”

  She looked at him, felt a sigh and a tingle. It mattered to him, what she wanted. “Yes. I want to go with you.”

  “This is good.” He took her hand, pressed it to his heart as they wove through the crowd. “I want to be with you. And you can tell me more about Liz. I want to know everything about you.”

  “Julie said boys—men—only want to talk about themselves.”

  He laughed, tucked his arm around her waist. “Then how do they learn about fascinating women?”

  As they got to the door, a man in a suit came up, tapped Ilya on the shoulder.

  “One moment,” Ilya said to Liz as he stepped aside.

  She couldn’t hear much, and that was in Russian. But she could see by her glimpse of Ilya’s profile that he wasn’t pleased with what he heard.

  But she was reasonably sure his snarled chyort voz’mi was a curse. He signaled the man to wait, then guided Liz outside, where Alex and Julie waited.

  “There’s something I must take care of. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. I understand.”

  “Bullshit, Ilya, let somebody else handle it.”

  “It’s work,” Ilya said shortly. “It shouldn’t take long—no more than an hour. You go, with Alexi and your friend. I’ll come as soon as I finish.”

  “Oh, but—”

  “Come on, Liz, it’ll be all right. You can wait for Ilya at Alex’s. He’s got all kinds of music—and a flat-screen TV.”

  “You wait.” Ilya leaned down, kissed Elizabeth long and deep. “I’ll come soon. Drive carefully, Alexi. You have precious cargo.”

  “So now I have two beautiful women.” Unwilling to lose the momentum, Alex took both girls by the arms. “Ilya takes everything seriously. I like to party. We’re too young to be serious.”

  A dark SUV glided up to the curb. Alex signaled, then caught the keys the valet tossed him. He opened the door. Trapped by manners and obligation, Liz climbed in the back. She stared at the door of the club, craning her neck to keep it in view even when Alex drove away, with Julie singing along to the stereo.

  IT DIDN’T FEEL RIGHT. Without Ilya, the rush of excitement, anticipation, faded away, left everything flat and dull. Combined with the alcohol, riding in the backseat triggered a bout of motion sickness. Queasy, and suddenly brutally tired, she rested her head against the side window.

  They didn’t need her, Elizabeth thought. Both Julie and Alex sang and laughed. He drove entirely too fast, taking corners in a way that made her stomach pitch. She would not be sick. Even as the heat flashed through her, she willed herself to breathe, slow and even. She would not humiliate herself by being sick in the backseat of Alex’s SUV.

  She lowered her window a few inches, let the air blow over her face. She wanted to lie down, wanted to sleep. She’d had too much to drink, and this was yet another chemical reaction.

  And not nearly as pleasant as a kiss.

  She concentrated on her breathing, on the air across her face, on the houses, cars, streets. Anything but on her churning stomach and head.

  As he wound along Lake Shore Drive, she thought how close they were, relatively, to her home in Lincoln Park. If she could just go home, she could lie down in the quiet, sleep off the nausea and spinning head. But when Alex pulled up at a pretty old two-story traditional, she thought at least she could get out of the car, stand on solid ground.

  “Got some great views,” Alex was saying as he and Julie got out. “I thought about buying a condo, but I like my privacy. Plenty of room to party here, and nobody bitches the music’s too loud.”

  Julie staggered, laughed a little wildly when Alex caught her and squeezed his hand on her ass.

  Elizabeth trailed behind, a miserably queasy fifth wheel.

  “You live here by yourself,” she managed.

  “Plenty of room for company.” He unlocked the front door, gestured. “Ladies first.”

  And he gave Elizabeth’s ass a teasing pat as she walked in.

  She wanted to tell him he had a beautiful home, but the fact was everything was too bright, too new, too modern. All hard edges, shiny surfaces and glossy leather. A bright red bar, a huge black leather sofa and an enormous wall-screen TV dominated the living room, when the wide glass doors and windows leading to a terrace should have been the key point.

  “Oh my God, I love this.” Julie immediately flopped onto the sofa, stretched out. “It’s like decadent.”

  “That’s the idea, baby.” He picked up a remote, clicked, and pounding music filled the room. “I’ll fix you a drink.”

  “Can you make Cosmos?” Julie asked him. “I just love Cosmos.”

  “I’ll hook you up.”

  “Maybe I could have some water?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Oh, Liz, don’t be such a buzzkill.”

  “I’m a little dehydrated.” And God, God, she needed more air. “Is it all right if I look outside?” She walked toward the terrace doors.

  “Sure. Mi casa es su casa.”

  “I want to dance!”

  As Julie lurched up, began to bump and grind, Elizabeth pulled open the doors and escaped. She imagined the view was wonderful, but everything blurred as she hobbled to the rail, leaned on it.

  What were they doing? What were they thinking? This was a mistake. A stupid, reckless mistake. They had to go. She had to convince Julie to leave.

  But even over the music, she could hear Julie’s Cosmo-slurred laughter.

  Maybe if she sat down out here for a few minutes, cleared her head, waited for her stomach to settle. She could claim her mother had called. What was one more lie in an entire night of them? She’d make up some excuse—a good, logical excuse to leave. Once her head cleared.

  “There you are.”

  She turned as Alex stepped out
.

  “One of each.” Gilded in the low light, he carried a glass of water and ice in one hand, and a martini glass of that pretty pink—that now made her stomach turn.

  “Thank you. But just the water, I think.”

  “Gotta feed that high, baby.” But he set the drink aside. “You don’t have to be out here all alone.” He shifted, pressed her back against the rail. “The three of us can party. I can take care of both of you.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Who knows if Ilya’s coming? Work, work, work, that’s what he does. You caught his eye, though. Mine, too. Come back inside. We’ll have a good time.”

  “I think … I’ll wait for Ilya. I need to use your bathroom.”

  “Your loss, baby.” Though he only shrugged, she thought she caught something mean flicker in his eyes. “Go left. It’s off the kitchen.”

  “Thank you.”

  “If you change your mind,” he called off as she ran to the door.

  “Julie.” She grabbed Julie by the arm as Julie tried to execute an unsteady dance-floor spin.

  “I’m having such a good time. This is the best night ever.”

  “Julie, you’ve had too much to drink.”

  After a pffht sound, Julie shook Elizabeth off. “Not possible.”

  “We have to go.”

  “We have to stay and partay!”

  “Alex said both of us should go to bed with him.”

  “Eeuw.” Snorting with laughter, Julie spun again. “He’s just messing around, Liz. Don’t get all brainiac nerd on me. Your guy’ll be here in a few minutes. Just have another drink, chill.”

  “I don’t want any more to drink. I feel sick. I want to go home.”

  “Not going home. Nobody gives a shit there. Come on, Lizzy! Dance with me.”

  “I can’t.” Liz pressed a hand to her stomach as her skin went clammy. “I need to—” Unable to fight it, she made the dash to the left, caught a glimpse of Alex leaning on the terrace doors, grinning at her.

  On a half-sob, she stumbled through the kitchen and nearly fell on the tiles as she bolted for the bathroom door.

  She risked the half-second it took to lock the door behind her, then fell to her knees in front of the toilet. She vomited sick, slimy pink, and barely managed a breath before she vomited again. Tears streamed out of her eyes as she pulled herself up, using the sink as a lever. Half blind, she ran the water cold, scooped some into her mouth, splashed more on her face.

  Shuddering, she lifted her head, saw herself in the mirror—white as wax, with the mascara and eyeliner smudged under her eyes like livid bruises. More of it tracked down her cheeks like black tears.

  Shame washed through her even as the next bout of sickness had her dropping to her knees again.

  Exhausted, the room spinning around her, she curled on the tiles and wept. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this.

  She wanted to go home.

  She wanted to die.

  She lay shivering, her cheek pressed to the cool tiles until she thought she could risk sitting up. The room stank of sickness and sweat, but she couldn’t go out until she’d cleaned herself up.

  She did her best with soap and water, rubbing her face until her skin was raw, pausing every minute or so to lean over, fight off another wave of nausea.

  Now she looked pale and splotchy, her eyes glassy and rimmed with red. But her hands trembled, so her attempt to repair her makeup was almost worse than nothing at all.

  She’d have to swallow the humiliation. She’d go out on the terrace, in the fresh air, and wait until Ilya came. She’d ask him to take her home, and hoped he’d understand.

  He’d never want to see her again. He’d never kiss her again.

  Cause and effect, she reminded herself. She’d lied, and lied and lied, and the result was this new mortification, and worse, this glimpse of what might be, only to have it all taken away.

  Lowering the lid of the toilet, she sat, clutching her purse, bracing herself for the next step. Wearily, she took off her shoes. What did it matter? Her feet hurt, and Cinderella’s midnight had come.

  She walked with as much dignity as she could muster through the kitchen with its big black appliances and blinding white counters. But when she started to make the turn into the living room, she saw Alex and Julie, both naked, having sex on the leather sofa.

  Stunned, fascinated, she stood frozen for a moment, watching the tattoos on Alex’s back and shoulders ripple as his hips thrust. Under him, Julie made guttural groaning sounds.

  Ashamed of watching, Elizabeth backed up quietly and used the door off the kitchen to access the terrace.

  She’d sit in the dark, in the air, until they were finished. She wasn’t a prude. It was just sex, after all. But she wished, very strongly, they’d had that sex behind a closed bedroom door.

  Then she wished she had more water for her abused throat, and a blanket because she felt cold—cold and empty and very, very frail.

  Then she dozed off, huddled in the chair in a dark corner of the terrace.

  She didn’t know what woke her—voices, a clatter—but she came awake, stiff and chilled in the chair. She saw by her watch she’d slept for only about fifteen minutes, but she felt even worse than she had before.

  She needed to go home. Cautious, she crept over to the doors to see if Julie and Alex had finished.

  She didn’t see Julie at all, but Alex—wearing only black boxers—and two fully dressed men.

  Biting her lip, she crept a little closer. Maybe they’d come to tell Alex that Ilya had been delayed. Oh, God, she wished he’d come, take her home.

  Remembering what she looked like, she kept to the shadows as she eased toward the door Alex had left open.

  “For fuck’s sake, speak English. I was born in Chicago.” Obviously annoyed, Alex stalked over to the bar, poured vodka into a glass. “What do you want, Korotkii, that can’t wait till tomorrow?”

  “Why put off till tomorrow? Is that American enough for you?”

  The man who spoke had a compact, athletic body. The short sleeves of his black T-shirt strained against his biceps. Tattoos covered his arms. Like Alex, he was blond and handsome. A relation? Elizabeth wondered. The resemblance was subtle but there.

  The man with him was bigger, older and stood like a soldier.

  “Yeah, you’re a fucking Yankee-Doodle.” Alex tossed back the vodka. “Office hours are closed.”

  “And you work so hard.” Korotkii’s smooth voice glided over the words. But under the smooth, the intriguing accent, rough, jagged rock scraped. “It takes hard work, this stealing from your uncle.”

  Alex paused in the act of pouring white powder from a clear bag onto a small square mirror on the bar. “What’re you talking about? I don’t steal from Sergei.”

  “You steal from the clubs, from the restaurant; you take off the top from the Internet scams, from the whore profits. From all you can reach. You think this isn’t stealing from your uncle? You think he is a fool?”

  Sneering, Alexi picked up a thin metal tool and began to tap it against the powder.

  Cocaine, Elizabeth realized. Oh, God, what had she done coming here?

  “Sergei has my loyalty,” Alexi said as he cut the powder, “and I’ll speak to him about this bullshit tomorrow.”

  “You think he doesn’t know how you pay for the Rolex, the Armani, Versace, this house, all your other toys—and your drugs, Alexi? You think he doesn’t know you made a deal with the cops?”

  The little tool rattled when Alex dropped it. “I don’t deal with cops.”

  He’s lying, Elizabeth thought. She could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice.

  “They picked you up two days ago, for possession.” Korotkii’s gesture toward the cocaine was pure disgust. “And you dealt with