Page 7 of Twisted Obsession
Evie had been after me for months to go out with her after work. For three years I had played it safe, jumping from job to job, not staying too long in one place. Moving from place to place kept me under the Antonovs’ radar. Three years had passed without me hearing from or seeing any of the Antonovs. Three years since they brutally murdered my parents. After this long, in a city the Antonov Bratva had no ties to, I felt I was finally safe to have one night out.
Other than the mishap with table one’s order, the rest of my shift was just like any other Saturday night. The best part about working as a waitress at a high-end restaurant was the tips. I had made enough in tips alone to cover my monthly rent and part of my car payment. My monthly salary, which was also pretty good, paid for the rest of my expenses. Waitressing wasn’t the occupation I ever thought I would see myself having.
Ever since I could remember, all I wanted was to help children. I saw so many children without moms or dads, throwninto the system just to be moved from one foster home to the next. I wished I could have helped them.
Memories of Clyde and the kindness he gave me three years ago flooded my mind. It was just by chance I went to the address on my fake ID. There was nowhere else for me to go. I would never forget walking into that house and hiding in one of the rooms. I had no idea anyone lived there. But Clyde did. Just like me, he wanted to help people. When I told him what had happened, he helped me. He allowed me to stay with him. I only needed a couple of months until everything died down before I made my move to leave. My only regret was never letting Chloe know what happened. But how could I? If I had, her life would have been in danger. I couldn’t let that happen. The less she knew, the safer she was. Larissa Zhukov died the same day my parents did.
~***~
The music blared through the club’s speakers, the walls vibrating around us. As we stepped further inside, to our right was a long bar lit up with neon lights. Sweaty bodies were grinding against it, gyrating to the music while waiting for the bartender to fix them their drinks. To the left was a large dance floor with a glass bottom with the same neon lights, in blues, greens, pinks, and reds, blinking on and off in sync with the beat of the dancers’ feet as they moved together with little to no space between them.
A man about six inches taller than me took hold of Evie’s hand and led her through the crowd. “Follow us,” she said loudly so I could hear above the music. “I’ve reserved the VIP area.”
I was about to ask how she secured the VIP area, but my guess was the man holding her hand had something to do with it.
Three other girls occupied a low table with drinks when we arrived at the VIP section.
“Sara, this is Veronica, Mona, and Brittney. They live in my building.” Evie pointed to each of the girls as she introduced them to me.
“Nice to meet you,” I greeted them. “I’m going to go to the bathroom.”
I headed toward the stairwell, pausing briefly to gaze down at the pulsating dance floor before descending the steps. An inexplicable nervousness gripped me, even though I knew I shouldn’t feel this way. This was the first time I had ventured out with the knowledge that the Bratva could be out there, still hunting for me.
Glancing over my shoulder to the left, all I could see was the dance floor, a sea of bodies swaying to the hypnotic rhythm of the music. I scrutinized the dimly lit corners, searching the shadows, but found only club goers lost in the euphoria of the night. This was ridiculous. I was letting paranoia get the better of me.
I slipped into the bathroom, and the music’s pounding beat softened behind the closed door. Inside, the space was occupied by only a few girls, each absorbed in perfecting their appearance—applying a fresh coat of lipstick or delicately touching up their makeup.
When one of the four stalls became vacant, I quickly slipped inside and latched the lock. After relieving myself, I stood before the stone sink, where lights framed the mirror,casting a warm glow. I washed my hands quickly, the cool water a brief respite, and took a few deep breaths to regain my composure before stepping out of the bathroom and heading back to the VIP area.
As I navigated through the thrumming crowd, a prickling sensation crept up the back of my neck, as if someone was watching me. I glanced around, scanning the faces in the dimly lit room, but saw no one paying me any heed. It was merely my imagination, my own paranoia whispering in my ear once more.
The unsettling sensation of being watched lingered as I ascended the staircase, returning to the VIP section Evie had reserved for us, my heart pounding in sync with the club’s relentless beat.
“There you are,” Evie exclaimed, her voice a blend of warmth and mischief as she extended a vibrant cocktail toward me. The drink was a kaleidoscope of sunset hues, crowned with a playful orange slice and cherry. “I hope you like ‘Sex on the Beach.’”
With a grateful smile, I accepted the drink from her hand and sank into the inviting embrace of an empty chair. As I savored the fruity concoction, memories of Chloe flooded back, vivid and bittersweet. We had once ventured to Raptor, our spirits high, to commemorate our graduation from Greenville Preparatory School. Those days felt like a distant dream now. God, how I missed her.
“To all my great girlfriends,” Evie proclaimed enthusiastically, her glass raised high in a spontaneous toast that yanked me from my reverie.
As the night unfolded, laughter and chatter enveloped the room, the girls basking in the shared joy. Yet, a shadow of unease lingered over me, a persistent whisper of paranoia. I felt like a dark cloud at their sunny gathering, my mood reflecting the lingering uneasiness of being out in the open. Rather than dampening their fun, I decided to leave.
“I’m going to head out. I think I’m coming down with something,” I lied softly, hoping to avoid the inevitable persuasion from Evie to stay and enjoy the night.
When I exited the club, there was still a long line of people waiting to get in. The bouncer checking IDs gave me a smile as I moved past him and headed across the street to the secured paid parking lot.
When I got to my car and turned the key, it began to sputter. “Please don’t quit on me now,” I said to myself as I took a deep breath and turned the key again while crossing my fingers. Nothing.
My car was old, a 2003 Honda Civic, but it was mine and it was all I could afford. With over 200,000 miles, the man who sold it to me swore he never had any problems with it. Up until a couple of weeks ago, it hadn’t given me any problems either. I really should have taken the time to get it checked out, but I was afraid of what the mechanic would find. Trying one more time, I turned the key with the same clicking sound. Looked like I would be calling an Uber.
~***~
Sundays were my favorite day of the week but today wasn’t one of them. Somehow, I had to get my car to a mechanic and getit looked at. My car remained in the secured parking lot across from the club, and I needed to move it. Maybe Evie’s boyfriend could help me get it moved and to a mechanic. There was also an auto repair shop open seven days a week, a few blocks from where I lived. Maybe they would be willing to help me. There was only one way to find out, and that was to ask.
I quickly showered and put on a light blue summer dress along with a pair of flat strappy sandals. I didn’t waste too much time on my hair other than giving it a quick brush through and pulling it back in a high ponytail. After putting on a minimal amount of makeup and coating my lips with my favorite lip gloss, I was ready to leave my tiny apartment and walk the few blocks to the repair shop.
When I got to the auto repair shop, there were a couple of men in the garage working on an older truck. I didn’t dare go inside, so I stood just outside the large doorway and said loudly above the garage noise, “Excuse me, but I need some help.”
Both men turned away from what they were doing and looked straight at me. They looked like your average mechanics with grease on the front of their jeans as well as on their hands.
