Femme Fatale Week!
“We Only Said Goodbye With Words, I Died A Hundred Times.”
Author One Scene One:
Mila Petrov secured her victory rolls, at the front and side of her hair with bobby pins. A thick cloud of hair lacquer fills the air, to keep everything just as she likes it.The rest of her hair she leaves hanging around her shoulders, in loose waves. She examines her roots closely and winces at the mousy brown shade making its way through. She is hardly Marilyn Monroe and thanked God for it too. Mila is too smart to be caught up in the love affair women seem to have with Marilyn and her style. The craze seems to live on one year after her death in 1963. The blonde bimbo act doesn’t appeal to her. Mila is the opposite in every way to the American “siren” plastered all over the TV screens. She makes a mental note to pick up a bottle of black hair dye, from the chemist on her way back from Camden Town this evening. Her roots are in desperate need of some tender loving care.
Mila lines her full lips with care using her deep red lip pencil, and then fills in the centre with precision using a thin lip brush. Emphasising her cupid’s bow. She admires how the deep blood red shade pops against her pale porcelain skin and jet-black hair. The only clue that her true hair colour was possibly not as deep as the black shade she favours, is her pale blue eyes. A pale blue shade that belongs with mousy brown hair. Picking up her compact, she powders her nose to keep the shine away and steps back from the mirror.
Tonight, her appearance is important, she has business to do and not the kind that she’s used to. Apart from her striking eastern Europe features, her height is the first thing people notice about her. Without her heels Mila stands at five feet ten inches.
Mila sweeps her eyes over her well put together appearance. A red silk blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt, stockings, and a thick black waist belt to help empathise some curves to the naturally boyish figure staring back at her from the mirror. Satisfied with her appearance she steps into her black stiletto heels, adding three inches to her height. Just as she does the phone rings on her desk.
“Eh-llo” Mila’s deep husky voice purrs into the phone.
“Madam Petrov. Your driver is outside for you.”
“I come, geeive me vun second okay.”
Mila places the phone on the receiver and pulls on her black mac jacket. She places her fur around her neck, and grabs her patent ruby red clutch purse. Annoyed at the sight of a smudged nail, she throws her black polish into her purse and sets off toward the door. She stops in her tracks and eyes the vodka bottle and shot glass on the side board by the door. For Dutch courage, she pours a shot of her native Smirnoff vodka and downs it in one, careful not to smudge her lipstick and then confidently walks out the door.
As she makes her way across the landing to take the stairs from her office, she glances in all the rooms in use. Making sure all her girls are well protected and not vulnerable, she introduced see-through panels for each service room of her establishment. Better safe than sorry. The last thing she wants is a murder or rape on her hands, then the London Metropolitan police sniffing around, or even worse tarnish her name and image as London’s top Madam. It’s not worth the risk, security has to be tight at her establishment. God knows she’s worked hard to earn a clean decent reputation as a Madam over the years. Her fight has been intensified by her Russian roots which makes her an outsider in London as it is. Over the years Mila has had to fight for her Russian surname and the right to be a business owner in a foreign land. Being female in 1963 makes the battle even harder.
At times when she switched on her TV and watched the black and white images showing the fight for equality overseas, she applauded every single African -American set to join Dr. Martin Luther King’s peaceful protest for equality in Washington, in just two months’ time. She understands the struggle from overseas for quality as a woman and foreigner well. Her other battle has been attracting and recruiting drug free, classy, sophisticated and street-smart girls. Girls that are not out for a relationship or sugar daddy. Her girls are her warriors from all walks of life, and all backgrounds. When girls show up asking for her name, she asks no questions about what brought them to her door asking for work. Every one of them has a story, including herself as the Madam. Overtime once her new recruits worked out Mila as a Madam is all business– stay pretty, dress well, be street-smart, make money and save for a rainy day they soon fit right in. They share their stories once they feel at home. She protects each of their secrets, passes no judgement and runs a tight ship under the watchful eye of the London Metropolitan Police.
Satisfied nothing untoward is going on on each floor, once at reception Mila walks into the bar area. The atmosphere is relaxed, she takes in the smoke-filled room’s chandeliers, patterned carpets and men sitting around round tables nursing their drinks.
Stevie, her star dressed in a to-the-floor black dress with a deep slit at her cleavage, is on stage putting the crowd under a spell. She takes in Stevie’s pretty face and chocolate colour skin and smiles some more. She makes a note to offer Stevie some extra hours behind the bar this week. Since she joined the team men seem to return in their crowds to watch her in her glamourous dresses, and listen to her hypnotic voice. One thing about Stevie is she knows how to put on a show. A tear away, at just eighteen years old she ran away from her family home in Birmingham, a good few hundred miles from London. Mila doesn’t know her full story yet, but she likes her.
Standing the doorway of the bar entrance, Mila finds herself singing along to Etta James’ At Last song Stevie’s performing. Her voice rings out commanding the attention it deserves from the room. Mila catches Stevie’s eye and gives her a nod. Stevie returns her boss’ approval with a wink.
“Madam Petrov, ‘ere your car’s waitin’ Ms.”
Fiona’s cockney accent calls from behind the reception. Mila spins in Fiona’s direction, dragging her attention away from Stevie’s spell. Fiona, her bubbly receptionist could talk for London well. The best place for her is on reception, greeting all the punters that come in. Pretty as a picture in the true to form Marylin Monroe sense. With her bottle blonde hair backcombed to at least three inches, Fiona was another gem to have on her team. She’s no fool, Fiona left school without a qualification to her name,but one thing Fiona knows is how to make money. Fiona is full of hustle,she has a head for figures. Mila set her up with minding the weekly payroll she trusts her.
“Yes, yes, I come now.”
Mila walks over with long strides to the reception desk.
“Fiona, vhat time Stevie finish?”
“Ah, let me just check ‘er shift Ms.” “9:30 tonight Ms.”
Mila nods and pouts her red lips.
“Hmm, I no coming back on time maybe. Tell Stevie she must see me this veek, next shift. Very important okay.”
Mila sweeps her eyes over her establishment one last time.
“Keep close eye, any undercover pigs you follow plan.” Mila fixes Fiona with a stern look.
“Yes Madam Petrov, I know the score.”
Fiona does a small salute to the boss lady and smiles.
Mila nods. Without so much as a goodbye to Fiona, she turns on her heels and sashays out to her car. Fiona watches her boss and smiles.
“Evenin’ Ms. Petrov.”
Mila slides into the back of the slick black Cadillac behind her driver. Before she even acknowledges his greeting, she pulls out her long black cigarette holder and removes a slim smoke.
“Gowood evening Stanley.”
“Where to Ms.?”
Mila lights her smoke and takes a long calming pull.
“Camden Town, to the old vare-house. Stanley vhere you put vodka?”
Stanley leans over to the glove compartment, and hands Mila a quarter bottle of Smirnoff. She takes it and stares at him confused.
“Vere shot glass? Lipstick very important.”
Mila’s husky playful voice, and deep Russian accent fills the car. Stanley laughs and hands his favourite client her beloved shot glass, and set off toward London Bridge to cross the river from south London to Camden Town.
Thirty minutes later Mila places her heels on the ground as she steps out of the Cadillac, mindful of the puddles. It started to rain and she forgot her umbrella. Cursing London’s unpredictable weather, she prays that her hair lacquer is strong enough to hold her victory rolls in place, and her fur is not ruined. She hands Stanley a note to pay her fare.
“Keep change, meet me ‘ere in vun hour.”
“Right you are Ms. as you please.”
Stanley tips his hat and set off in the direction he came from. Mila turns and knocks on the large steel door. A tall black male opens up and tips his hat.
“Madam Petrov, evening. Just this way, Mr. Startskiv is through here.”
With attitude Mila pauses her red lips and lifts her chin, as she gives him a nod and follows behind him. Mila enters a dimly lit den with five men in sharp suits around a table playing poker. The air is filled with cigar smoke and a black and white movie is playing in the background. Five pairs of eyes turn her way and sweep her over from head to toe.
“Madam Petrov, please sit, nice to see you.”
“Mr. Startskiv, vhat I owe you on ‘dis visit? I ‘ave business to run.”
“Yes, Madam I know your time is precious, please sit. Vould you like vodka or something cool to drink?”
“Mr. Startskiv, I Russian like you, vhat you think I drink, vater?”
Mila responds full of light sarcasm.
Mr. Startskiv snaps his fingers, one of his men pours Mila a shot of Smirnoff and places it at the sixth seat at the table. Mila’s heels click on the concrete floor as she walks over to the table, undoes her mac and removes her fur. She eyes the men around the table as she sits down. With her legs crossed at the knees all men eye her like a piece of meat. Mila pulls herself up to her full height, refusing to be intimidated by the dicks in the room. She picks up her glass and knocks back her shot of Smirnoff, then slams the glass on the table. Mr. Startskiv breaks the silence in the room.
“Madame Petrov, the Russian mafia have had some dealings ‘ere in London. We need your assistance. We ‘ave a man we need to take down. He not playing ball .” Mr. Startskiv uses his hands as quotation marks around playing ball, to emphasise his point.
“Dis is where you come in. You don’t know me, but my sources tell me you are London’s top Madam with a busy… er… how you say? Entertainment ‘ouse. You don’t know me but you can trust me, one Russian to another.”
Mr. Startskiv gives Mila a sly smile and a wink, flashing perfect white teeth against his pale skin and slicked back blond hair.Mila leans forward on the table and raises one of her thin black penciled eyebrows in Mr. Startskiv’s direction.
“Vhat you vant? I no put business or girls in risk… never.”
“Don’t worry… Mila if I may call you that?”
Mila’s heart jumps into her chest no one in London knows her as Mila anymore how does he? She keeps her poker face in check.
“No risk. I need a… how you say Femme Fatale to catch man, go to bar or party catch him in trap and keep him for me at hotel. You understand yes?”
“No, I business woman now I not risk my business or living for silly Russian man games.”
Mila gets to her feet, the four other men around the table except for Mr. Startskiv stand up, and move toward her. Mila throws her head back and laughs out loud at the men.
“I see, I ‘ave no choice, is ‘dis it?”
“Madam Petrov you ‘ave choice, play ball or lose life. Choice yours?”
Mr. Startskiv responds with a casual tone from his seat across the table.
“Why you choose me?”
Mila demands her annoyance on full show.
“You Russian, can’t trust English girl they take money, no do good job. You understand vhat business means. I pay you well. Plus, every man vant to be seduced by London’s top Madam. From vhat I hear you are very successful and desirable. Forbidden fruit, no blonde bimbo… real woman, Russian woman.”
Mr. Startskiv slides a picture across the table, Mila glances down from her standing position and drops to her seat as she snatches up the picture. My God, it’s him?
Mila moulds her pretty pixie like features into her business poker face. Reserved for all the male dicks that try to push her around.They have no clue how bad this bitch is, a true rebel for a woman of the sixties, she never conforms. She knows how to deal with men like Stratskiv who see her as a pretty face, and think flattery will get them everywhere. She brushes a black fingernail across her chin as she studies the picture with a pout. Her long eye lashes slowly raise to Mr. Startskiv. In a low drawl she commands his attention.
“ ‘ow you know this man?”
Her hands shake as she holds the picture, she tries to control it.
“And vhere vodka?”
“Mr. Startskiv snaps his fingers again for her drink. In record time her shot glass is refilled. As one of the henchmen turn to leave her side with the bottle of Smirnoff, she grabs it from his hand and slams it down next to her.
“Leave ‘ere. Vant vodka. And you, answer me now ‘ow you know this man?”
Mila turns her attention back to the man across the table.
“He is our marked man, I can’t say how we are connected let’s just say unfinished business.”
Mila’s heart drops into the depths of her stilettos. The man staring back at her in the picture is her estranged husband. She’s sure of it, he hasn’t changed. When she arrived in London, fifteen years ago aged twenty with not a penny to her name from Russia, she met and fell in love with one of London’s most feared men. His name was enough to send chills down any wanna be hard man’s spine. They married and had a rocky two year marriage. Gangsters are not husband material. She learned the hard way. One night he did the classic “going out for cigarettes babe” and never returned home. She was left abandoned, penniless and barely spoke English. To keep a roof over her head, Mila worked the streets of London, turning tricks in every grotty backstreet alley you could imagine. That was until she got fed up. She found a job as a cleaner at a hotel for the rich and famous over in central London. That’s when she discovered rich men like to take women to hotels for sex in this country too, not just alleyways.
She saved her money and worked her cleaning job every hour she could, while she took English lessons in secret from an aging Madam whose business had gone to pot. Her path crossed Madam Laurence’s one night at a bar in central London, when she stopped off for a drink to drown her sorrows over her losses and homesick feeling. She had little friends, not many she could trust.
Madam Laurence was looking for a hardworking successor. The two women hit it off like a house on fire, regardless of the forty year age difference with Madam Laurence in her sixties and Mila in her early twenties, a sisterhood was made. The relationship and affiliation was kept a secret, in fear the other working girls would become jealous. Once Mila’s English was good enough, she was never seen again at Madam Laurence’s but they stayed in contact. Once she passed three years after they met the old Madam left her business to her. Mila took over, by age twenty five she reinvented herself. She dyed her hair black and teased it into the biggest beehive, perfected her make-up routine, learned how to walk in the highest of heels and pencil skirts, and became Madam Petrov to anyone who asked. She left Mila the helpless Russian mousy brown doll behind.
By then the girls at the establishment she once knew had moved on. The moment she placed her heels across the threshold of Madam Laurence’s old establishment things changed. Skirts above the knee were sent home, heels lower than three inches were not allowed, and nails always manicured. Mila’s vision included classy girls of every shade on show, sexy but not whores. That’s the only way they could get away with charging premium prices for their services. Her girls were not whores, more like business women. If men were dumb enough to pay for it, her girls would exploit it and make a killing in the process.That was ten years ago. Now aged thirty five, almost fifteen years after the bastard left her they would meet again. They only said goodbye with words, Mila died a hundred times. Could she do it? Could she help seal her estranged husband’s fate? Or would she fall for him again once she saw him. He’d never recognise her now, at least that’s what she thinks. She looks so far removed from the Mila he once knew.
Author Two Scene Two:
Mila forces her breath to even and her hands to still. The face in the photo has aged some, but those eyes are unmistakable. They pierce into her like a knife, raising the question she’d asked herself over and over for years. How could that heartless prick just up and leave the way he did? Another shot is downed, and Mila can feel every eye in the room as they stare her down with anticipation.
She looks around at the burly men, all muscle and no brains. Mila has never had much respect for the muscle, even when she was married to Dmitry. It’s probably what attracted her to him in the first place. He was smart, a leader, much like this Mr. Startskiv that has somehow managed to track her down and force her into such a tight spot. Her back is straight with courage as she takes a deep look into the faces of each man surrounding her and then addresses the mindless Russian thugs directly.
“You might as vell sit. ‘Dis take time.”
All heads turn to the head of the table. Silently they wait for their boss’ permission. They can’t even sit back down without the go ahead from their master. Mila rolls her eyes at the notion and watches as Mr. Startskiv sweeps an arm in front of himself, indicating for his men to have a seat. His other hand rests on the table, drumming fingers on the dark cherry wood. She locks eyes with him, allowing one corner of her perfectly painted lips to match the upturned smirk of his.
This could be her chance to get back at Dmitry for leaving her the way he did. On the outside Mila sits tall, her body language is cool and collected. On the inside she is writhing with her body’s recollection of all the pain and violation she endured by the hands of men throughout the years, all because of Dmitry. She’s made up her mind, but not because of the threat on her life. Mila wants revenge on the man that spat on her life. The only man she has ever truly loved yet detested all at the same time. The man who took her youth and left her to rot as an outsider in an unfamiliar place. The prick will finally pay for what he done to her.
“Vhy you pick me? You tell real reason Mr. Startskiv. Or there no deal.”
A thick rolling laughter bursts from his lips. The other men chuckle lightly in tow, following his lead.
“Vhy Mila, you ‘ave all de spunk I been told.”
The sound of her name spewing from his lips sends a white hot chill up her spine. Mila pulls a new cigarette from her case and lights it, taking her time. After a long relaxing drag she leans across the table on her elbows, giving the boss man a teasing view down the neckline of her classy silk shirt.
“You don’t pick me ‘cause I Russian.”
She smiles, flashing perfectly white veneers.
“How you know my name? You tell truth, and we play.”
All the chuckles disappear and the feel of the room turns to that of serious business. Mr. Startskiv isn’t there to play childish games, and neither is Mila. He explains to her that she’s been checked in on from time to time since her marriage, but refuses to reveal by who. Apparently Dmitry was a wanted man by many, and him leaving her was no coincidence. Not only did he leave Mila to rot, but he also took millions of pounds from the wrong men.
“So after all vem years, you still look for him, da?”
Mr. Startskiv tilts his head to the side and glances at Mila down the length of his pointed nose. He waits a moment for her to process all the information, watching her closely until her cigarette stops smouldering in her long black holder. She taps it out in the tray, swallows another full shot, and then nods to herself while in thought.
“Vhy me? You still no answer. Any voman could do job.”
“Dmitry a smart man.”
Mr. Startskiv says, finally leaning forward to mirror her body language.
“He don’t go to rooms vith other vomen. We try already. But you, Madam, we know he have veakness for a voman like you. You change, but you still remind him of who you vere.”
Mila understands perfectly the game Mr. Startskiv is playing at. She also knows the danger involved.
“Vone condition.” She says.
“Ve do dis now. Tonight. My girls, my place, ‘ave nothing to do wit dis.”
Mr. Startskiv nods in thought and rubs his chin with his thumb and forefinger. She’s right, and he knows it. Dmitry moves around way too often. If he’s going to let Mila live once it’s all said and done then she can’t keep meeting with him or be taken to a different city. There can’t be any ties or suspicion. She’s also right about keeping her girls out of it. They can’t be trusted, none of them. If Mila is willing to follow through without force then he needs to act on it. Mr. Startskiv locks his gaze on her enchanting blue eyes.
“Alright, Madam. We do ‘dis your vay.”
Mila removes her elbows from the table, sits straight in her chair, and runs a hand down her blouse to smooth away any wrinkles. A diamond plated watch tells her the time and she smiles to herself. This is going to be too easy. Dmitry surely hasn’t changed much, and he isn’t as smart as Mr. Startskiv is giving him credit for. If there’s one thing she’s learned as a Madam, is that men are predictable. Even the smartest and richest men can be creatures of habit.
“We ‘ave vun hour.”
She says, faced smoothed, showing no emotion.
“Dmitry drink scotch, same time every night. If he at hotel, he’ll be in bar at midnight.”
Mr. Startskiv smiles an evil smirk. He likes the way she thinks, and is growing eager to hear more of her quickly formulated yet still sure plan.
He encourages before swallowing a shot of vodka himself.
“Clean, simple. You get room now at same place. ‘ave men vait in room, and I bring him to you before vun-oh-clock.”
“Thirty minutes?” he chuckled under his breath. “Are you really so confident?”
Mila puts her best grin on display,
“Mr. Startskiv, I can do it in ten.”
“Done.” He agrees.
The place is small, and the music is soft. It’s the type of hotel bar that mostly business men spend their time in. The tables and stools are tall, sitting on heavy metal frames. The bar top is made of thick marbled granite, the floors are tile, and the drinks are expensive. Mila doesn’t bat an eye at the price, she also doesn’t mind being the only woman at the bar. Two men have offered to buy her a drink, and she’s waived them off with a mere flick of the wrist, and then tipped the bartender substantially to decline any further offers on her behalf. There is no time for the nonsense of wanting men, there is only one man in particular that she’s interested in seeing tonight. She orders a dry martini to sip on and waits. Cool and collected, she’s imagined an opportunity like this to present itself for a very long time.
It’s been years since Mila’s allowed herself to be the bait, but for Dmitry she’s willing to revisit such unpleasantries. As a cooling sip of the dry martini sloshes through Mila’s teeth she thinks of all the men who had their way with her. Back alleys and cheap hotels played too big a part in her life, and soon Dmitry would pay for it all. A nervous heart thumps in her chest, if only she can get through the night without the butterflies in her stomach taking over.
Just as the big and little hand on her watch were both pointing straight up Dmitry sauntered in. The scent of his cologne and the sound of his voice gave him away before his face even came into view. The predictable bastard still wears the same scent, go figure, she thought. He slides himself casually onto the barstool next to hers, of course he does. Being the only woman in the bar, and dressed for success, she isn’t surprised that he moved right in.
Out the corner of her eye, Mila drinks in her prey. He’s dressed in a well tailored suit, and the colour of his skin has been darkened some by a clear kiss of the sun. A healthy glow radiates from him, just as it always had all those years ago. Even through the fabric of his suit Mila could tell Dmitry had kept up on his physic. His long arms were still thick, and shoulders wide. She always knew he would age well, there was never a doubt about that. If anything, she was surprised that he had lived as long as he had. The lifestyle he always led didn’t exactly scream retirement.
It’s showtime, she thought. Mila’s husky voice was low yet very sexy, a clear giveaway of her once buried identity. If nothing else it could easily be a giveaway to her estranged husband. She’d have to use other means to lure him in than conversation. She’d used the hour gap wisely, despite the growing effect of vodka in her veins. Bright green contacts covered her once beautiful blue eyes, and a fresh coat of lipstick and powder perfected her facial features. Mila had even gone to the extreme of a deep blush to accentuate the contours of her cheekbones. One more step to alter the babyface that Dmitry once knew well.
Mila turned gracefully on her backless stool to face him, and with a straight spine, and legs crossed at the ankles she leaned against the bar on one arm. When he looked up into her face, their eyes locked. Mila batted her thick blackened lashes and pushed her full red lips into a slight pout in his direction. She looked deep into his eyes, searching his soul for answers to all the unanswered questions swirling in her mind. God, he was still gorgeous. A few moments of an unspoken energy pulled the two closer together.
Dmitry leans in Mila’s direction, smitten by the mysterious confidence that seemed to project out of her every pore. Who is this foreign vixen eyeing him like she was ready to swallow him whole? Dmitry was instantly smitten, and unable to pull his attention away from her intoxicating stare. She reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t put a finger on who it was. There was a familiarity in the shape of her jaw, and structure of her shoulders and hands. He cleared his throat, using his best effort to collect the wandering thoughts.
Dmitry had mastered several languages while on the run, and could project practically any accent he’d seen fit. Whenever in London, he made his best effort to hide his Russian roots. He had too many enemies here, and there were way too many thugs that could recognise him if he let a smidgen of his real accent slip through. Even after all these years, Dmitry found it best to stay cautious. The woman only responded to him with a slight upturn of one side of those perfectly coloured lips. Dmitry found himself staring at the deep red tint of them and imagining how they tasted.
“You gotta’ name love?”
He watched the woman closely, as she flashed him a beautiful smile. The grin didn’t touch her eyes. There was something different about her gaze, something primal. There was wild excitement he could see past the colour of them, and it made his cock twitch. That never happens with merely a look. Dmitry noted her classy dress, well kept hair and expensive taste in jewellery. This woman wasn’t the average hooker, waiting to take a guy’s money in a business bar. She was different. The woman staring him down was independent, he could tell by just one look that she could hold her own. He waited patiently for an answer to his question.
Mila shook her head no, and then answered smoothly with a quick, “Nah,” followed by another grin and bat of her lashes.
“Oh come on.”
“You gotta’ give me somethin’ darlin, I’m dyin’ ‘ere.”
Without taking her eyes off of his, Mila let her hand softly trial down the length of her neck. She stopped at the one inch of cleavage that was already on display and then she slowly and seductively pulled apart the next button of her top.
Dmitry’s eyes widened and he wiggled some in his seat to adjust the hardening between his legs. As if under some sort of spell his heart leaps in his chest. The inpointable, yet strangely familiar pull he felt for this vixen instantly intensified as he fixed his gaze on her slightly exposed plump chest. Wanting eyes swept over the length of her long legs, and clearly expensive black stilettos. He couldn’t help but to picture black lace panties matching the heels. Dmitry’s neck heated under his collar, forcing his hand up to loosen his tie.
Mila knew that motion well. Time hadn’t changed him by much, as he was still drawn to her chest over the rear. When they were married, it never took long after he’d adjusted his collar to be deep inside of her. No matter where they were, the heating of Dmitry’s neck always meant that he was good and ready for her. Mila took that as her que. She swallowed what was left of her drink and then slowly stood to her feet, pressing her chest in his direction while standing.
She ran her freshly repainted nails softly down his chest and stopped it at his belt, giving him a quick teasing nudge. Then she tilted her head and looked over at the door very obviously, knowing full well that he would follow her out.
Dmitry couldn’t believe what had just happened. He wasn’t one to follow a woman, or to pay money for one either. He had no desire for random hook ups, and hadn’t for years. He was too old for young tarts who would give it to any man for a buck. But, this woman was more. She was too old to be a hooker, and too beautifully independent to need a man for money. The need to know more about this quiet vixen was a stronger curiosity than he’d ever felt before. Without hesitation he followed her. Wanting eyes never moved from her swaying hips, shapely back, and tall neckline as he walked behind her through the twists and turns of the hotel halls.
As she stopped at a door and reached for her key card, Dmitry took her hand in his. A delicate kiss was placed on the tips of her fingers. After taking the key from her grasp he opened the door and pulled her into a passionate embrace as they entered the room.
Mila was taken off guard with the kiss. It was everything she remembered, full of emotion and desire. Her eyes opened a crack to look behind her lover, only to see three men standing behind them… Waiting to finish him off. She did her job and delivered Dmitry to Mr. Startskiv, yet at this very moment she wanted nothing more than to rip his clothes off and remind him of what he lost, what he left behind. She longed for his touch, and to become one again, with their bodies tangled in love. It could never happen and Mila knew that.
She pulled from their kiss and whispered in the ear of her lost lover,
“Goodbye, Dmitry. I’ve missed you.”
The choppy sound of Dmitry’s quickly silenced scream echoed down the hall behind her as she made her way to the exit. The final piece of her past would be laid to rest for good. Mila knew that it was the only way, yet she would carry a part of Dmitry with her forever. Just as she always had.
Thank you for reading! We had fun this week, stepping into the shoes of a Russian Femme Fatale. So Guys Didi and I will pause on week #6 to get together a lil’ something special. This week is the last poll, we’ll do one last story then have one week to pause and step into week #7’s story/poll. Stay tuned!
Credit to: Amy Winehouse for the use of her song lyrics “we only said goodbye with words, I died a hundred times.”
Song: Back to Black
R.I.P Amy! Thanks For Leaving Behind Wonderful Music, To Inspire Two Writers To Write.
This interactive writing challenge is simple and insanely creative. It’s a group effort and we are so glad to have you join in the writing fun!! I hope you’re ready to challenge Didi and I by choosing which prompts we can transform into stellar suspense! Give us your best shot! You vote on our weekly prompt, and we provide the entertainment. It’s that simple! The super easy steps are as follows:
STEP ONE: Every Wednesday well post a voting pole with a few prompts to choose from.
STEP TWO: With the click of a button, you cast your vote on a prompt. (voting will stay open for three days.)
STEP THREE: READ AND ENJOY! Every week on the following Tuesday we will post the short story that transformed from the very winning prompt you chose!
All comments on the story posts will be open. We love feedback, and I’m willing to bet you will never guess who wrote what!! Therein a challenge of your own! (Yes, one of us writes in British English, and one of us in American. We are well aware, and ready for some trickery. Trust me, we are brilliant at adapting styles.)
We never discuss who should write what, or how the story starts or ends it’s a surprise for us too. 🙂