Kill or Die Book #4: A LitRPG Series, page 14
“You’ve changed so much,” Olga said, giving me another once-over and gently squeezing my wrist. “It’s like you’ve grown up or something… Thanks for walking me up.”
Maybe she was expecting something more from me. But I just stood there, smiling. I felt warm inside and I liked how she smelled. I liked that she wasn’t trying to kill me—or herself.
Olga nodded to whatever thought passed through her mind, then turned and fumbled with her keys. Her skirt hiked up a little, and I caught a glimpse of lace at the top of her stockings. Yup—she’d definitely freeze her ass off.
The apartment was empty. No lights. No TV murmuring in the background. It felt foreign and unfamiliar without my parents constantly around. I hung up my coat and deliberately turned on every light I could on my way to the kitchen.
I set the cognac on the table and reached for a glass.
That’s when someone knocked on the front door and my paranoia bloomed in full force. Gripping the cognac by the neck, I crept to the hallway, threw on the chain, and cracked the door open.
But it was Olga again, standing there. She wore a playful leopard-print robe and matching little heeled slippers. In her hands was a bottle of wine.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said with affected insouciance. “Figured, you’re alone too, and maybe we could hang out a bit?”
Chapter 14
“ACTUALLY, I’VE GOT WORK early tomorrow,” the voice of reason made a feeble attempt to push back.
Sometimes you know right away when a situation won’t end well. When a buddy who likes to drink invites you out for “just one drink and then we’re done,” or when some of your rougher buddies tell you “come along so there’re more of us, you won’t have to do anything, we’ll do the talking,” or when a girl says “unhook my bra, it’s making me uncomfortable and I can’t reach it myself.”
If you want to stay in control in those situations, there’s only one option: say “no” and go home. Because if you don’t, then the rest of it will be well out of your hands. The railroad switch flips and the tracks of your life send your train barreling for Buttville instead of Fragrant Glades. The game of life goes to a cutscene and you can mash buttons all you want because everything that follows takes its own course and you with it.
All of these undeniably wise thoughts flashed through my tired, alcohol-fogged brain in the span of a few moments. But even that was too long. The cutscene had already started.
“Are you really going to keep a girl standing on the doorstep?” Olga stuck her nose through the crack in the door and spotted the bottle in my hand. “Ah, you’re drinking yourself? And here you said you had work. Don’t be stingy now. Let me see what you’ve got there.”
I sighed and unhooked the door chain. Talking to Olga through a crack in the door was starting to feel silly. And I felt a little embarrassed by how defensive I’d come off. Luckily, she didn’t seem to catch on. Or maybe she pretended not to. Either way, I was relieved.
“Hennessy,” I said.
“Mmmm, XO,” Olya smacked her lips appreciatively. “I’ve never even tried that before.”
She stepped inside and was suddenly right there with me in the entryway. She grabbed my wrist to get a better look at the bottle, and the touch of her fingers sent goosebumps up my arm to my elbow. Damn it, what the hell?! Screw the wine. Screw Olga. I have to be up in five hours. I’ve got all kinds of conspiracies, intrigues, investigations to deal with.
“Olga, seriously…”
“How do you even live like this?” she called out, already slipping past me and rattling things around in my kitchen. “Why a mouse would hang itself in your fridge.”
“I’m barely ever home…” I found myself mumbling, for no real reason.
It was true, though. After my parents left, I’d personally cleaned the fridge out and dumped anything that could spoil. Who knew when I’d come back to the apartment? And I couldn’t stand unsanitary conditions.
Meanwhile, Olga clattered dishes with purpose, and soon the table began to fill up: a cheese platter, sandwiches with skinny sprats, slices of an apple I’d overlooked, lemon wedges, some homemade pickles… Finally, she produced two cut-crystal shot glasses from somewhere, wiped them carefully with a towel, blew into them for good measure, and set them in front of me.
“All set. Pour away.”
I was pretty sure Olga had never set foot in our kitchen before—unless maybe when we were little kids—and she definitely shouldn’t have known where anything was. Maybe it was just instinct, the sixth sense of a born homemaker. Or maybe all kitchens are basically the same: once you’ve seen one, you know them all. Either way, I was kind of impressed.
There was still a decent amount of cognac left. The bottle was a liter and I’d had less than half. It looked nicer in the glasses, and I even started to notice the aroma. Olga inhaled delightedly, then tossed her shot back and scrunched her face as she bit into a lemon wedge.
“So where do you work?” she asked, once we toasted “to old friends.” “Are you a manager or something?”
“Mm-hmm,” I grunted.
I really didn’t feel like discussing the details of my sudden career with a neighbor. She didn’t seem offended, though—if anything, she seemed even more impressed by my mysteriousness. In return, she unloaded a flood of information on me about our former classmates, her friends, and a whole bunch of people I didn’t know at all.
I found out who went to what college, who got married, who went to jail, and who ended up addicted—and promptly forgot it all again. Olya’s voice was bright and cheerful, like a radio that never shut up, and for the first time tonight, I silently thanked God I’d run into her. The thought of sitting alone in that empty apartment, in complete silence… And here was Olya, banishing every last demon of grief like some noisy, restless, and now slightly drunk exorcist.
“So, you still live with your folks?” I asked.
Not that I cared all that much, but I figured I should return the interest.
“Where else would I go?” Olya waved a hand.
As she did, her robe slipped open a bit, and I caught a glimpse of a firm, well-shaped breast. Her figure had improved significantly since tenth grade. Olya kept talking, gesturing excitedly and her chest moved along to her voice in soft, swaying motions I couldn’t take my eyes off.
“Maybe you… I don’t know… got married?” I ventured.
“As if!” Olya burst out laughing, rocking back on her chair—and her breasts rocked with her. “To who? There’s no one, Andryusha!”
She always called me “Andryusha,” and I liked that too. It felt easy and nice being around her. Lately, with every other girl I knew, I had to keep myself in check, match their energy, meet them on their level. Polished ice queen Marina, spoiled rich girl Sofia with her car and federal plates, even my friend Anna, MosTech’s crown princess… They all came from another world. But Olya—Olya was one of us. It wasn’t me trying to measure up to her. She was trying to measure up to me.
It felt like a class reunion where you finally get the chance to impress your high school crush. To show her what she missed out on. Only there were no extras at this reunion. Just me and her.
“I thought you had a boyfriend,” I said. “Some guy with a Jeep?”
“He’s an asshole, not a boyfriend,” Olya said flatly. “Messed with my head, and turned out to be married. Nothing even happened between us… He gave me a ride twice, that’s all… hee-hee… I’m a respectable girl!”
At that, she tried to wrap her robe tighter, but didn’t quite manage. Her right breast was covered, but the view of the left only got better. Olya was refilling our glasses enthusiastically, and she was clearly feeling good.
“Did you apply anywhere?”
“Nah…” She shook her head for emphasis. “Do you know how much that costs? I do nails… check it out!”
She held out her hand to me. Her nails really were something. At the base of each nail was a tiny star made of rhinestones, with golden rays fanning out from it.
And why had I decided she was some kind of tramp? She was just an ordinary girl, trying to find her happiness. Sure, she dressed gaudy, but now, with some new perspective, I saw even this differently. Sofia, for example, loved walking around half-naked, but that didn’t mean she was a tramp, right?
And Olya turned out to be serious and determined. She’d found a trade. She made her own money.
“Come on, look!” Olya waved her nails under my nose, trying to snap me out of my thoughts.
“They’re pretty…”
“And on my toes too, look!”
She swung her small, neat foot right onto my lap, and my body howled in protest.
I’d heard that when someone comes close to death, it can trigger an overwhelming drive to reproduce. I’d always thought that was nonsense. Earlier today, nearly sending Slonimsky into the furnace and stumbling on Dovner’s corpse, I’d felt nothing but emptiness.
Right now, even my cheekbones were cramping from the proximity of a woman. Warm… smelling of sweetness and cinnamon… so alive…
Somehow, Olya suddenly found herself on my lap. It even seemed to me that she used a skill, something like a Dash, an instant short teleport.
Her tense nipples pressed against my chest. I felt them even through the fabric of my shirt. She began to unbutton my buttons and I undid my belt. She made a strange, very sensual sound, either a sob or a moan, and began to rock on me, rubbing her ass against my thighs.
My cock ached in the tightness of my trousers. Olya teased, rubbed, pressed herself against me. I caught her with my palms and squeezed her ass with my fingers. She laughed again and kissed me. We merged, trying to both press ourselves as close as possible and get rid of our clothes as the chair creaked menacingly beneath us.
“Let’s go,” I whispered.
“Where?”
We whispered like conspirators in my empty apartment. I didn’t know where. I didn’t want to take her to my room, with a creaky, sagging sofa. I had outgrown this place, I was already different.
“Come with me…”
I took her hand and led her without turning on the light. She was barefoot, her robe open. My shirt also remained on the floor. We went into the living room, where there was a double sofa. My father had been sleeping on the couch for several years now, but my mother still didn’t fold up their shared sofa, making it completely covered.
“Have you ever fucked here?” Olya asked timidly.
“No,” I answered just as quietly, “everywhere but here.”
She giggled.
I felt like a schoolboy who brought home his first girl and was preparing to indulge in forbidden passion with her in his parents’ bedroom. How I dreamed about this very moment only a couple of years ago! And not about just any girl, but very much about Olya specifically. What was happening now was the sweetest revenge in my life.
I took off her robe, sat her on the edge of the sofa, and carefully pulled off her panties. In the semi-darkness of the living room, her skin seemed very light, almost snow-white. A strip of pubic hair stood out brightly against it.
She was soft and pliable, which only fueled my desire to possess her. I fell on top and entered her sharply, with one thrust. She sobbed and immediately moved towards me, greedily like a cat. I began to pound her… deeply… roughly, forgetting about all the romance. Olya screamed and dug her sharp, manicured claws into my back. I howled and tried to catch her by the wrists.
No way! Desperately struggling, Olya fought like a wild puma. Finally grabbing her wrists, I pinned them over her head and splayed Olya out on the bed beneath me. Then my hips drove her body into the sofa like a pile hammer into a shaft.
“A-a-ahh!!!” Olya screamed and immediately sank her teeth into my shoulder.
She started shaking… very, very slowly… Then she clenched all over, and I realized that she was cumming. My entire lower body felt like it was filled with lead, I felt arousal and a powerful erection, but it was not enough to cum. Either the stress or the cognac affected me, but I turned into a kind of tin man with an invincible dick.
The second time, Olya came sitting on top of me. The third, lying on her stomach and lifting her rounded ass up. As we approached the fourth, she was arching under me, rubbing her nipples against my chest and moaning in my ear about how much she wanted me.
“Rrrraaaaaa!” I felt that the dam had finally broken and it seemed like a powerful current would carry Olya to hell.
“Not inside of me, not inside of me,” Olya yelped.
I barely had time to jump out and skeet all over her tummy.
“Wow, it’s so much,” Olya poked her finger into the puddle with shy curiosity. “Are you always like this?”
“Like what?” I asked, surprised.
“Long-lasting.”
“Go wash up.” I slapped her on the bottom lightly. “There’s not much time left to get some sleep.”
While Olya splashed around in the shower, I found myself pondering how strangely the world worked. With men, things are pretty straightforward. The more money and power you’ve got, the cooler you are. Sure, there are actors, athletes and other celebrities, but they’ve got loads of cash too, so they fit into the same picture.
But with women, things get more complicated. There are businesswomen, the kind people envy and pity at the same time—the poor things have no one but themselves to buy themselves flowers as gifts, not to mention iPhones. Then there are those nasty sugar babies, whom many despise yet envy at the same time. Housewives envy career women, childless women envy mothers. Mothers, counting pennies from their welfare checks, envy Instagram bitches posting pictures from the Maldives.
I wouldn’t be surprised if the very same Olya used to do Sofia’s nails, and yet that didn’t elevate one or diminish the other. Both had amazing bodies, both smelled incredible, both were phenomenal in bed. Out of all the women I’d been with, the most “high-status” one would be Dr. Skuratova. But I’m sure that same psychologist would sell her soul to the devil for a chance to have Olya’s firm eighteen-year-old ass.
And people still say men don’t discriminate. That we can’t tell the difference between fast food and gourmet. And we’re not even talking about food. So, ladies, maybe it’s time you decided who counts as the fast food around here.
Thinking of Dr. Skuratova reminded me of the photograph I had found. It was still in the pocket of my coat. I didn’t mind walking to the entryway to grab it. In the photo, Dr. Skuratova looked nothing like her usual self. She had none of that stiff pretentiousness that her status as psychologist had instilled in her even unto the bedroom.
She was laughing in the photo. She looked bright and carefree.
The girl in the photo looked vaguely familiar too. Judging by their eyes, their poses, the way their bodies were positioned, it looked like a mother and daughter. In that case, what was this photo doing in Chrissy Dovner’s possession? Was she Dr. Skuratova’s daughter?
If so, that would blow my suspicion of the psychologist as her murderer to pieces. Dr. Skuratova wouldn’t kill her own daughter under any conditions. And I didn’t believe Chrissy’s suicide either, or that she’d suffered some banal overdose.
I looked at the photo again. Could that be Dovner? I had no idea. There was no hint of recognition. And it didn’t match what Modest had said about Chrissy at all. She was supposedly a girl from the sticks with no hang-ups.
Then again, maybe Dr. Skuratova was one of those “cuckoo moms” who dumped her kid on some relatives and went off to build her career? In that case, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Maybe the daughter found her later and started blackmailing her? Or maybe not blackmail, maybe they were just teaming up to spread some evil in total harmony.
I figured that I ought to show this photo to someone who knew Dr. Skuratova when she was young. But who? The only person I had anything resembling a normal relationship with was the Master. And what would I even say to him? “It fell out of the bag, and I absentmindedly shoved it into my pocket”? Ridiculous. He’d never buy it.
Olya padded back in from the bathroom, her bare feet smacking against the floor. She dropped the towel, spun around slowly and deliberately, showing off every inch of herself, then slipped in beside me.
“Oh, I know this lady,” she said, pointing at the photo.
“Where from?” I asked, stunned.
“She’s works at MosTech,” Olya replied. “Half the girls from their HQ come to us to get their hair and nails done. We’re the best salon in town! Where’d you get her picture?!”
“Work stuff,” I deflected, setting the photo down on the nightstand.
“Did she give it to you as a gift?!” Olya pinched my side with just the right amount of intensity. “You screwing her or something?!”
“Are you out of your mind?” I lied.
“Well, she’s a hot woman,” Olya mused aloud. “Not old at all, and her body’s like a young girl’s. Boobs, lips… But I’m better, right?”
“Well, depends on how you look at it… she’s richer, though.”
“Oh, you bastard…!”
We wrestled for a while, and I won, but we were both too worn out from before to take it any further.
“So, where have you been hiding?” she asked suddenly, switching topics like she’d gotten tired of talking about Dr. Skuratova’s assets.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you left after school, right? Haven’t seen you in forever. Then suddenly—bam—we run into each other again… lucky me…” She giggled and rubbed her bare thigh against me.
I let her words bounce around in my head, stunned. So all this time, she’d simply never noticed me? Someone once told me that predators have a unique kind of vision—they only see things that move. If you stand still, you become invisible to them. You don’t matter, you don’t exist.
Only recently, broke-ass Andryusha in his tattered shoes and leather jacket worn through at the elbows had inhabited a different universe as far as manicurist Olya was concerned. She had big plans for her life and even if I was there all along, in her mind, it was like I wasn’t. This new version of me—riding in a black luxury car, wearing an expensive shirt, drinking fine cognac—didn’t register as the same guy from two weeks ago.
