A Bitch In Time (Marina: Part One: Naughty Nookie Series) Read Online Free Page B

filing
cabinet, one that took me an age to track down in an antique store, is to the
left of the desk.
    The only thing that spoils the
‘old world’ air about my office is the computer perched atop the desk. 
It’s a necessary evil; otherwise, I’d do without it.
    The remainder of the room is
more relaxed.  One wall is just a huge bookcase.  Loaded down with
old and new titles, some of the spines have yet to be broken in. 
    Most of the newer additions
were written by Mona’s gay one-night stand.  Ever since she told us
about him, I’ve been dying of curiosity.  Who was it that said writers
imbue themselves into their work?  I don’t know, but I believe it to be
true. 
    Two days ago, I had Anna, my
assistant, go out and buy his backlist.  I don’t do electronic
books.  I prefer the solid weight of a tome in my hands, the smell of the
paper as it bristles under my touch.  In many ways, I’m a
traditionalist.  Don’t let the fact I’m a madam convince you otherwise!
    A large cream daybed, queen
size, packed with huge down-pillows and soft, cashmere throws to snuggle under
sits in another corner.  Opposite, there’s a sixty-inch plasma
screen.  And that is where my attention is grasped as though the
screen’s contents are magnetic and my eyes can do nothing else but answer that
magnetized pull.
    Had I not been issued a threat
the other day, I wouldn’t have thought anything of it.
    The burning building on the
screen shouldn’t have grabbed my attention.  Sad as it is, these things
happen and in a cramped city like this one, the statistics aren’t pretty.
    So what is it that makes this
building special?
    Because it
is.
    I stare at the crumbling
walls, half of the entire building caught in the flames and made
derelict.  And then, it clicks.
    I’ve been there. 
    Two hours
ago.  
    It’s Mona’s place.
    A hard fist grapples my
stomach and my guts feel as though a grenade has just detonated inside of me.
    I don’t know how long it took
to reach this state, but the knowledge that a call from work was the only thing
to save Mona, Eddie and myself from the conflagration has sweat beading my
brow.
    My eyes burn with the ferocity
of the flames; something that my television duplicates to a nauseating
clarity.  The more I stare, the sicker I feel.  It’s definitely
Mona’s place.  I’m not wrong.  No amount of wishful thinking will let
me lie to myself.  I recognize the crappy façade, the even crappier
neighborhood.  Had Mona not been such a pain in the ass stickler, so proud
and self-reliant, I’d have forced her out of that area.  Helped her to
move in somewhere decent.  But stubborn doesn’t describe my friend.
    I can only thank God for that
call.  Whoever the inconsiderate bastard was, contacting a cleaner for a
commission at nine-ten PM in the evening, they have my gratitude.
    This is a message.  The
thought whispers through my brain and I mutter, “This is the message from the
Russians, isn’t it?”
    My fingers curl in on
themselves, the sharp points of my nails dig down into soft flesh.  But
the slight pain is good.  It eases my internal agony. 
    I turn towards Anna, every
part of me beseeching her to tell me I’m wrong, that this is just a horrific
accident.  But the grim twist to her mouth speaks louder than words.
    “What did they say?”
    Anna’s voice is a
whisper.  “Burn, baby, burn.”
    A cry escapes me and I shove
my fist against my lips to stem it.  It’s inconceivable that such
annihilation could be captioned in such a blasé way.
    And there you have the reason
why I will not sell to the fucking mafia.  Lives, people ,
they’re expendable.  Nothing more than a business commodity that can be
used and abused and when the entity is no longer a viable product, then it can
be easily discarded.
    They don’t care that I’ve
built up relationships with these women, my staff.  They don’t give a shit
about my girls.
    Me?  I care.  
I know these women’s