A fraction of seconds I found his eyes following my direction.
Or just my imagination.
Muted, cold ones. Icy blue, nearly white that always had my heart palpate. Whether it be through cameras or that he is now staring at the blonde down to his peculiar height for a formula one driver yet those unhinged gaze are like the smoldering fire of corrosive lava, attracting the moths to taste the forbidden knowing how deadly they might turn out to be. In conclusion- they are meant to bleed the blooming garden into ashes.
Sleek ink jet hair, short at the sides and longer in the middle which is tousled back from the sweat. Pale skin similar to the Russian weather- hard and cold not even a patch of redness formed on his cheek even after the race.
I am pretty sure his heart is carved in stone and failing to pump blood.
Wide shoulders yet a narrow waist, describing the combination of both power and agility his body bears.
I took a deep breath, forcing my eyes to stop wandering or the right word- ogling him.
What? I am not a saint or nun but rather a horny woman to appreciate how edible he is in that suit of white and black.
"He is so yummy, bitch. I am saying you ditch that cold-hearted Fiance of yours and start seducing this hot ass man. Now that you are going to work in his racing team." A momentary glance towards my bestie,
Celeste Lambert, heiress of the French luxury brand Cesar Lambert which is known as C&L. Honey blonde with caramel streaks of silk hair with amber eyes. Mixed heritage supposedly.
I rolled my eyes at her, if only I had the guts to be provocative and had the courage to seduce this hot cake of a man.
Nope. Not happening. Even if he flirts with me, I can't let my guard down for a mere distraction because that is what Vladimir Yusupov- will and could be in reality. He would destroy my goal and recreate his own in that mixture.
For many eyes- I might look like an innocent little flower with a tad bit of arrogance seeping here and there. Mentally- a filthy and kinky whore. Physically- afraid of the prospect of dating but now I am engaged, yeah a woo hoo in the leap of skipping steps in the hierarchy of relationship. Spiritually- I ain't available, I am in my own delusion, who can blame a pisces?
I gave a flat smile with my lips pressed together.
"He's not my type-"
"Shut up, woman. He is everyone's wet dream" Of course he is. Including mine. Fuck, he is a bane. I need to concentrate on the performance stats of my soon to be team. I came here with a purpose and the need for a vital not my freaking poison.
"Still engaged, amour"
"Engaged but not married. Big difference, bébé."
I sighed. How can I win arguments with French women? Their concept of love is too dangerous and exciting.
Which isn't my cup of tea.
Like a hook, my eyes go back to his fading figure. If only the odds weren't against me with this man. I need to avoid him in the near future or lack thereof.
*~*~*~*
Exactly the opposite of what I wished- 'Mr Yusupov wants to have a conversation with you.'
A bomb was dropped on my head by the team principal/CEO of Votchina C4 racing- Frederick Riverwood. A polite and respectful person just that he lacks the leadership quality but who am I to judge? Everyone has their own way of rules and idealist views. Not my scene or problem.
My phone pinged with a message,
CELESTE
Hey! Did you know?
ME
Anything important? I am in a hurry.
Which is the actual truth as I am fucking brushing my teeth in the Barcelona's airport as I don't have time to check-in into my hotel.
Why? Because a certain highness wanted to see my face aka the Demon of the race track.
Time limit- one hour. Location- 'The hotel of Arts Barcelona'. Too rigid and imposing motherfucking dictator. My flight just landed at the airport of Barcelona which has a different name and I am not sure how the hell to spell it.
In front of the huge plastered mirror my face looks like shit. Bloated and puffed eyes. Even though my silky hair looks nominal still my appearance in total seems as if I have just rolled out of bed. In my case, it is the business class seat and I am thankful that the company sponsored me for a nice flight but that isn't the point.
Another series of messages pinged on my phone,
CELESTE
Very important bitch.
To your life and death.
Pretty sure you live under the rock.
ME
Just spit out will yeah?
I have a meeting with Vladimir soon.
CELESTE
Merde putain!
Vladimir just got banned for this race.
"Hi, you must be Anushka, right?"
I couldn't… Can't fucking possibly processing the words of the foreign woman talking to me with a bright smile. I lost her at my name, and all my brain logged in the word- banned.
"Miss, are you okay?" No.
I couldn't even formulate those simple two letters to speak. I visibly gulped.
"I am sorry, what were you saying?" I spoke finally with a breathy hitch as I felt the after effects of an acid taste in my mouth. Right. Vladimir fucking Yusupov did shit and now it is gone south thus getting him banned for this current race.
Each race track is important and including the position the driver finishes the race as it gives points. The accumulated points and whichever driver stands at the top of the chart gets to win the world championship and the constructor championship is attained by both the drivers in the respected team.
Now that motherfucking asshole fucked up everything.
I don't like the word losing without even trying all the possibilities but at the moment it is none. Fucking none.
"Then let me introduce myself again, I'm Aubrielle Dominik and people call me El or Bri"
"That sounds too American, Aubrielle. If I go with El then please call me Anna in return."
She grins like a haunting doll, maybe to my eyes. I guess.
"So you will be taking me to Vladimir?" I continued as we walked a bit distance, out from the main gate towards the aligned cars which standby for people to hop in for their destinations.
"Yes, I'll be taking you to Boss."
"Boss? You call him that?" I raised my eyebrows at her.
"Well, we all prefer calling him that."
Spooky. I don't know who all that entails in the word 'we'. Either way I wasn't in the mood to converse any longer.
Dragging my luggage to one of the standby cars parked beside the pavement. I stuffed my things in the back as I sat next to her by the driver seat.
Out of nowhere it starts to rain heavily. Ominous, in fact. Dread settled into me as she drove into the accumulating traffic and silence was the only conversation between us.
I am late.
Not by 5 or 10 but half an hour late. I wasn't the problem here but the huge traffic. It was stubborn enough to move and the last solution we or rather she came up with the plan for me to walk to the hotel which was fifteen minutes away from my location. Awe-shiting-some.
End result- I was abandoned and drenched with droplets of rain clinging onto my already less-than-befitting clothes to look more shitter. Great start to see that Demon.
When I entered the hotel as the same suggested it was like a piece of Art that smelled rich, I mean it. Like the richy rich people spending their assets when they don't know what is the actual meaning of worthful spending. I can smell that in the air. Suffocating.
In this case, I actually look like a wanton woman who is running away after the session is done because all I could see is my fill up situation in this case with medium underrated words- scrutinizing with judgemental glances by the passing people in their posh and pressed classy clothes.
Hurried footsteps clicked on the pristine marble floor of the hotel. Seriously blinding my eyes- as we speak of.
The private lounge of the hotel. Smokes darling.
Nauseating with rich perfumes intermixing with one and other along with nicotine.
Alcohol- sorry wine, business talk, and the ladies bitching about each other or having fun bitching other women in this lounge or their haunting women laughters as in plotting evil shenanigans.
Food served in a potion that doesn't fill the stomach of toddlers and even that, these people will eat for an hour. Note to myself- Washing my eyes after the shit I finish and having some real carbonara in Barcelona by the streets.
I showed my email to the guards as I passed through them leading me to a quiet and cosy atmosphere yet an energy of subtle darkness clouded into the temperature. Shivers ran down my spine. I soothe my racing heart while taking a deep breath as I came into the lounge. I think I am going to throw up. This is too much. Way fucking too much. I can't. Can I run?
But my feet itself dragged me to the person who looked like is ready to snap and devour anyone.
Vladimir Yusupov. Seeing him in a suit in real life is cutting my air off from the oxygen supply.
His godly presence. Scratch that, his demonic presence, casually sitting on the sofa as if it was a throne made for his highness's impending judgement- as in me. Jaws ticking from clenching to un-clenching. His glass of alcohol swirled in impatience.
The flattening notes of clean pine and the high notes of coffee with good quality cigar smoke curled in the air, leaving the room more hazy and creepy. When those unhinged eyes left only with a white rim from the near black that the pupil has been dilated, now locked with mine.
So it was how Tartarus would be felt when Kronos was thrown in the abyss. A living and breathing yet agonizingly cut into pieces. Still with so much deadly power. Untamed. Uncontrolled.
From the looks of it- the day is going to end horribly. Question is- will I survive? May the unholy help me with being my guiding angel…