Page 101 of Arranged Control
“I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe, even if that means pissing you off and making you hate me.”
“Or you could just back off and let me make my own decisions.”
“That woman is crazy, and you’re not thinking clearly.” He comes toward me, but I back away.
“I know you’re not wrong, but I still want to see her again. I know I can do this, Seamus.”
“No.” He stares at me, face brimming with emotion. There’s pain in his eyes. Desperation on his tongue. “You can’t do it, Alina.”
“I need space.” I move past him to the stairs. “Don’t follow me, okay? Just leave me alone.”
He drifts in my wake but lets me go. I hurry into the guest room and lock the door behind me just in time to collapse onto the bed in tears.
I hate this so much. Molchanie is my mother. She’s the woman I’ve been dreaming about all my life, and now she’s back. And she’s also crazy as fuck.
Seamus is right to keep me away from her.
I still want to go. I still think I can convince her to leave us both alone, if only I can have the chance. Now that I know who she is, I think I can break through.
I’m dizzy and exhausted. I feel sick all over, like my skin’s rotten. I curl up under the sheets and close my eyes, not bothering to get changed or wash my face. I’m drifting, head twisting with old thoughts and fantasies of my mother’s adventures when my phone buzzes.
It wakes me just enough. I squint as I unlock my phone.
My body goes numb when I look down at the screen.
It’s a single text from an unknown number.
You know who I am.
Chapter 33
Seamus
The strip club is loud and crowded for a Thursday afternoon.
This isn’t my scene. The Whelans have plenty of places just like this one, titty bars with one pole and a bunch of bored-looking girls gyrating on a chipped and rundown stage, but I prefer to stay away. They’re decent moneymakers, but they’re also seedy and a pain in the ass.
But I don’t have much choice today.
The Siberian Kitty is barely more than a basement. It’s a few blocks from Times Square, which is funny, considering how the whole area’s become a tourist trap. Except for the Kitty, apparently.
I post up at the bar and ask for a whiskey. When the young female bartender places the drink down in front of me, I lean in close. “I’m here to see Taras.”
The girl’s face twitches. She’s older, probably in her forties. Maybe an ex-dancer. She’s got the look to her: fake tits, bleached hair, teeth stained from years of smoking.
“I don’t know who that is. She must be new.”
I give her a look, likedon’t bullshit me. “Tell him Seamus wants to talk.”
“If there’s someone named Tara, I’ll let her know.” The bartender struts off, pretending like she’s ignoring me, but I notice her briefly talk to one of the bouncers. I sit and sip my drink, waiting for a while, doing my best to ignore the girls up on the stage.
I never did understand places like this. What’s the fucking point? Unless you’ve got the money for a private blowjob, you’re just sitting in a big room with a bunch of other losers getting hard over nothing. Paying for pussy’s never been my thing, although I honestly get the appeal. No strings, no mess, no fuss. She gets what she wants, and you get what you need. A good old transaction.
Still, strip clubs. Not my scene.
Taras shows up at my elbow a few minutes later. He sidles onto the stool beside mine, elbows on the bar. A vodka appears in front of him.
“What brings one of the great Whelans down my way?” he asks, not looking in my direction.
