He is real. A novel. Alisa Roft. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: Alisa Roft
Издательство: Издательские решения
Серия:
Жанр произведения: Мифы. Легенды. Эпос
Год издания: 0
isbn: 9785005025999
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felt around, in the darkness, artificially created by the shutters of window blinds closed tightly, for the phone slid between the wall and the edge of the bed, I picked it up and held it to my face. The harsh light coming from the screen strained my already heavy eyes.

      “Thank you for yesterday night, I wish I didn’t have to wait for you for so long, but I will wait for the next one”.

      – You are my darling, – I said with delight and warmth. They were the feelings caused in me by Misha if I disregard my wild desire of his crazily beautiful and sexy body that I wanted to touch and pat without stopping, even for a smoke break.

      “Today’s night could be much better with you” – I started typing on the phone and… I don’t know, I started to doubt, it seemed ridiculous to me. And what will Misha think? Or maybe… no, nonsense. Sent what I managed to write as it was.

      Only a few words sent by him charged me with a good mood, despite the end of the week, which meant the inevitable beginning of the hardest and craziest working nights. Just one thought that I’ll have to plunge into this madness, filled with drunken, sniffed, inadequate people with half-naked bodies, wildly screaming with joy, made me frown. And I used to have fun with them.

      Hello, new day!

      I cast a hurt glance at the phone with regret and got off the bed with a grudge against myself.

      – Soon we will see each other” – I said, as if addressing Misha, then added words addressed to my “invisible friend”: – And you stay close today, I really need you. You know it yourself.

      Later in the evening my boss called, in excited voice, he explained that I would have to work on the yacht, the clients are rich and demanding, and they agree to pay for my presence until the morning if I match their preferences, so it was worthwhile to choose the right outfit. To wrap me, like goods, in expensive gift wrapping.

      The motor yacht moored on the pier of Tel Aviv behind a fashionable hotel turned out to be one of the exact copies of those that you can only see in films about high living: white, large, three-deck and streamlined, lit by multi-colored lights, spreading their light on the night pier. Loud music and the passengers’ shouts came from its board. A young, tanned guy of typical Israeli appearance met us (me and my partner), asked to take off our shoes and helped us climb aboard.

      In the middle of carefree merriment, on the main spacious deck, the hero of the day was dancing in front of the fans – young girls and very elderly men, who were sitting down along the oblong table on the left side. They were clapping at him, and he shouted out in response to applause: “Welcome to my home,” although his Arab appearance did not reveal at all that he was English.

      – An Arab sheikh is in his underpants, – said Lena, laughing, she got to the point, having noticed it correctly. His short body was almost bare, only his square hips were covered by swimwear boxers.

      It was with Lena that I most often worked in tandem. Extremely eye catching young girl, slightly shorter than average, with perfect body proportions and a pretty face, which didn’t do without a plastic surgeon services. She came to Israel to earn money to buy an apartment in Russia. And there’s nothing to be surprised about, the Israelis for the most part, no matter how often the vice of greed can be attributed to them can loosen purse-strings with all their hearts. Especially on Sabbath. The God himself orders to do it. And the Arabs, of course, they suddenly become the most generous in the world when they throw a holiday. It might sound dramatic, but of all the men of different nationalities (Asians, Americans, Europeans, Indians, Russians, our Jews and Caucasians, I cannot remember who else – I was lucky to spend nights with many people, brightening up their leisure time), the Arabs really stood out with their wasteful generosity.

      Having changed clothes in a cabin, Lena and I came out on the deck wearing bathing suits that covered little. We were dancing and created the purchased atmosphere of fun. The Arab, so let’s call him the “hero of the day”, who cares about their names (although you could choose Lena’s option, but I liked mine more, it’s my own, after all), approached Lena and me and said out loud:

      – I’m going to tip these girls a thousand dollars, you’ll see! – And he began to dance, hanging on our thin shoulders, and in the meantime the yacht set off, sailing from the pier.

      Cutting through the waves, the yacht went on quickly, moving farther and farther into the dark space of the sea, swaying considerably from side to side. Lena and I, clinging tightly to the handrails that stretched along the side, continued to dance despite the feeling that the floor was falling away underneath. The “hero of the day” with a smile painted on his face and eyes shining like glass approached one of the guests, returned with money and began to tuck the bills (oh yeah, they are these pieces of paper soaked with indelible paint that are loved by Anna) into our bras and panties. Surprisingly, my friend and I looked at each other; our eyes sparkled, shimmering brighter than diamonds. And we continued to create the illusion of fun, smiling, dancing and clapping, clapping, dancing and smiling. Somehow, as if we were in tune with the “hero of the day”.

      Being tired of jumping and shouting, he headed for the table, tugging me and Lena along. Having glanced around the table, I found the guy I needed, the one who stood out not only for his bulky body, but also for the air of importance when pouring crystal powder onto a plate from the bag, making it a line and passing it around. You could get the impression that he felt like a kind of “drug lord” who decided to treat all his friends this night. I decided to sit next to him. From the moment Lena and I began to dance, his admiring glance often lingered on my forms.

      – You are so beautiful, – he said, studying me with his eyes at a closer distance. His muffled voice sounded drawling and slightly drunk.

      – Thanks. – Wreathed in a naive smile, I put my hand on his naked soft shoulder.

      – I have been watching you for a long time. Well, you know, I’m almost fifty years old, and I see things in people. – He looked “young” for his age, although he grew bald, and some twenty years ago he was definitely a handsome man, the one that girls were wild about, I suppose, in large quantities. – There is something special about you, – he gave his conclusion.

      In response, “Anna the frivolous” looked at the “drug lord” with a naive look, while continuing to smile openly. Deep in my heart, I was not surprised at his words; clients were always saying that in order to get on the right side of me by emphasizing my importance.

      – Do you want to sniff it up? He asked me, holding out the rolled bill. It should be said that it was not one dollar bill.

      – I do not sniff. Let’s have a drink, – I suggested, and reached for a bottle of tequila with an unfamiliar name.

      I did not count how much tequila I drank that night. New and new bottles in wooden boxes appeared on the table over and over again, and their content was poured into shot glasses. My companion began to tell me how rich he was, boasted his real estate, invited me to one of his luxurious restaurants and invited me to go to the south of the country to the Hilton Hotel, explaining that he had booked a suite in this fashionable hotel for a year in advance. Needless to say, for those cases when he suddenly gets in the mood to get away from it all for a day or two, taking with him another “anyone’s” young girl. The one that for a sniff of powder and unspeakable generosity will be squarable and really happy with the opportunity to get her share of luxury “as if for free”.

      Peering at the man sitting next to me, I tried for a minute to imagine myself with him in the spacious bed of a chic room in a five-star hotel, on the, let’s say, fortieth floor with panoramic windows overlooking the outbound Red Sea. And I didn’t feel anything apart from disgust. I experienced absolutely opposite feeling, imagining this situation and putting Misha in place of the “drug lord”. A slight excitement ran through my body. But Misha could not afford such expenses, and it would be extremely