Read Online I Was Waiting For You by Maxim Jakubowski - Free Book Online
Authors: Maxim Jakubowski
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body, cleansing her, waltzing her every thought away, when a phone in the other room rang. The cell phone sheâd transferred from her bag to the bed cover. Barely a handful of people knew the number. Cornelia didnât move. The phone drifted into silence. A few minutes went by. Then it rang again. It could wait, she knew. It WOULD wait. The anonymous ring tone ceased again and the quiet returned, punctuated only by the water hiccupping down across her skin to the bathtub floor.
She dried herself briskly, dropped the white towel to the wooden floor, grabbed an old pair of jeans folded over the back of a chair and fumbled her way into them. Searched for a clean T-shirt and settled on a light V-necked beige Walkabouts on Tour one. Her leather jacket hung on its usual hook on the back of the apartmentâs door. It was old and battered, an imitation WW2 aviatorâs jacket, from which she had carefully detached all the irrelevant and pretentious sewn-on badges and insignias after sheâd found it in a thrift store in San Diego a few years ago while on a job there.
It was approaching ten at night. As she locked the door behind her, the cell phone which sheâd left behind, still on the bed, amongst her discarded clothes, rang again. She made her way towards the Bowery.
The club was half empty, even at this time of night. The recession was biting, and Wall Street types visibly had less cash to spend these days. Nor was it anywhere as opulent, or pretentious as the swing joint in Paris, Cornelia knew. Functional was the right word for it.
Sheâd checked on the way over whether she could work a shift, and Stangaler had agreed. Although heâd warned there werenât many big tippers around. Cornelia wasnât bothered. She just wanted something that could take her mind off the last job. Something she could do with her brain switched off. As she had walked down Lafayette, the thought that the Paris job was somehow far from over niggled her. Loose ends were always unwelcome and she suspected the Italian girl was one. Why in hell had she spared her? It had been a mistake, she realised. Hopefully, one that would have no lasting consequences. The girl had dark brown eyes and, following the surprise of witnessing Cornelia pull the gun from below the towel and her execution of the man who had dragged her there, there had been a shadow flying across those eyes that spoke of resignation, not of pleading as would normally be expected.
Maybe that acceptance of her fate, that sadness was what had momentarily touched Cornelia, interrupted her in murderous flight.
There were only three other dancers on tonightâs bill. No wonder that her proposal to come and do an impromptu shift had been so cheerily welcomed.
It had been a couple of weeks since Cornelia had worked last, but she kept a locker here with a couple of spare outfits and a bunch of discs pre-recorded with numbers she could dance to.
She changed into a black leather two-piece bustier and bikini bottom, each item garlanded with a plethora of zips, most of which only served a decorative purpose, then sat and pulled on a pair of matching thigh-high leather boots with pencil-thin five-inch heels. Sheâd always resisted wearing stockings for her act, unless specifically required to by the localeâs management. There were already so many clichés in the stripping arsenal, and stockings had never pleased her. Fortunately, her dancing was sufficiently sexy (she preferred to call it erotic) for her to be forgiven her idiosyncrasies and there were at least half a dozen small clubs dotted across Manhattan who were happy to provide her with a stage on the occasions she made herself available. Cornelia never agreed to long-term residencies. She was strictly a freelance stripper. And, for convenience sake, she only worked in Manhattan, although word was reaching her that Brooklyn was fast becoming the in place. A better class of audience, it appeared.
She dried herself briskly, dropped the white towel to the wooden floor, grabbed an old pair of jeans folded over the back of a chair and fumbled her way into them. Searched for a clean T-shirt and settled on a light V-necked beige Walkabouts on Tour one. Her leather jacket hung on its usual hook on the back of the apartmentâs door. It was old and battered, an imitation WW2 aviatorâs jacket, from which she had carefully detached all the irrelevant and pretentious sewn-on badges and insignias after sheâd found it in a thrift store in San Diego a few years ago while on a job there.
It was approaching ten at night. As she locked the door behind her, the cell phone which sheâd left behind, still on the bed, amongst her discarded clothes, rang again. She made her way towards the Bowery.
The club was half empty, even at this time of night. The recession was biting, and Wall Street types visibly had less cash to spend these days. Nor was it anywhere as opulent, or pretentious as the swing joint in Paris, Cornelia knew. Functional was the right word for it.
Sheâd checked on the way over whether she could work a shift, and Stangaler had agreed. Although heâd warned there werenât many big tippers around. Cornelia wasnât bothered. She just wanted something that could take her mind off the last job. Something she could do with her brain switched off. As she had walked down Lafayette, the thought that the Paris job was somehow far from over niggled her. Loose ends were always unwelcome and she suspected the Italian girl was one. Why in hell had she spared her? It had been a mistake, she realised. Hopefully, one that would have no lasting consequences. The girl had dark brown eyes and, following the surprise of witnessing Cornelia pull the gun from below the towel and her execution of the man who had dragged her there, there had been a shadow flying across those eyes that spoke of resignation, not of pleading as would normally be expected.
Maybe that acceptance of her fate, that sadness was what had momentarily touched Cornelia, interrupted her in murderous flight.
There were only three other dancers on tonightâs bill. No wonder that her proposal to come and do an impromptu shift had been so cheerily welcomed.
It had been a couple of weeks since Cornelia had worked last, but she kept a locker here with a couple of spare outfits and a bunch of discs pre-recorded with numbers she could dance to.
She changed into a black leather two-piece bustier and bikini bottom, each item garlanded with a plethora of zips, most of which only served a decorative purpose, then sat and pulled on a pair of matching thigh-high leather boots with pencil-thin five-inch heels. Sheâd always resisted wearing stockings for her act, unless specifically required to by the localeâs management. There were already so many clichés in the stripping arsenal, and stockings had never pleased her. Fortunately, her dancing was sufficiently sexy (she preferred to call it erotic) for her to be forgiven her idiosyncrasies and there were at least half a dozen small clubs dotted across Manhattan who were happy to provide her with a stage on the occasions she made herself available. Cornelia never agreed to long-term residencies. She was strictly a freelance stripper. And, for convenience sake, she only worked in Manhattan, although word was reaching her that Brooklyn was fast becoming the in place. A better class of audience, it appeared.
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