Not a minute later, a different blonde had been fetched by Burgundy Jacket, and was now cozying up to Teplov. This interchangeable Stepford boy was off to a good start, and I watched as Teplov said something that made the guy toss back his bleached head and laugh, then cuddle against Teplov, which earned him an arm around his shoulders.
Another thought occurred to me: had I been picked for this assignment not just because I could get in the door, but because I could potentially get into Teplov’s pants? Was my department pimping me out? It sure looked that way. I’d recently come out, both at work and to my family, and damned if this assignment didn’t just scream you were the right blonde queer for the job.
Burgundy Jacket was moving back into the crowd, scanning the selection of blondes with disinterested detachment. Oh ok, now I got why they – we – were all blonde: this was Teplov’s club, Teplov’s universe, and clearly he had a type.
Yet these facts hadn’t been in his file. I knew Dmitri Teplov was twenty six, knew he was born in San Francisco, and knew he had five sisters. I knew he’d gone to Stanford and dropped out a few weeks into his sophomore year, after his parents were killed in a car wreck. I knew he was a suspected key player in the Russian mafia, and suspected of importing heroin into the country. I even knew that on odd-numbered days he went running along Crissy Field, and on even days he went to the gym.
In other words, I knew a hell of a lot about this man. So given all the intel the department had on him, why wouldn’t the fact that he was openly gay have made it into the file?
Teplov’s latest blonde, who’d started off so well, was dismissed now. How long had he lasted, three minutes? Burgundy Jacket seamlessly guided another clueless boy toy into the seat beside the handsome club owner. Wow. Speed dating, mafia style.
What the hell was Teplov looking for that none of those pretty boys seemed to possess? Did he do this every night? And how many men did he routinely reject in an evening? Forty? Fifty? What an arrogant son of a bitch to treat so many men this way, like they were candy in his own personal supermarket. And what stupid men for letting themselves get treated like that.
And holy shit, now Burgundy Jacket was coming up to me! He gave me a dead-eyed once over and said in a low monotone, “Mr. Teplov would like you to join him at his table for a drink.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. I was tempted to tell him to shove it up his ass, but I actually felt kind of bad for the guy. Sifting through young gay guys for his fickle employer couldn’t be this man’s idea of a good time. So I said politely, “With all due respect sir, if Mr. Teplov wants to have a drink with me, he can ask me his own damn self.”
The man didn’t look impressed. “You really want me to tell him that?”
I shrugged and said, “Tell him whatever you want,” then turned my back on the man and tossed back my ten dollar beer.
Ok, so I shouldn’t have said no to that. I was here to try to get close to Teplov. But now that I realized exactly how close I was probably supposed to get to the man, I was in no mood to play nice and allow myself to be treated like a whore by my department.
I watched in the mirror as Burgundy Jacket went up to Teplov and whispered in his ear. And I watched as his employer scanned the crowd, his gaze finally resting on my back with a raised eyebrow. That was probably the first time he’d ever faced rejection. He was probably stunned that anyone could resist his good looks, the money, the power – the total fucked up package that was Dmitri Teplov.
I looked down at my now empty beer bottle, mentally putting together the politely phrased fuck you I was going to deliver to my police captain on Monday morning when I told him where he could shove this assignment.
“Hi.”
I turned to glare at whoever was currently trying to pick me up, and my eyes went wide. Teplov reclined against the bar beside me, head tilted to one side as he studied me closely. Amusement sparkled in his blue eyes, his full lips barely concealing a grin. He leaned toward me, and I caught a whiff of expensive cologne as he said, “Would you please do me the honor of having a drink with me?”
He was even more stunningly attractive close up. In fact, he was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. It occurred to me that he’d probably bedded every gay blonde boy within a two hundred mile radius with no effort whatsoever. Well, at least those that passed whatever random screening process he subjected them to.