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A bit of cheap alcohol, he thought, can never hurt when you are trying to forget a betrayal.
One bottle for the one who betrayed his squadron in the war. Another for the (in hindsight) predictable betrayal of that Russian asshole. And one last for the damn bitch who lied to him from the beginning.
At that moment, when she confessed her true allegiance, he was impressed by his own neurons (functional, unlike now) and their rapid ability to connect the dots. An epiphany, Roman would say. Questions about his job, inquiring if he knew anyone dealing drugs, new furniture, or showing an interest in the criminal world. Seconds later, he berated his own brain for not having noticed it earlier. For thinking with the other head.
To be fair, he liked her. He truly did. The last thing he wanted was for her to wonder how many he had killed before a date. So, he never said anything. And his mind, entranced by the idea of maybe finding less loneliness, prevented him from acting boldly and noticing her poorly concealed intentions earlier. He thought she simply had an interest in the criminal life, like many other Americans, but in the same way a historian interested in war but who would never enlist in the army: mere curiosity.
Fuck this city
The only good thing is the strip club in Bohan.
Now there, watching Roman applaud and praise a dancer in a purple bikini with money in her garter, Niko came to the conclusion that the best company was five-dollar alcohol and a lady willing to dance in front of him in exchange for a hundred dollars.
Perhaps it was the rum corrupting his brain activity, the blend of bitterness with sadness, or the haircut that seemed to be in fashion lately, but he could swear that the woman currently contorting her body in the way only exotic dancers know how looked a lot like her. And the rum, because he was certain it was the rum's fault, with the help of the psychedelic lights, was distorting the dancing face, giving it features of someone he used to know.
—Do you like this, don't you? —her curved lips stood out from the distorted image.
—Yes... —he couldn't help but smile like a fool.
—I like you...—he heard her voice despite the noise in the club.
He chuckled.
—Really?... Really?
—Of course, handsome. You come across as a sensitive lover, yet tough at the same time— she whispered in his ear as she massaged his arm—. You look like a bad boy. Are you a bad boy?
—Why? —The woman leaned on his knee, bringing her chest into full view. Niko turned his face to look into her eyes—. Why do you ask these questions? —He let out a hiccup—. Can't we talk about normal stuff? Tell me, have we ever talked about normal stuff?
—What do you want to talk about, honey? —She stretched both arms over her head, and the lights formed colorful geometric shapes on her ivory abdomen. "I'm all yours."
—I don't know... What kind of music do you listen to?
—Whatever you listen to —she said, her smile growing wider.
—Do you like my outfit?
—Of course —her voice turned husky near the man's ear, causing Niko's neck hairs to stand on end—. You have good taste.
—What's your name?
—Starfire.
—Your real name.
Suddenly, as if in response, the lights went out and the song stopped playing through the room's speakers. A monotonous white spotlight replaced the colors that had illuminated the room just moments ago. The dancer's smile disappeared in record time, and it didn't take long for her to turn around and walk through the threshold.
Niko got up from the couch.
And as he followed the stripper who moved ahead of him, he asked:
—So, did you really like me, or did you just say that because it was part of your job?
There was no response.