Tài liệu Gold Guns GirlsBy William YoungPublished at Smashwords by William Young docx

Gold Guns Girls

By William Young

Published at Smashwords by William Young

Copyright 2011 William Young

Moscow, Russia – Day 209

Fyodor Volkov had everything in the world he had ever wanted, and it

meant absolutely nothing. It was worth nothing, too. Mostly, anyway. He had

spent twenty years climbing to the top of his ... field ... and now that success

was rendered moot. He was busy surviving from day to day just like everyone

else, foraging for food and water, avoiding military patrols and killing zombies.

He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling in the darkness of the

bedroom. Fyodor had no idea what time it was, the clocks on the various pieces

of electronics had stopped working when the electricity had died months ago

and he had never been one to wear a watch. He moved his hand and felt

Natalie’s bare ass beneath the sheets. He glanced over and saw the river of

blonde hair cascading over her naked shoulders and across the sheets pulled up

over the small of her back. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever

made love to.

Scratch that. She was the most beautiful blonde he had ever had sex with.

Fyodor Volkov had never known love, not romantic love, anyway, and had

learned over the years to stuff the desire for such a connection into a small

recess in his mind near the spot where his skull met his spine. Sex was easy for

him, made almost simple by the fact he had become rich in his twenties, was

good-looking and had figured out how to talk women into bed before he had

money or status. He had game, and he knew it.

He squeezed Natalie’s ass between his fingers and thumb, a quick pulse

that might have made it through to her deep sleep sub-consciousness as a sign

of affection, slipped out of bed and walked into the living room. He pulled up a

bottle of Stoli from an end table and tilted it into his mouth, letting the vodka

slip in over his tongue and fill his cheeks.

And now here he was: thirty-eight years old, two bastard children –

probably dead, along with their mothers, but whom he loved (the children, not

the mothers) – apartments in New York, Paris, Rio de Janeiro and Dallas, a

custom-built Ferrari, a Sports Illustrated swim-suit model from Texas sleeping

in his bed and everything he wanted whenever he wanted, and it might as well