Bad Russian 03 Read online

  Contents

  Yevgeni

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  ©

  STEAMY

  Prologue

  Chapter One Him

  Chapter Two Her

  Chapter Three Him

  Chapter Four Her

  Chapter Five Him

  Chapter Six Him

  Chapter Seven Her

  Chapter Eight Him

  Chapter Nine Her

  Chapter Ten Her

  Chapter Eleven Him

  Chapter Twelve Her

  Chapter Thirteen Him

  Chapter Fourteen Her

  Chapter Fifteen Him

  Chapter Sixteen Her

  Chapter Seventeen HIm

  Chapter Eighteen Her

  Chapter Nineteen Him

  Chapter Twenty Her

  Chapter Twenty-One Him

  Epilogue

  Epilogue

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  © Alice May Ball 2019

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, or to any actual events is purely coincidental.

  All the people portrayed in this story are over the age of eighteen, and entirely imaginary. If you think that you know some of them, or that you may be one of them, then you should consider writing fiction yourself.

  Cover Design by Signs of Desire for TzR Publishing

  This steamy, fast and sizzling hot, insta-love romance has pent-up passion and fulfillment of raw, surging need, enough to burn a vault of secrets.

  There’s no cheating and a Happy Ever After Ending guaranteed to leave you breathless, hot, and drenched.

  Especially written for you, if you need a hard, fast and determined hero who knows how to take what he wants.

  Prologue

  Him

  Her scent doesn’t lie. Her head shakes slowly. But she knows. This is the time. She danced and swerved around it. Pushing me. Grazing her soft ass on my pants when she passes me. Leaning so her big, soft tits squeeze against me. Rolling them around so I get a feel of her hard little buds. Then giggling and acting innocent.

  Looking at me with big eyes and an ‘O’ mouth.

  Well, not anymore.

  Now she pushed me too far. She can’t tease any more. Now she’s going to find out what happens to a girl who goes around lighting fires in a big man.

  All of those bikers who were after her like wasps that smell sugar. They would do anything to be near her. Catch her scent. Take her or even try and talk her into letting them cop a feel. Spill her tits out for them. I get it.

  She’s going to learn, a real man’s not like that. I see what I need, I’m going to take it. Especially with her shaking it in my face,

  I’ve held back, I’ve been the good guy. My balls have ached for her. Too long. Too hard. Too fucking often.

  Now I’m going to pump up her soft, wet pussy with my stiff rod and I’ll hose her with thick bolts of hot cum.

  I’ve gotten myself in danger for her, taken a risk of harming my purpose coming here.

  Now there’s no stopping me.

  I’m going to make her mine and I don’t mean once. She’s going to be mine for keeps. Fore. Ev. Ver.

  She backs into a dark corner with that come-on look in her eye. Her head shakes and her curls bounce while her big tits heave. Her hands on her hips as they roll and tip. Showing me, like a slo-mo twerk, how her pussy can rock.

  Her eyes flash with that up-from-under pout. She squeezes and shakes her shoulders, shows me the slow shimmy of her soft ass. Wags it against the wall.

  The pay-back for a cock-tease is coming. Right now.

  Chapter One

  Him

  I ALWAYS KNEW THERE would only ever be one woman for me. I got to this age and I never found her, and I like it that way. I never have to worry about another person, and nobody can ask where I’ve been or what I’m doing.

  I want babies, and to bring up children, but maybe I’ll adopt. And anyway, I’m still in no rush. I’ve got money. I can do what I like, when I like.

  My life is freeform. I fly like a bird. I don’t want roots like a tree. I’ll never settle now. I don’t want ties. All I need is a purpose and I have one. For now.

  My father is gone. Ripped apart in a storm of bullets. Died the way he lived. Deserved what he got. He left me with more money than I’ll ever need. But I don’t like that way that he got it.

  It should have been split between my brother and me. Now that won’t happen.

  My dear mother passed long ago, and I miss her every day. When father died, Mikhail and I were all the family that was left. Now I have a debt of honor to my brother. Something I have to see through. And I want to do it.

  When I settle that score, I’ll have no chains, nothing to bind me to another soul.

  Love never happened for me. I don’t expect it ever will. Not now.

  The atmosphere in the barroom is still and thick. The air crackles. Like one spark would ignite it.

  I look in the eye of the big, ugly biker. Grease is the Sergeant-at-Arms of Hellroad MC. The president, vice president, quartermaster, the whole club Council line up behind him. His face is hard like an anvil. His eyes are narrow slits. Black in the middle and red at the edges.

  I lift the bourbon and swirl it in the glass. Dark, liquid gold.

  His voice is blunt and rusty. “Well, Ruskie nomad?”

  “Well, Grease, you’re a big ugly bastard.” I tip the glass to my mouth. The smoky tang burns all the way down my throat. It’s a good burn. I tell him, “And you should learn to drink vodka like a real man.”

  There are rituals in a motorcycle club, as subtle and complex as a Japanese tea ceremony. Traditions to be honored and respected. Things must progress in a certain order. Failure to uphold the symbols and signals of respect would be taken as a serious insult.

  I’m a guest. A nomad. Not an American biker or even an affiliate. At this point, I have to show that I know and respect the club and its officers. But not too much. I have to show strength. To take respect.

  It’s a game, but I know the rules. And I need something.

  Grease doesn’t like the crack I made.

  That’s okay. The Council appreciates me stepping up. Eyeballing him and not backing down.

  They probably think he’ll kill me. But I have their respect.

  Grease would like to kill me, but he won’t dare try. Not one-on-one, mano a mano. Not unless he can get himself an advantage. His eyes drill hard into mine. He nods. Recognition. Is it acceptance? Not quite.

  When my brother Mikhail left here, he was headed for Iron Hogs, an affiliated club in Akron, Ohio. That’s almost all that Hellroad’s officers were willing to tell me after the Council meeting.

  Moses, the club president, said, “Next we knew was when he fetched up under the Clay Wade Bailey bridge, by the Pete Rose Pier. Half in, half out of the Ohio River. Looked like someone tried to pitch him in the river, but they didn’t finish the job. Knowing you was coming, I called in a favor from a detective in the Covington County PD. He was forthcoming with a copy of the police report. I wouldn’t call it an illuminating document, and you’ll not find it a source of comfort. I obtained it for you only as a signifier of goodwill.”

  He hands me a USB fob.

  “
I appreciate it. Knowledge is some comfort. I’ll be looking for more, though.”

  “I don’t doubt it, brother. If the club can do anything to aid you within our laws, ask any member of the Council.”

  The club’s loyalties are to itself and to its members. That’s what Moses was telling me by, ‘within our laws.’ Nothing will get over that.

  Grease is not pleased with Moses handing me the report. But he doesn’t want to make a beef. The silence is nerve-wracking. But I’m not going to break it.

  Behind me, the door opens. There’s a change in the room. I’m not taking my eye off Grease. Not yet. He doesn’t look away either. From the corner of my eye, I see some of the men off to my right at the bar straighten up. Their chests puff. Others lean back. Widen their legs.

  So. It must be a woman.

  The kind of a woman who opens a door and the tone of the room sharpens. The kind of woman who drags trouble in behind her, cuts a burning gash of chaos everywhere she goes.

  Chapter Two

  Her

  THIS SHITTY-ASS CAR. The heel of my hand hurts from banging on the dash. Last time it was the battery. Cost me a wad I didn’t have to spare. What is it now?

  All I know is, there’s nothing around here for miles. Nothing but Kentucky grass and scrub, chicken sheds, and Bannon’s Bar. I’m dressed real appropriate in a tiny scooped top, no bra because it’s too damned hot, and a skimpy pair of skin-tight denim cutoffs. The perfect attire to pay a visit to the most notorious biker clubhouse this side of the Ohio River.

  Thong sandals and my blonde curls that haven’t seen the inside of a salon in who knows how long, spilling all over my shoulders. I’m not only going to look like I’m there to turn tricks, I’ll be like a desperate skank with no pride at all.

  A quick look around the horizon confirms it. Bannon’s is the only building for humans in sight and the light’s going down.

  A look in the mirror and I do what I can with the flattened hairbrush in the glove box. Try to make myself not look like a lost and hopeless needy victim. Doesn’t look much better.

  Damn, girl. Fate sure is fixing to have her fun with you tonight. Bad breaks are all that I can count on.

  Probably just made myself look worse, but I’m not going to accomplish a minute-makeover with nothing but a rear-view mirror and a full set of chipped nails. Here I go.

  Under the flickering blue neon, I can feel the death metal shake the door as I grab the handle. I have to force myself to turn the handle and push the door. Deep breath. Big smile. Okay, not too big. Oh, I don’t fucking know. Here goes.

  Inside, it’s like walking into a vat of hot, vaporized testosterone. As soon as I’m in the doorway, I feel a change in the air.

  The few women I can see are all looking directly at me, like they’ve been waiting all night for something to torment and kill.

  The men, about two-thirds of them don’t look around. They’re watching, but the not-looking-at-you-directly kind of watching. The other third are spreading feral grins. All but one huge guy. He’s older. A lot. Three-quarter turned with his back to me. He doesn’t pay me any attention at all.

  He wears the standard denim cut over a heavy, leather bike jacket. On the back, the top patch says, ‘NOMAD,’ the bottom one looks like it’s in Greek or maybe Russian.

  He’s not a regular biker. There’s something really different about him. Something that makes my breath catch. Whatever else I do, I’ll keep away from him.

  With all the confidence I can fake, I stride my five-foot-four to the bar. Leaning up with my elbows on the bar top, I call to the barkeep. I make my voice as bright and easy and friendly as I can. I’m just a couple of inches from the big guy. I don’t look at him as I shake my curls. He shows no sign of even seeing me.

  I ask the barkeep, “Anyone here know anything about cars?” The guy by my shoulder could be deaf for all the reaction he makes. The barkeep approaches slowly. Gently he tells me, “A few people here might be able to help you,” and I’m realizing I couldn’t have asked a more dumb question.

  I mumble, thanking him.

  Any one of these guys could help. Who might be willing is the question, and would they want something in return. I may have as much as four dollars and sixty cents, but I do need it to last until the end of the week. I was counting on the gas that I filled up with carrying me through. Seems like that wasn’t such a good investment.

  The big guy is talking to one very evil-looking dude. I heard him say something. He had some kind of an accent. His voice is dark and smoky. It sends a tingle zinging down my spine. When I squeeze by to get to his evil companion, my ass brushes against him. He is so hard, like he’s carved out of oak.

  I ignore him harder.

  I don’t see any hint that he even noticed me. Of course, I’m only looking out the corner of my eye. I don’t look directly at him. The nearer I get to his evil companion, the more he gives me the creeps, so I abandon my plan to ask him for help and move on.

  Surely there must be a shy boy in here who’s not a closeted ax-murderer. Two men intercept me.

  “I’m Beaver. Pleased to meet you,”

  “Carlie.” I should have made him work harder for it. I know. I was brought up to be a pleaser and I fight it all day every day.

  “This is my buddy, Prang.” They both have unattractive breath and shifty eyes. As far as I can see they aren’t wearing patches on their jackets. I know that means they’re not affiliated to the club. I don’t know if it’s a good thing or a bad thing, though. I’m carefully not looking at the big guy with the accent and the ass to die for.

  “Why don’t you let us fix you up?” Prang asks me.

  “Yeah,” his buddy moves closer. “We can get you going in no time.”

  “We’ll get your motor running.”

  They’re big men. I’m really taking a chance going outside with them. I look in the direction of the big Russian or whatever he is. If he even sees me looking, he doesn’t show it. Bastard. Here goes, then.

  Beaver and Prang push my old wreck of a car. They get it heaved into the parking lot of Bannon’s Bar. At least it’s off the road, I guess. Beaver tells me to pop the hood.

  “Yeah,” Prang says, “Crack her open,” and they both have a laugh at that.

  “Try now,” Beaver calls out.

  I turn the key. The motor coughs. Then, nothing.

  After a moment he shouts, “Again?” Nothing at all. I hear them both make a sniggering chuckle.

  Beaver comes around to the door. “Could be your plugs ain’t in far enough.”

  I know less than nothing about cars, but I know the sound of bullshit when I hear it.

  From under the hood, Prang calls out, “I think your solenoid’s gone limp. Might need stiffening.”

  “Yeah,” Beaver pulls the door open for me, “Come see.”

  “I don’t mind if you just want to have some fun,” I tell him, trying to keep my habitual people-pleaser smile off my face, “But can you actually get my car running?”

  He gestures, “C’mon. Come take a look.”

  Reluctantly I follow him to the front. Prang points into the dark space at the side of the engine. A bunch of wires look like they’re disconnected. He’s pointing past them. Deeper down.

  “See, your pump’s unprimed.”

  As I lean over to look in, a hand grabs my ass. Prang’s breath is damp, near my ear. “You need to get your sump spread open and filled.”