by Amanda Hough
Let Me In
Dragan’s Tale
Amanda Hough
Smashwords Edition
Copyright Amanda Hough Triplett
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Disclaimer: The persons, places, things, and otherwise animate or inanimate objects mentioned in this novel are figments of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to anything or anyone living (or dead) is unintentional. The author humbly begs your pardon. This is fiction, people.
Dedication
Thank you Brianna Kennedy. You talked me off my self-constructed literary ledge. A perch upon which I had rested too long.
I love you girl,
Amanda xox
Prologue
Moscow, Russia 1999
Dragan Dmitry William Mikhailov
It was the wind that hurt the most. Biting, piercing through my skin. My bones ached in the restraints. A blow to the head from the butt of a Kiparis sub machine gun had left my temple throbbing. The wound had stopped gushing. No doubt, the cold and dehydration helped with that.
I’d gotten word earlier in the day that my father had met a hasty end at the Kresty Prison in St. Petersburg. The guard who told me seemed disappointed in the lack of reaction. A gun smashed against the head was my reward for dissatisfying the man.
At least something had gone well that day. I closed my eyes and focused on my father. The hate warmed me. The blood in my veins that was thick with frost stirred with the memories of the day I learned my father was a monster. A weak-minded follower who was willing to forfeit his wife’s life to maintain his standing in a corrupt brotherhood of thieves and murderers. The feeling in my toes came back imagining the knife slitting the old man’s throat. A fitting end to a worthless bastard. I hoped my brother was safe. Everything I have and would endure was to guarantee Nicolai would get out of Russia and back to the United States untouched by the family’s poison. A groan escaped my lips when the snow started to fall again.
Skinny and beleaguered I tried to slide my ass away from the cinderblock wall. The cold from the stone seeped into my back and its icy fingers were making it hard to breathe. The chains affixed to my hands and ankles were too tight. Exhausted, I leaned back against the brick.
Until a few hours ago I’d had been housed in a common cell with seventy-eight other inmates. A cell designed for ten men. The quiet solitude in the concrete courtyard should have been welcome. The stench of sick, unwashed bodies had been replaced with the frigid night air. It was little consolation. January in Moscow was unforgiving. Resting my chin to my chest I waited for hyperthermia to come. I closed my eyes and imagined sunshine. Bright and bold. Beautiful. I prayed I would get out of this and find some warmth.
CHAPTER ONE
BALLS
Austin, Texas 2013
Antonina Lynn Hume
The tavern hummed with the sounds of laughter and jukebox music. I stood behind the bar taking orders. Listening without amusement as the trio of young men ordered their drinks. What was this nation coming to when a strong twenty-two-year-old Texan ordered an amaretto sour with extra cherries?
I raised my hand for silence. The three men stopped and watched me as I leaned into the bar. Men. So fucking predictable. I took a moment to check the pink nail polish on my pinkie and then I curved my mouth into a subtle smile. Letting my pink tongue come out to wet my bottom lip. I let the loose flannel shirt I was wearing gape open to offer a little peek at the leather halter-top underneath. The night was still young and the patrons hadn’t spent enough money to earn more than a peek. But as the best damn bartender at the Booth, one of my three jobs, I gave the crowd a glimpse. And I needed the tips.
The boys stood, immobile, lips parted, anticipating my words like a starving baby bird waiting for its momma. “So, you want me to make you a vodka martini? Me?” I pointed at my chest.
The tall blonde’s head nodded, his brow furrowed.
“Is this drink for your girlfriend?” I asked.
More confused, but hopeful that this was the start of a flirtation, he answered, “No, it’s for me.”
I turned my attention to the tall curly-haired boy in the middle. “And you want a cranberry and vodka,” I confirmed.
Curly had the sense to look embarrassed. “Yeah…please…” he stuttered.
“And you!” My eyes sliced to the jock on the right. “You, what me to make you a Pina colada? Did I hear you right?”
Jockstrap plastered a smile on his face and nodded once. Undoubtedly that grin had dropped many a panty back at the frat house. I remained impassive. He wasn’t in his frat house anymore.
“No,” I answered the triad of douches.
All three looked at each other and then me. “You saw our IDs,” Jockstrap reminded me.
“I did. So here is what I am going to do.”
Turning, I snatched three bottled stouts, popped the cap off each and sat them before the patrons.
“Here are real drinks. Have a beer.” Then I instructed, “When your balls have descended, come back and I will make you whatever you want.”
With incredulous yet bewildered stares, the boys reluctantly pulled their wallets from their back pockets and paid for the unwanted beers. They each handed me a ten-dollar bill. Incredibly, they all told me to keep the change.
Rosa Sabin, The Booth’s owner stood at the end of the bar watching me torture the college students and laughed. She knew only I could treat men like that and still get a fifteen-dollar tip. She’d been looking at me in a weird way for weeks now. Almost guilty. Something was up with her and it made me worry.
I watched Rosa’s dark eyes scan the crowd. This was a busy Friday night. Energy made the room buzz. Live music was starting soon and the patrons were weaving in front of the stage to get a choice spot. The floor in front of the platform was cleared of tables on Fridays and Saturdays to accommodate the audience. Tables were butted against the walls, chairs stacked and moved into the alley and the sound system was in place. If you wanted a table tonight, you needed to figure it out for yourself. Fist would be starting soon. Most of the attendees would be on their feet.
Rosa caught my eye and together we watched a couple enter through the back of the bar. The female newcomer had long dark hair twisted into a bun that hung loosely at her nape. The man towered over her, his dirty blonde hair short and messy. His eyes scanned the room and settled on Rosa and then me. He smiled and guided his lady behind the bar.
Evie and Sergey had arrived. The pair looked good together. It had been four weeks since Evie had been attacked behind a coffee shop on route to the library. The bruise on her cheek was gone. Replaced by a permanent blush. Her lips looked swollen and abused, but in the best possible way. One glance at Sergey’s mouth confirmed that the pair had been making out behind the bar again.
Behind them, David Ross, one of my best friend’s since the first grade, walked in carrying his worn guitar case and an unlit cigarette between his lips. His tall frame glided through the entryway with a careless grace that only a man that good looking could pull off. He always looked like he had just gotten out of bed after
a raunchy night of sex. It suited him well. He wore faded blue jeans, his black Doc Martens and a well-loved Depeche Mode T-shirt with the letters peeling off. It was from the Exotic Summer Tour of 1994. David’s dad drove us to Dallas to see them. They didn’t do “Blue Dress” and it took Evie and me a couple years to forgive them.
David made his way to the stage to speak with his bandmates but not before placing his drink order with Evie.
I watched as they approached. An idea flickered in my mind and I scanned the room again. After a few minutes of playing Where’s Waldo, I found Dragan Mikhailov. He was seated at a table at the front of the room, near the entrance. As always. His back against the corner so he could see not only the stage but also the front and back doors. He looked good, as usual. Charcoal grey suit. Blood red necktie. The juxtaposition of his tailored suits and his skin covered in ink and scars was ridiculously sexy. His eyes fixed on me. I did not understand Mikhailov. He seemed to hate me and I didn’t know why. Generally speaking, men liked me. Most wanted in my pants. He seemed repulsed. Every time I caught him staring at me he had this weird look on his face. Like the idea of me was distasteful. I thought I knew why and that just pissed me off more. So, I gave him what he gave me— dirty looks. It was fucked up but mildly erotic.
“Hi Toni.” A cheery voice pulled me from my contemplations. Evelyn Snow stood before me. She looked happy. Well, she always looked happy, just reserved. Since meeting her beautiful Russian police lieutenant, that reticence had given way to a friendly enthusiasm I’d never seen in my best friend. It was catching.
“Evie, hey, honey. How you feelin’?” I asked with a big smile.
Evie rolled her eyes. “For goodness sake it’s been weeks I am fine. Everyone needs to relax. And you might know that if you returned my calls.” She pursed her lips at me and waited for an explanation. She wasn’t going to get one. All kinds of shit was going down in my life and I deal with my own shit. So, I ignored the jab.
“You scared us, Evelyn. We can’t relax until all this shit with your brother is done.”
Evie Snow’s brother, Eric had been an utter pain in the ass drug addict when he was alive. And now, weeks after his death he was still causing his sister problems.
Evie shook her head. “No, no talk about Eric tonight. If feels like all I do is talk about my brother and the crazy crap he left for me. Tonight we are having fun.” She hugged Rosa, who had joined them behind the bar and Evie whispered to me, “But thank you for caring.” She gave my shoulders a squeeze and laid a big, fat kiss on my temple.
I looked at her and grinned. It was the first real smile I’d offered up that night. Evie was like that. She could make people feel better just by being near. I loved my best friend. And we needed a serious girlfriend talk. Spending time with her was like getting a B-12 shot and I felt deficient.
Sergey appeared then with bottles of beer and ordered Rosa and Evie to follow him to Dragan’s corner table after a quick hello and wink to me. Sergey was insanely hot. A tall blonde Adonis. Muscled in all the right places and totally in love with my friend. I loved him. And I don’t love many people.
CHAPTER TWO
BOOBS
The Dragan
I watched the group walking toward me. Evelyn was beautiful as ever. Her eyes bright with laughter. My brother was a lucky man. Next to Evie, Rosa Sabin, a stunning woman with skin that looked like it was stained in bronzed earth. Clear and dark. Her hair was black and thick. For a moment I imagined what it would look like cascading over her naked shoulders. A torrent waterfall cast in darkness.
I shook my head to dislodge the sexual image. I needed to get laid. Little Rosa was business, nothing more. And finally, behind the ladies, walked Sergey. My big brother. A brother, who until a few weeks ago, had nothing but mistrust in his eyes when he looked at me.
I’d fought the notion of rekindling a relationship with the man. Until a few months ago, it had been twenty years since we’d seen one another. Once I moved permanently back to the States ten years ago, I’d considered reaching out but it was apparent within twenty-four hours of our feet on American soil that we weren’t welcome back in the family fold. Our grandmother Irina made sure I got that message. My father hadn’t paid his debt, so by extension, I hadn’t. Fuck that.
But now, instead of the animosity I thought I’d would feel; there was hope. Anticipation that we could be brothers again. In spite of all that had happened. Admittedly jabs of resentment poked at my mind when I saw all that my brother and sisters had but I knew that it was born out of jealousy—a wasted emotion. The life my brother Nicolai and I had endured after our mother’s death was the product of Vladimir Mikhailov’s greed. My father was the cause of so much sorrow and pain. A bitter combination that ate at my heart and soul. To continue to harbor ill will against my big brother seemed petty. In fact, meeting Evelyn convinced me that family was worth the risk. I had plans for Irina anyway.
I moved deeper into the corner to give Evie access to a seat of her choice. I’d arranged chairs behind the table when I arrived early. I always arrived early.
Together Sergey and I rushed to pull the chair from the table for her. A competition. Evie rewarded me with a kiss on the cheek.
“Thank you, Dragan,” she said with a laugh. “How are you this evening?”
“I’m good, sweet Evelyn. You look beautiful as ever.” And she was. Being in love suited her. If I’m honest, more than once a fantasy of her naked and spread for me has invaded my thoughts. But she only has eyes for my hulk of a brother. Regardless, she was the first woman in a long time that I loved.
Sergey and I shook hands and then I offered a hello to Rosa. Per usual she wouldn’t look me in the eye. An affliction most women had when it came to me. I was a scary looking motherfucker. Tall, lean and hard. My hands and neck were covered in tattoos. Artistic relics from my time in prison and beyond. I wore long-sleeved dress shirts to hide the inked depictions on my arms.
I wasn’t ashamed of my ink. No fucking way. Every fucking pixel meant something to me. But some of the images those red and black dots created were twisted, kinda scary. The art on my neck was a different story entirely. Around my throat was a serpent called Jörmungandr. And Jörmungandr was there to camouflage the ragged scar that ran from ear to ear across my throat. A jagged reminder covered in red and black ink.
I caught women staring at my neck a lot. Rosa was one of them. She was Native American, so maybe it meant something else to her. And, at this rate, I didn’t care. I just needed her to do what she said she would. It was in her best interest to. That much I knew. I had connections. And my connections told me Rosa needed cash. Fast. And lots of it.
“Dragan,” Evelyn began, pulling me from my thoughts. “You’re still coming to Sergey’s for dinner tomorrow, right? You’re bringing your brother. You promised me.” She gave me a look, daring me to decline. Evie was a helluva cook. No way in hell I’d miss it.
“I promise. I’ll be there. Looking forward to your cooking. I am picking up Nico at the airport tomorrow afternoon. We’ll be there, sweet Evelyn,” I promised with a rare smile.
Before Evelyn could respond, Sergey reprimanded her. “Babe, it’s our home. Stop calling it my house.”
The woman shook her head. “Sergey, it IS your house. We aren’t living together. We’ve known each other for like two months! I am staying with you while I decide what to do about my condo.” She took a sip of beer. “Besides you won’t let me help pay for anything. You know I’m not comfortable with that—”
“Evie, we ain’t havin’ this conversation again. I take care of that shit. You be my beautiful baby and let me handle it.”
Evie groaned but kissed him anyway.
After a few minutes of watching the lovers’ argument and subsequent reconciliation, Rosa excused herself. Ignoring me when I stood. Pretending she didn’t hear my goodbye. Whatever.
I watched her make her way back to the bar, back to Antonina. That woman looked spectacular. She’d done
some girl thing with her hair and I wanted to touch it so badly it made my balls ache. I’d spent countless nights at this bar watching her give her beautiful, shining smile to men. I fucking hated it. She was the whole package. Amazing, athletic body. Creamy white skin. Flawless. Glossy hair that looked good no matter what she did with it. Clear, icy blue eyes. Her caustic sense of humor kept everyone around her on their toes. And she fucking hated me.
A lot of women are uncomfortable with my appearance but it works in my favor. Women loved a project. And they take one look at my scarred, marked up body and think they could change me, heal. Mend my wounded soul. Total fucking crock of shit. I admit I played the suffering hero ploy when it served my purpose. It was an easy way to get pussy. In reality, I wasn’t a fucking hero. I was kind of a prick. But I was really good at hiding it. Toni saw right through me and the looks she tossed my way were glacial. So that made screwing with her all the more enjoyable.
I’d come to terms a long time ago that the kind of woman I saw making a life with wouldn’t want me. Set aside the dangerous, nomad occupation, the freakish quasi-Russian accent that sprouts when I’m pissed, and my habit of violence first, questions later. The past ten years have not been kind on my body. This job had taken its toll. And I was fucking ecstatic my debt was about to be paid in full. It had been a long time coming. I was only thirty-years old but I was ready to retire.
Two days after I turned nineteen, I was released from a Russian prison, gathered my little brother from some distant, beet-stained relatives of my dad’s and went straight to the U.S. Embassy. After a few weeks of regular meals, hot showers and three rounds of antibiotics, Nico and I were sent back to the United States. Agents from the U.S. government were waiting for me when we disembarked in New York. I got the offer I wanted and have never regretted a minute. Mostly I worked for the Americans but if the price was right and it didn’t fuck with my links in Washington, I could be bought. I did the dirty shit that men, stuck within the confines of laws and ethics, didn’t. I’d grown adept at gathering intelligence over the years. But honestly, my expertise was using the information to bend people to my will. Or to the will of the government willing to pay my fee.
