Billie and the Russian Beast
50 Loving States, South Carolina
Theodora Taylor
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Also by Theodora Taylor
About the Author
Once upon a time
A Russian Beast
was dazzled by an
American Princess.
After some rather nefarious negotiations
he won the princess in a game of chance.
But seizing his prize would not be easy.
For how could he convince
such a practical beauty
to love a no-holds-barred beast like him?
Chapter One
A lot of people, including my brother and two best friends might argue with me about this (like, all the time), but I refuse to call my life boring.
The thing is I grew up poor in one of South Carolina’s roughest neighborhoods. And after my mother died of cancer when I was eighteen, I had to figure out how to take care of myself and my older brother. Trust, I got over the “excitement,” of not knowing how I would both eat and pay my brother’s college bills real quick.
My two best friends and fellow former beauty queens, Cynda and Gina, love to tease me about how I only entered the South Carolina beauty pageant for the scholarship money. And I know a lot of other state princesses are still coasting through life on their looks. But I figured out from early on that being pretty only got you so far in the world.
My prettier-than-average face and dance background had been enough to get me a position as an NFL cheerleader for my brother’s team, the Carolina Leopards. And I enjoyed cheering, but I can’t tell you how annoying it was to put up with the nasty catcalls from the stands. Even worse were the constant come-ons from football players who were not even allowed to date us cheerleaders.
They never believed me when I not only refused to break the rules to be with them, but also told them that I had no interest whatsoever in dating an athlete. I mean, why would I? From what I could see, guys who played sports for a living were all men children who partied too much and spent their too-large incomes on stupid things.
Believe me, cheerleading got real old after a few years, and I was more than happy to use my state pageant winnings to pivot into a career in accounting.
And I don’t care what my brother and his friends say about my career change. Oh how Cynda and Gina keep badgering me to let down my hair and have more fun. After the way I grew up, there is nothing more thrilling in my opinion than having a stable job at one of Charleston’s biggest accounting firms and owning a two bedroom/two and a half bath condo in West Ashley—with garage parking!
Not only that, but I’m set to take the CPA exam in June. And as for having more fun, check this out. I just signed up for a new dating platform called BizHarmony. Unlike those hookup apps, which I can’t stand, BizHarmony caters to practical and stable business professionals looking for practical and stable relationships. That means by the end of the summer, I might not only be a certified public accountant, but also dating someone who shares my exact same values.
How exciting is that? I mean, if someone had shown teenage me where I am now, she’d be jumping up and down with joy.
So no, I’d argue that my life isn’t boring at all.
But still, I do begin the first weekend of March yawning.
And I can’t stop yawning as I listen to Ultralearning by Scott Young on my kitchen’s smart speaker while scrubbing the dishes my brother left in the sink.
I’m not yawning because scrubbing caked on food off dinnerware is boring—although I can’t stress enough what a pain in the ass it is to wake up to find dirty dishes in my usually immaculate kitchen. Scott Young also isn’t responsible for my current state of tiredness. Believe me, I need all the help I can get if I want to pass my CPA exam. So I’m paying real close attention to his theories on how to optimize my study time.
It’s just that it’s four in the morning, and no matter what I tell my body about the early bird getting the worm—and passing the CPA exam in June—it’s still protesting and yawning.
“You seem tired. Did you have a late night too, Princess South Carolina?”
I freeze, the hair standing up on the back of my neck.
Because the person who asked me that question isn’t my brother, Clem.
Whoever it is has an accent, but it’s a lot less country than my North Charleston born and raised brother. And way more dangerous, because it belongs to a stranger.
My stomach becomes rock hard, and it feels like my heart is about to explode in my chest. There’s a stranger. In my house. Calling me Princess South Carolina.
I swallow. I’d heard about things like stalkers from other Queen America contestants, but I didn’t even make it to the big pageant’s quarter-finals. I’m not 100% sure they ran my full package in the live broadcast since I never bothered to watch it. And most people don’t recognize me here in Charleston like they do my friend Cynda all over St. Louis, and in Guadalajara, the small Missouri town she returned to after her father died. Maybe I was being naïve and stupid, but I never thought something like this would happen to me.
However, it is happening to me. Right now. There’s a stranger in my kitchen, standing right behind me.
Taking a deep breath, I turn around.
The man is about the same height as me. Five foot eight. Maybe a few inches taller. But where I’m toned and fit from the YouTube yoga and Just Dance workouts I force myself to do a few times a week, he’s bulked out under his leather jacket. I can’t tell whether it’s fat or muscle.
I’m betting muscle though. Possibly gained during a stint in prison. I’m pretty sure his accent is Russian, and he’s got that jet-black hair/craggy skin combo that older gangsters seem to favor in the movies.
But we’re not in the movies. This is real life. Happening to me.
I feel like there is a rope tightening around my throat, cutting off my breathing. Oh, God, there’s some kind of mobster/burglar/killer here. In my house. And I have no idea if my brother heard him come in.
My eyes cut to the butcher block I keep tucked away next to the double oven for the rare night when I have time to make a meal.
“I would not do that if I were you,” The stranger advises. He sounds both amused and disappointed. “I am old man who still appreciate pretty girls. And if you fight me, I might have to make your face not so pretty.”
To punctuate his point, he opens his jacket just enough to reveal a holstered gun hidden beneath.
There’s a stranger in my house and now he’s threatening me. With a gun!
I can feel the beat of my heart against my tongue. And I try to swallow, but saliva? I don’t have an ounce of it in my
throat. “Who are you? Why are you here in my house?”
“I’m an employee of someone your brother owes a lot of money,” he answers, his tone almost gentle. Almost kind.
But not quite.
“Clem?” I ask. I’m not sure why. It’s not like I have any other brothers. “But I thought he was in the back asleep.”
The old thug throws me a look that makes me feel both pitied and stupid.
“No, he is currently at my boss’s residence, awaiting your arrival. And if you want what is best for both you and your brother, you will come with me, Princess South Carolina. No fight.”
Chapter Two
I step out of an elevator that opens into a sleek black and grey hallway. Then the thug who introduced himself as Vlad while directing me which way to drive from the passenger seat of my own car escorts me down the short corridor into a gorgeous penthouse apartment.
I find my brother sitting on one of the couches in the sunken den living room.
“I’m sorry, baby sis. I’m so sorry!” he says, jumping to his feet as soon as we come through the door.
Vlad tuts and crosses the room to shove Clem back down on the couch. “Yes, you should be sorry, causing your poor sister so much unnecessary distress. But right now, we will wait here quietly for Mr. Rustanov to finish the rest of his game.”
“Mr. Rustanov?” I repeat, looking at Clem. “Who’s that?”
Clemson doesn’t answer. Just sits on the couch with his eyes lowered in a way that puts me in mind of a little boy, even though he’s large and dressed in a t-shirt, baggy jeans, and a gold chain. He’s much larger than me and an offensive lineman for the Carolina Leopards. But it doesn’t matter how big or strong he is, there’s always something about Clem that reminds me of a little kid. Maybe that’s because our mom’s dying wish on her deathbed was for me to take care of him no matter what.
No matter what…
The words echo in my ears as I wait for Clem to answer my question.
But instead of replying, he looks to Vlad, like a child requesting permission to speak.
“All will be made clear soon, Princess South Carolina,” Vlad answers in Clem’s stead. “Please sit.”
I sit on the couch directly across from my brother. But I don’t feel much like a former beauty queen, dressed in my loose tank top, shorts, and house slippers with my sisterlocks in the two loose braids I put them in last night. I also really don’t feel like I belong here. This apartment, it’s too nice. I’m an Ikea and replace it every five years, kind of girl.
But the sleek, dark furniture in this penthouse looks like it was handpicked from a showroom. The kind that’s not open to the general public and is staffed by people who wear suits—not striped yellow shirts and jeans.
There’s a slate black coffee table between the couches with a gorgeous chess set on top. The pieces are painted black and red instead of the usual black and white. A nod to Russia maybe?
There’s also art on the wall. Colorful as if to provide contrast to the dark furniture. I don’t recognize any of it, but I am sure it costs a fortune.
To top it all off, the entire back wall is composed of floor-to-ceiling windows filled with a twinkling view of the stadium where the Charleston Knights play hockey and the Ashley River beyond it.
No, I definitely don’t belong here.
Neither does my brother.
He’s barely making ends meet as a third-stringer going through a messy divorce after his wife caught him cheating. What is he doing in this opulent apartment? And again, who’s this Mr. Rustanov?
I decide against asking Vlad these questions. I’d had plenty of them for him as I’d driven myself to this high rise. But the only question he’d answered had been the one about him killing me.
“I have no intention of harming you,” he’d assured me. “But your brother’s debt will need to be negotiated and he said you were only one who could provide this service.”
Okay, that sort of made sense. Even before I got my degree, I’d been Clem’s de facto financial manager. The person who made sure he still had a pot to pee in after he spent his earnings on any number of idiotic things.
The gun part was scary for sure, but other than that, this looks like yet another jam I’m fully capable of getting my brother out of.
I hope.
Either way, I wait quietly as instructed until suddenly the apartment erupts with yells and groans.
“It looks like Mr. Rustanov has won.” Vlad cuts his eyes at my brother. “Again.”
I also look at my brother. He asked me if he could move in for just a few weeks while he searched for his own apartment. That had been back in January. Now it’s March, and apparently instead of saving up for a deposit as he’d assured me he was doing, Clem had been here all night. Losing so much money to this Mr. Rustanov guy that he was being detained here against his will.
“Mr. Rustanov and his guests will be done soon,” Vlad says to me, smoothly flashing the gun underneath his jacket again. “Some advice. Do not cause a scene when they come out. If you make this night difficult for Mr. Rustanov, I will have to make your entire life difficult. Both yours and your brother’s.”
Wow, this guy is an excellent threat-maker.
I’m still not sure what’s going on, but I keep my mouth shut. Even when a cadre of North and South Carolina Who’s Who spills out from the hallway into the front to the apartment.
I’m talking three of my brother’s teammates, some basketball players, and even my boss’s favorite golfer. There’s also a bunch of muscular white guys I don’t recognize. But I’m pretty sure they’re also athletes. They have that air about them. Especially the tallest of the white guys. He stands nearly as tall as the basketball players and nearly as musclebound as the football players. And he seems familiar somehow, but I can’t place where I’ve seen him.
Is he Mr. Rustanov? The one who owns this stunning apartment? Whoever, he is, he’s clearly The Winner. Everyone is either complaining loudly about the last game or congratulating him on winning it.
The Winner doesn’t seem to notice us, sitting just a few feet away in the sunken den living room that may or may not be his. He doesn’t so much as glance in our direction. But I stare at him. How can I not?
If you combined the salaries of the athletes he’s surrounded by, it would be more than the GDP of some countries. Though if I’m being honest I’m not paying much attention to all the superstars. As famous as they are, my eyes keep coming back to him.
The Winner.
He has dark hair—I’m not sure what color. It’s cut close to his head in a way that would make him seem like a criminal or military if he wasn’t surrounded by elite athletes. He’s wearing a blazer over a v-necked t-shirt and jeans, which makes him stand out, even in this crowd.
A few of the mega-athletes glance our way but most of them keep their eyes on The Winner until the last one declares that his car is here and leaves.
And did I think The Winner hadn’t seen us?
As soon as the elevator dings shut behind his last guest, the affable expression fades from his face and he turns toward us.
I stand on instinct. Facing him down like tax season as he strides forward, his light green gaze laser-focused on us.
Actually, not us…me. His eyes hold me and me only. And when he stops right in front of me, it feels the same as having a Mack truck suddenly brake, right before it runs you over.
He’s even bigger up close. Not basketball tall or football heavy, but close enough. I’m tallish for a woman, but he towers over me. And the thin t-shirt and blazer ensemble he’s wearing hug his muscles tight.
“This is Clemson’s sister, as requested,” Vlad says beside me. “Princess South Carolina.”
The Winner’s green gaze rakes over me. And I swear I can feel it pressing into my skin as it moves up my body. All the way from the bottom of my toes to the top of my head.
I didn’t choose to be here. And I don’t like or date athletes. Yet, suddenly
I feel self-conscious. I fight the urge to pull my sisterlocks out of their messy over-the-shoulder braids and groom myself.
For him. For The Winner who pulled me away from an exciting weekend of preparing for the CPA exam.
But right now, the only thing getting studied is me.
I swallow, feeling even more scared than when I turned around to find a stranger in my kitchen.
Even though The Winner hasn’t said a word, his intensity speaks volumes. And the examination goes on for several excruciating seconds.
Eventually, his mouth turns up at the corner and he glances over at Clem. “You were right. She is very good girl. Upstanding.”
The Winner has a Russian accent, too. Not as heavy and broken as his employee, but close enough. Maybe I was mistaken about him being an athlete. Could he be mafia?
And they were talking about me before I got here? My stomach knots with fear. Seriously, what has my brother gotten himself into? Gotten the both of us into?
I glance over my shoulder at Clem, who’s still sitting on the couch like a little boy awaiting his punishment. Then I turn back to the Russian, irritation and fear chasing the next words out of my mouth. “Look, I don’t know why you had me dragged out of my house at four in the morning, but congratulations, you’ve officially freaked me out. Now can you please tell me what this is all about?”
Another amused half-smile…that instantly disappears.
“Clem, Vlad, you will give us the room,” he says without looking away from me.
Chapter Three
That one command is all it takes. Vlad grabs Clem by the arm, and Clem doesn’t fight him at all as he’s pulled off the couch.
Billie and the Russian Beast: An Enemies to Lovers Russian Hockey Player Sports Romance [50 Loving States, South Carolina] (QUARANTALES Book 2) Page 1
