“Clem…” I say when I realize he’s planning on leaving me here alone with a man I just met.
“It’s okay, Billie, he won’t hurt you,” Clem says as Vlad pulls him past us. “He promised.”
“He promised? What do you mean he promised?” I call after him. “What’s going on?”
The only answer I get to those questions is the ding of the elevator Vlad and my brother have obviously gotten on. Oh God, my brother’s been dragged away.
And now I’m alone.
With the huge Russian winner.
I turn back to face him, my heart racing with a strange mix of curiosity, fear, and uncertainty. What now?
Apparently, introductions.
“Hello, I am happy to make your acquaintance,” he says, holding out a large hand to me. “Cheslav Rustanov. But you may call me Chess.”
Chess…
Suddenly I know why he seems familiar. This was the hockey player we got a few years back. Some big deal who’d won three Stanley Cups, according to the local NPR station. For a while the city seemed to be littered with billboards of him standing next to a red king chess piece and the declaration, “The King has come to play for the Charleston Knights.”
So not mafia, I realize, putting it all together. Hockey. He’s a hockey player. With a henchman who was totally willing to pull me out of my condo.
“Hi, I’m Billie,” I answer, awkwardly extending my elbow into the air instead of shaking his hand. “I’m pretty sure this is what we’re supposed to do now.”
Chess lowers his hand, his eyes twinkling with amusement. Like I’ve said something really funny, not given him a proper COVID etiquette reminder. South Carolina hasn’t had any confirmed cases yet, but the virus landed on the West Coast in February. And Cynda, who’s a nurse, told me that she thought it was only a matter of time before it spread across the entire United States.
“Please forgive me for dramatics,” he says. “This situation is very confusing for you, da?”
Da. I think that means yes in Russian.
I nod, then force my voice back up my throat to ask, “What’s going on? Why did you make Clem leave?”
“Would you like something to drink?” he asks instead of answering my question. “Vodka? Wine?”
“It’s five in the morning.”
He moves up the sunken den’s short set of stairs toward a wet bar I hadn’t registered before on the sidewall. “Gin and cranberry. That is your drink of choice, da?”
I jolt. How did he know?
“I have no gin,” he says as if I answered him. “But vodka and cranberry is good substitute, nyet?”
“What’s this all about?” I demand again as I watch him make two drinks. A vodka cranberry for me and just a straight shot of some vodka with Cyrillic letters on the label for him. “Why did your employee break into my home with a gun?”
“Drink first. Business later,” he answers coming back to me with the drinks.
“That’s a terrible order to do business in,” I answer, ignoring the drink he’s extending toward me. “Business now, so I know what I’m doing here.”
“You are stubborn,” he notes. “This will be fun.”
“Maybe for you,” I answer.
“For both of us,” he says. Then he takes a step closer. Way, way too close. “This is my promise.”
My belly flips all the way over at that promise. And his proximity.
“You should take the drink. Let it calm you before our talk,” he says, holding up the glass again.
I take the drink from him. But only to set it down next to the chessboard, before demanding, “Why am I here? What is going on?”
He sighs with another half-smile, like I’m somehow disappointing and amusing him at the same time. “Okay, we do this your way, krasotka.”
He sets his drink down on the opposite side of the chessboard. “Your brother misrepresented to us his ability to enter into high stakes gameplay. And now he owes me money. Money he says he cannot pay.”
I blink. I mean, no surprise there.
Clem is going through a messy divorce right now, which is why he came to stay with me after the last football season ended, instead of going home to his wife and kids. According to him, Natalie not only tied up all his assets but is also demanding five-figures in child support.
With as much as he makes for the NFL, he should be able to pay that amount easily, but unfortunately, most of my brother’s money gets eaten up by his poor choices and bad habits. He goes to Vegas at least four times a year to gamble, and he insists I’m just “a hater” whenever I point out that the house always wins. Gambling losses are another reason he’s staying with me as opposed to getting his own apartment.
I can just see him telling himself that this high stakes card game was a sure bet and spinning dreams of how he’d cover all his child support and have enough money to move out of my condo with all of its boring rules.
“How much does he owe you?” I ask, already running calculations.
After Clem got his football contract, I badgered and badgered him until he finally relented to let me manage his money. I put him on an allowance, and though he lives a ridiculously extravagant lifestyle, after all his bills are paid, I managed to set a few funds aside in a higher interest savings account that I labeled “Save Clem.”
Sadly, this isn’t the first time I’ve had to access the “Save Clem” money to get my brother out of trouble. He’s been asking to borrow from it for some supposed investment opportunities ever since he moved in. Luckily I said no because as of now that account’s accumulated nearly thirty thousand dollars.
I’d been planning on giving the money to Natalie if Clem didn’t find a way to pay his child support before that, but I’d be willing to pay some of that toward this if it meant getting my brother out of danger.
“Three hundred thousand dollars,” the Russian answers.
I’m glad I refused to take the drink. If I had, it would be flying from my mouth right now.
“He lost that much in one poker hand?”
Cheslav shrugs. “It is not called high-stakes for nothing. And I always bet big, not little.”
I shake my head. “I can’t…I can’t pay that. That’s worth more than my house.”
“I believe you are making wrong comparison here.” Cheslav steps closer to me. His demeanor going from amused to menacing in a hot second. “Is that amount worth more than your brother’s life? That is the real question you should be asking.”
Horror ices through me, and I struggle to show a calm composure. “You’d kill him? Over money? I mean, you’re a hockey player. Killing people who owe you money can’t be a good look.”
“You are correct, I am merely a hockey player,” he agrees with a cool nod. “But I am also a man with a certain reputation. These games of mine…they are extremely exclusive. Trust is very necessary. Yet, your brother slipped past my background check. So will I kill him?”
Cheslav casts his eyes to the side as if honestly considering my question. “No, of course, I will not do that. But a month from now, will he suffer an unfortunate accident that ends his career and makes it so he cannot walk for the rest of his life—one that the authorities will assure you has nothing to do with me?”
He shrugs again, but lets me know, “That is for certain.”
For a moment. For several moments, I am unable to speak. Fear crawls up my spine, while I grasp for my voice.
But I’m still the same Billie who scraped up enough money to get her brother the rest of the way through college and changed her life for the better.
I make my voice strong to point out, “That’s insane. This is an illegal game. Completely unsanctioned. And you’re a professional hockey player, and if I go to the press with your threats…”
“Yes, I’m professional hockey player,” he agrees, somehow looking both amused and bored. “Very famous. Very well-liked and sought after by many women. Also, my family is very powerful. Here, and back in Russia. So if
you go to press with claim they will either not believe you or my very powerful family will make sure story never sees light of day. Either way, my threat will be promise made true while your threats are nothing but little nips at my heels.”
Once again, I find myself struggling to swallow. I want to fight. I want to figure out a way of my brother owing this monster so much money. But at the end of the day, I don’t think he’s bluffing. About his family or what he’ll do to my brother if that debt isn’t paid.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll sell my house. I’ll get you the money.”
He crooks his head, the amused look coming back over his face, but not reaching his eyes. “Do you really think you’ll have enough time to come up with this money before your brother’s unfortunate accident?”
I blink and translate. “So you’re saying I only have a month to come up with this money or Clem gets hurt?”
“Or five days,” he answers.
I scrunch my forehead, not understanding. “It’s going to take me more than five days for me to get my hands on that kind of money.”
A beat of silence passes. Then he stares at me with an unwavering intensity as he says, “Or you could give me something I want in that five days. Something worth this amount of money.”
My heart stutters in warning but somehow I manage to ask, “What do I have that would be worth that much money to you?”
He picks up his drink and takes a sip. “You. For five days. Doing whatever I want, however I want it, until it is time for you to go.” He gazes at me over the rim of his glass. “I would consider this a fair exchange.”
Chapter Four
My breath catches as his words rock through me. Did he…?
My pulse flutters madly. I have the silly urge to look over both shoulders. Did he really just ask for me to spend five days with him in exchange for clearing my brother’s debt?
Maybe he doesn’t mean sex, a hopeful voice inside of me proposes.
Maybe there’s no reason for my heart to be pumping hard with a new strange and frenetic emotion.
Maybe he’s just lonely. Like, maybe he’s an insanely hot hockey star, who’s so lonely that he wants someone to spend five days with him. You know, doing wholesome things.
Like watching House Hunters.
And playing chess.
I love chess.
“If your answer to my proposal is yes, you will answer by stripping down to your bare skin,” he says before I can get too far down that hopeful road of hypotheticals. His eyes are twinkling with amusement, but the planes of his face are sharp and hard. “And you will stay that way for the next five days.”
“And if my answer is no?” I ask, my breath quickening with an emotion that should be fear and disgust only. But isn’t quite.
His expression doesn’t change one iota. “Feel free to leave,” he answers, waving a hand toward the door. “No one will stop you.”
“No one will stop me,” I repeat. “But no one will stop you from hurting my brother either, right?”
He doesn’t answer out loud. Simply inclines his head, the cruel threat shining in his eyes as he looms over me.
Oh my God….
I deliberate and deliberate, for what feels like centuries.
But…nothing. I think about calling my best friends, Cynda and Gina.
We were the only three Black women in our Queen America class. None of us won and none of us went on to careers rolling in dough. Gina became a stripper before meeting a cop who took her away from that life. So now she makes nothing. And Cynda took a huge pay cut three years ago to take care of her stepsiblings in the small town where she grew up. I know they’d do anything for me. But neither of them have access to that kind of money.
I want to shout no. I want to walk out of here and end this ridiculous negotiation. But an image of my mother on her deathbed rises in my head. She’d been dying, and the only thing she wanted, the only thing that she seemed to need was my promise that I’d take care of my brother.
And I’d promised her I would. But now the only way to keep that promise is to offer myself up to the ruthless predator, standing in front of me.
In the end, I can’t think of any other way.
Oh God, oh God, I’m really going to do this.
With trembling fingers, I reach down and pull my loose tank over my head as quickly as I can.
But not quick enough. The embarrassment descends as soon as the shirt comes off. And instead of casting it aside as Gina would have in one of her strip routines, I end up clutching it to my chest.
My body is nothing like Gina’s. She’s all juicy curves with lush breasts and a butt so round and beautiful, my brother demanded to be introduced to my friend after the Atlantic City Queen America finals, even though he already had a wife and kid. I’m also not as gorgeous or confident as Cynda, who has men lining up with just a flash of her cynical eyes.
I’m only an A-cup, which doesn’t match my thick hips and thighs. And sure I’m pretty, especially in hair and makeup. But I haven’t worn extensions since I put my hair in sisterlocks. And the majority of my MAC products are currently at home, collecting dust now that I’ve become a full-time accountant. The truth is, I’m not even really Princess South Carolina. True story, I was the runner up. The winner had to drop out at the last minute when she broke her leg, and I ended up going in her place.
This deal is wrong. What Cheslav Rustanov is demanding of me is wrong. But somehow, I feel like he’s the one getting the short end of the stick.
I wait for him to be like, “Nah, on second thought…”
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he walks around the coffee table and settles onto the couch. It’s the same place I sat when I waited for him earlier, I note as my heart thumps like a rabbit inside my chest.
“Tell me, what do you know about the Rustanovs.”
“Um…I once was in the dance chorus of a summer stock version of Chrysanthemum. The original opera singer for that production. Her name was Sirena Rustanov. Any relation?”
I’m joking, but he answers, “Yes, she is the wife of Boris Rustanov, one of my cousins. Funny you should mention her because she started off as his pet also.”
“His pet,” I repeat.
“Yes, that is how Rustanovs refer to the women they acquire and keep. Women like you. Do you understand this concept, Princess South Carolina? That for these five days, you will be my pet and I am the man who will train your body to worship my cock?”
Such nasty words delivered in such a casual tone. I should be screaming in horror. But my heart beats faster, and a long-absent desire pools in my lower belly.
I close my eyes briefly, embarrassed that I’m not completely repulsed by him like I was with the football players who tried to come on to me when I was a cheerleader. What is wrong with me?
“The rules are no leaving. No questioning. You obey my every command. Say you understand,” he says, interrupting my guilty thoughts.
His tone is commanding. Also low and dangerous. And for reasons I couldn’t even begin to explain, the lips between my legs tingle with anticipation.
My cheeks light up with flame, but I somehow manage a quick nod.
“No, you will say this out loud.” His voice is a hard, unforgiving thing. “I understand that I am yours to command, Chess. For these five days, I am your pet.”
I swallow, not sure I’m going to be able to get the words out. But I try my best, my voice weak and thin, “I understand that I am yours to command, Cheslav. For these five days, I am your pet.”
The hard planes of his face light up with smug approval. Even though he’s dressed semi-casually, he puts me in mind of a portrait of someone great. A king or a general. Men with the kind of power that makes artists want to paint them.
“As I told you before, my friends call me Chess.”
“I thought I was your pet, not your friend,” I point out, my tone frank and snide.
“You can be both,” he answers, his tone
reassuring and cold.
I think about it. Then ask, “Is pretending you’re my friend and calling you Chess part of the deal?”
He regards me for a long, cool second. “No, you may call me as you wish,” he answers. But then his face ices over with cold, hard intention. “Until you wish to call me something else.”
Chapter Five
Technically, I won that fight. But I don’t feel triumphant. Like, at all.
As it turns out, standing across from someone half-naked while he sips on vodka fully clothed really messes with the power dynamics of a conversation. Especially when that someone made you establish that you were little more than an animal at his command before you won one itty-bitty conversational turn.
As if to prove my point, Cheslav says, “Lower your arms and let your shirt drop to the ground. That is command..”
I hesitate.
“No hesitations, my pet. When I give a command, I expect full and immediate submission. Or else, you will be punished for your insubordination.”
Well, that doesn’t sound good…
My body seizes with a new fear. ”I know it’s three hundred thousand dollars, but I don’t want you to hurt me.”
His expression tightens. “I would never hit or do anything to cause you physical harm, krasotka. Please do not ever worry about that.”
There’s no reason for me to believe that after the way he threatened my brother. Yet with his words, the fear for my physical well-being falls away.
I lower my arms and let the tank fall to the ground.
“Keep your arms down at your sides,” he says before I can raise my hands to cover my small breasts.
I try to keep my face composed. Like I’m waiting for another Queen America candidate to answer her question. But it’s not easy.
Even with my eyes averted, I feel his gaze on my body. And that does something to me. Something that makes my entire body swell with desire.
“Your nipples have become little rocks. Are you cold, pet? Should I turn up the heat?”
Billie and the Russian Beast: An Enemies to Lovers Russian Hockey Player Sports Romance [50 Loving States, South Carolina] (QUARANTALES Book 2) Page 2
