FOLLOW THE HONEY (Sweet & Dirty BBW Romance Book 4)

by Cathryn Cade

  “Well, my man and I had our share of fights,” Wanda said, shaking her head. “If this is meant to be, he’ll come to his senses. And then you can let Mr. Handsome beg for forgiveness.”

  Lesa grabbed another tissue from the box Wanda had handed her, and blew her nose. “That’s never gonna happen,” she said thickly. “He’s not that kind of guy.”

  “Then he doesn’t deserve a good woman like you, does he?” Wanda asked. “Now, you take one of those traveler packets I keep under the front desk for folks who forget their toiletries, and grab the key to Room One, next door. And don’t try to pay me, ‘cause this is on me. In the morning, you come over for breakfast, and we’ll talk about what you’re going to do next.”

  “Thank you,” Lesa said, tears running down her face again. “Y-you’re so sweet.”

  Wanda grinned, her face creasing in a hundred smile lines. “Ha, you liven things up around here. My granddaughter has no love life—so boring.”

  Lesa rolled her eyes, but she did it smiling through her tears. “Glad I can provide entertainment.”

  “Me too. Now get some sleep, kiddo.”

  * * *

  Stick Vanko was brooding. Sitting in his big farmhouse, in the room he’d chosen for his home office, he tapped his cell phone on his knee while he stared at nothing.

  From his living room, he could hear two gruff little voices mimicking vehicle noises. His twins were playing, driving their toy trucks over the carpet and a series of obstacles they’d set up, including a toy garage, a pair of his boots, one of Sara’s purses and the colorful cushions she liked to arrange on the big leather furniture.

  His old lady was upstairs in their bathroom, doing whatever she did to make herself so pretty.

  He’d just ended a call with Sound Whittaker, president of the big, rowdy Seattle chapter of the Devils’ Flyers, so named because as a young Flyer, he’d gotten rid of his old lady’s abusive step-father by chaining the slime-ball to a weight and sinking him in the ocean channels off the coast of Seattle called the Sound.

  A skeleton chained to a chunk of cement was found a year later by divers studying the giant octopus that lived under a particular bridge over a narrow inlet. Sound received his road name, and a Flyers’ legend was born.

  Stick wasn’t ever gonna be best buds with the man, but he respected him. Stick had prospected under Sound's father, and Sound had done a fine job taking up the gavel for Seattle.

  Thus, when Sound delivered the news that the Solokov brothers had been left, with a load of illegal firearms, where they were sure to be discovered by their uncle’s men, and that they had subsequently disappeared into the Smetanin bratva compound, Stick believed him.

  Now he was waiting for another call he did not want to take, but he would. Because the safety of this chapter and all the people associated with it, rested on his shoulders.

  As if on cue, his phone burred. He thumbed it, saw the call was from a Seattle area code, and rose to shut and lock the door of his office. Then he put the phone to his ear.

  “Da?”

  “This is Vladimir S,” said a hoarse voice in Russian. “I think you know who I am?”

  “Da.”

  “Then you know I do not appreciate my nephews being treated poorly, then transported like a crate of cabbages.”

  “I’m sorry to hear this happened to them,” Stick said calmly. “Can they identify anyone?”

  Smetanin coughed, the phlegmy, racking sound of a lifetime smoker. “They could not see, but they know the voices, yes.”

  “You should call the police then,” Stick suggested. “Although, on second thought ... I believe the Spokane County Prosecutor would rejoice at the chance to speak with them. Too bad they didn't consult you before trying to take part of your business.”

  “When it comes to family, my arms are long,” Smetanin rasped. “I would not hesitate to reach out as far as your backward little town if I thought anyone had set them up.”

  “I understand,” Stick said. “I would feel the same. You have my word that's not how it happened. I have a great many brothers in Seattle myself. They’re always happy to reach out as well.”

  A short silence, then Smetanin grunted. “I’ve decided my nephews, and their sister, will be happier in a different climate, until they learn not to embarrass me. But rest assured, I won’t forget this, Vanko. Nor will any of my men.”

  “I feel exactly the same,” Stick said cordially. “Best if we don’t meet again, da?”

  Smetanin ended the call without bothering to answer. Stick set his phone down and tipped his head back, letting out a long breath of relief.

  Then he made another call to his vice-president. “It’s done,” he said simply. “They won’t give us any trouble if we stay away from them.”

  “Good,” Rocker said. “Whoa, don’t mind sayin’ I was sweating this one.”

  “Yeah,” Stick said. “Me too. Later.”

  He shoved his phone in his pocket and went to find his old lady. As it happened, she was coming down the stairs to find him, and she was upset, her eyes flashing, lovely face flushed with anger.

  “Ivan,” she said, hands on her hips. “Do you know what that idiot of a brother of yours has done now? He broke up with Lesa! She spent last night at that little hotel across from the pub, and according to the woman who runs the place, Wanda, she’s devastated. This Wanda knows who I am, so she called me. She’s worried about her.”

  She leaned in to him and put her soft hands on his chest. “Ivan, you need to go talk to him, before I go slap some sense into him. I saw the way they looked at each other. She is perfect for him—even if he's too dumb to know it.”

  Stick sighed. This, he did not need on top of everything else. Pete was already pissed at him. “Fuck, why’s it always me?”

  She kissed him. “Because, everyone depends on you, and you know it, Mr. President.”

  “Wouldn’t mind a day at home with my family,” he grumbled, but he gave her another kiss and then let her go. “I’ll go. You okay here with the boys?”

  “Of course. I’ll just set Blackie on watch, and go have my nails done.”

  He smiled at her. “Funny woman. When I get home, you’ll be on the floor driving trucks with them or some shit.”

  She smiled back. “Ordinarily, yes. But right now, I’m going to call Lesa and invite her to come stay. In Gran’s house, not here, so stop scowling at me. The guest room over there is ready.”

  “Just got rid of your brother and his woman, now you gotta pick up another stray?” he grumbled. “Need to get you pregnant sooner than later. Give you someone of your own to take care of.”

  She gave him a special look. “You know I want your baby, Ivan Vanko.”

  He grunted. “Fuck, woman, now you got me hard, and I gotta go deal with Pete.”

  His old lady nodded, pulling away. “Right. Find out what in the world happened, so we can fix it. I really like her for him.”

  “I know you do, so do I. I’ll see what I can do.”

  With a last kiss, he left her. The twins popped up from behind the sofa as he crossed into the kitchen. “Papa, can we go with you?”

  “Not this time, boys. But I’ll be back soon. Be good for Sara.”

  He loved taking them with him, but if Lesa was gone, then he had a strong suspicion he knew what shape Pete would be in.

  Not fit to be around kids, for certain.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  February 12th

  Pete was drunk.

  Drunk as a fuckin’ skunk, and he knew it, but he didn’t care. He was gonna stay drunk until he forgot the betrayal that had slammed him in the gut when Lesa gave him that look, her big brown eyes full of guilt, and admitted that she’d taken money from Stick to stay with him.

  Fuck, he’d finally found a woman—out of all those he’d fucked in every position they could dream up, and then some—a woman he wanted around for more than a few days. One who didn’t bore him, didn’t irritate him …

  Well, she pissed him off on a regular basis, but that was different, ‘cause he liked sparring with her. He'd rather get her riled up than fuck any other woman. Which made him the biggest sap in Eastern Washington.

  “At least I got m’friends,” he told them. T-Bear sprawled in the chair to his right, Moke on his left, while Rocker lounged across from him. They all had beers in front of them, and shot glasses. A bottle of Jack Daniels graced the center of the table.

  As it was Sunday, the Hangar was closed. The only lights on were those over this table, and the security lights. But even if it hadn’t been Sunday, he would’ve left the doors locked. He’d spent the night right here, drinking, and he intended to spend the day doing the same if he happened to feel like it.

  Dima had feasted off of burger from the big refrigerators, and Pete had fallen asleep on the sofa in his office, waking to beer for breakfast, and then hit the whiskey again. When his friends had appeared an hour ago—or was it longer—he didn’t recall, he urged them generously to drink what they wanted, on the house.

  “M’brothers,” he told them. “Glad I got you d’pend on … ‘cause I’m done with bitches … for good.”

  “Done with Lesa?” T-Bear asked. “No way, man. She’s into you.”

  “What happened, brah?” Moke asked.

  “Took money fr’ Stick,” Pete told them. “Thought she's into me? Noo-ope. She want’ money. Stick gave it t’her, so she stayed.”

  He threw back another shot and grimaced. “Thought she stayed f’ me. Thought she liked me. ‘S all a lie.”

  He nearly wept at the memory. And the booze wasn’t helping. He was swimming in his own misery. He wiped his face and scowled at them.

  “Fuck, that’s low,” T-Bear said, draining his beer and reaching for the pitcher. “Huh. Tell you what, I’ll take her off your hands, you go find a better one.”

  “No, brah, you gotta wait till the break is for sure,” Moke said, kicking him under the table. “Then you can make your move.”

  Rocker shook his head. “Christ, you two are nearly drunk as he is. Pete, brother, you got it mixed up. You need to stop drinkin’, talk to Sara, and then go talk to Lesa. ‘Cause if you’re thinkin’ she cheated on you, or made a move on Stick, that never happened.”

  Pete squinted at him. “Didn’ say she moved on him, said sh’ took his money. Pay-o-la, vashlee. I’m a fuckin’ char’ty case.”

  “Okay, that’s it,” Rocker said, rising. He leaned over and grabbed the whiskey bottle away from Pete, who was struggling to pour another shot. “You’re done, bro. I’m gonna make you some food, and some coffee. Then we’ll talk.”

  “I could eat,” Moke said, perking up.

  “Do’ want food,” Pete told them mournfully. “Wan’ my milaya, ev'n if she is a liar.”

  “What’s up your butt, Rock?” T-Bear asked, and belched hugely. “Can’t a brother even grieve with his best buds?”

  Rocker sighed, and plunked a glass of water in front of Pete. “Drink that. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “Bring some more beer while you’re up, VP.” T-Bear held up the empty pitcher.

  “No,” Rocker snapped. “You’re done too. Jesus, now I’m the fuckin’ den mother.”

  “The Veep Den Mother,” Moke corrected. “Stick’s the Den Mother.” He chuckled to himself.

  “Fuckin’ Stick.” Pete took a slug of water and grimaced. “Where the fuck is my beer? This’ my pub, I want beer.”

  Moke held up a big hand. “Whoa, brah. Ease up on the yellin’, yeah? Hurts my ears.”

  T-Bear threw back his head and bellowed, “We want beer!”

  Stick appeared from the shadows like a spectre. He shook his head at the three of them. “Jesus,” he said quietly. “Rocker was not wrong. You three are wasted.”

  Pete scowled at him. Why was his brother looking at him like that? “Whass wrong with you?” he asked. “Fin’ out your ol’ lady’s a lyin’ bitch too?”

  Stick sighed. “No. And Lesa’s not that either, bratishka. This trouble between you is my fault—and yours for your fool stubborness. Now eat your burger, and we’ll talk.”

  An hour later, Rocker had Moke and T-Bear over playing pool, while Stick sat with Pete. Pete had eaten most of a burger, some fries and now he was nursing a Coke. The only trouble was it was nearly the color of her hair, or the darkest shadows in it.

  But she was gone. The bitch had deserved everything he’d said to her … so why didn’t it feel better that he’d said the words?

  Why wasn’t he lighter than air, relieved of the burden of caring for a flighty, stubborn, emotional, irritating woman? Why did he feel mired in despair, like nothing good was ever going to happen to him again?

  Damn her, she’d ruined his life, ruined everything. Her and Stick.

  Looking up, he glowered at his brother. “Why are you still here?”

  “Tell me, Pyotr,” Stick said. “Who are you really angry with? Lesa … or me?”

  “Both of you,” Pete snarled. “You’re both the same. Both lied to me, snuck around behind my back. ‘Oh, we have to do everything for Pete, because he can’t think for himself. He’s just the little brother, the stupid little bratishka. Doesn’t know what’s good for him’.”

  Stick listened, but said nothing, fingering his whiskey glass.

  “Well?” Pete demanded, shoving his water glass away so violently it fell over, water slopping over the table and onto his leg. He ignored the cold. “Isn’t that the truth? You paid her to stay here? What, you pay her to fuck me too, or just watch out for this place, ‘cause I’m not good enough?”

  Stick tossed back the whiskey in his glass, swallowed, and set the glass down.

  “When you were born,” he said quietly, “Papa told me it would be my job to look after you when we were away from home, because a boy needs a big brother. The others soon learned they didn’t mess with either of us.”

  Pete scowled at him. “I don’t remember you beating up anyone for me.”

  “No,” Ivan said, with a faint smile. “I didn’t have to. All I had to do was look at them, because they saw what I did to a bigger boy who tried to bully me. Not that you didn’t fight your own battles. You were feisty from the moment you were born, and the kids didn’t want to get into it with you either. But you were my brother, so whenever I could, I looked out for you too.”

  He gazed down at his empty glass as if into the past. “I knew early on that others would do as I told them. That I had the gift—or maybe the curse—of leadership. I like being in charge, of the chapter, of this town … of my family.”

  “I noticed,” Pete muttered.

  Ivan sighed heavily. “So I guess … I took it too far with you. Got to be a habit to try and be there. To step in. So, I stepped in with your Lesa."

  He pointed a finger at Pete. "She’s not at fault, brat. She didn’t come to me for money, or anything like that. I made the offer to her, back when you two were still facing off, like you didn’t know whether to murder each other or fuck each other senseless. I didn’t want her to bolt … so I offered her a bonus to stay, and battle it out with you. Hoping things might work out.”

  Pete gaped. “You … you were playing matchmaker?”

  His brother groaned. “Ah, fuck me, don’t put it like that.”

  “How else you want me to put it?” If Pete hadn’t been so miserable, he would have laughed at the look on Stick’s face. “Wait till the brothers hear about this.”

  A lethal look told him there would be consequences for spreading that rumor. Pete smirked bitterly.

  “Anyway. I’ll do my best,” Ivan said, “To back away. To stay out of your life from now on. Unless you ask me for help, of course. And I’m sorry I interfered in your plan with the Sokolovs too.”

  Pete stared at him, waiting for the ‘but’. When nothing came, he nodded stiffly. “Good. I’d appreciate it. The Sokolovs, fuck, I don’t care about them. We’re rid of them, that’s good enough. My plan was too slow.”