Bad Boy Romance Collection: The Volanis Brothers Trilogy

by Meg Jackson

He would never see the sky outside of a prison again.

  Kim wondered if that was supposed to make her happy.

  It didn’t.

  When she thought of it, she felt sad. Sadder than when her father had died, even.

  And when she felt sad, she would find Kennick and curl herself beside him, laying her head on his chest and hearing the deep, strong, real rumble of his heart. She would let her fingers play along the black ink across his chest, her lips fall to his ribcage and land there with softening kisses. He would run his hands through her hair and tell her stories. Wild, fantastic, gypsy stories.

  They hadn’t discussed marriage yet, but Kim would accept him when they did. Already, they were fighting over whether to move into a new trailer or have Kennick move into her apartment. It was a fight Kim knew she would lose; and she didn’t mind, not really. She mostly liked the fighting because when they made up, it was in bed.

  They did need a new place though, regardless of what sort of place it was. The Volanis brothers’ trailer simply was not fit for four grown adults, two of whom could get quite loud when the spirit took them (and oh how it took them!).

  But first things first. The squeaky chair, and the streetlight on Tudor Street. Later, Kim could fantasize about a double-wide trailer that would be too large for just them, might someday be homey for a family, some little green-eyed babies…

  As Kim tried to keep her mind from drifting too far, Jenner Surry was across town waiting for his phone to ring. He knew it would. He’d made the call, left the message. And it was all just waiting now. He’d never been particularly skilled at waiting, but he was willing to do it now. Because this waiting was like being on line for your favorite ride at Disney World. There’d be plenty to look at as you tapped your foot.

  He was going to take the Volanis brothers down, one by one. He’d failed to take Kennick down, but then he’d realized: it was a lot easier to take out a big man by kicking him in the knees. Which had led him straight to Cristov.

  The phone buzzed but he let it buzz once more before answering. No use in being over eager for something like this.

  “Talk to me,” he said when he picked up.

  “You’re the one who called us,” the voice on the other line said. “You talk to me.”

  “Well, I heard you guys were interested in expanding your consumer base,” Jenner said, not letting on that he was the slightest bit intimidated. He’d have to learn not to let big voices shake him up. Not if he was going to be rom baro. “And I happen to know the town of Kingdom would be a great place to sling. I know who you’d want to talk to. All you’d have to do is get rid of the current…eh, purveyors. And with my help, that wouldn’t be hard.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line.

  “Alright,” the voice said, low and gruff. “Tell me more.”

  Jenner smiled. Outside, the dying summer day played a cicada symphony. Jenner leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

  “First, I’m going to tell you a couple things about gypsies.”

  Untitled

  The End.

  Newsletter

  Click here to sign up for Meg Jackson’s Newsletter.

  CRISTOV

  1

  It was good that Ricky lived alone. She crashed through the kitchen, the pot banging against the countertop and then against the metal of her sink before she managed to get it underneath the stream of water from the faucet. When it was filled enough, she slapped it onto the lighted stove, some of the water spilling over and releasing a hissing noise as it turned to steam. She got the lid on and sighed.

  The open beer on the counter called to her and she slugged down a generous portion. She didn’t need to be drinking any more than she already had, but at that point in the night, what difference would it really make? She’d be hungover no matter what.

  There were three more beers in the fridge. She’d save one for the morning. A brewdriver – beer and orange juice – to keep the worst of the headache at bay. She’d learned that handy trick in college, when her nose had crinkled at the idea but, upon sipping it, her taste buds (and throbbing head) approved.

  She narrowed her eyes at the beer she held, seeing that it was down to the last few gulps. She put it back down on the counter but didn’t take her hand off the neck. Instead, she raised it to her lips again almost immediately.

  She stood there in the kitchen, staring at the water through the see-through lid, until it began to bubble and wisps of steam escaped through the sides. Then the spaghetti went in; she grabbed each generous handful in two hands and snapped the hard sticks in two before dumping them into the boiling water. Six minutes before it cooked.

  Her beer was empty, and she grabbed another, wondering vaguely if she had enough time to use the bathroom. Of course, she did, but time was a nebulous and confusing thing when she was this deep into the night. Numbly, almost without thinking, she stumbled to the bathroom, peed, and returned just in time to pull the pot away and strain the pasta.

  Into a bowl it went, and then she loaded it up with butter and salt and pepper and parmesan cheese. And then some more parmesan cheese. She and her sister, Kim, shared a love for parmesan cheese. Their mother was disgusted by their fiendish approach to the stuff. Their mother would have been disgusted by the abject gluttony of Ricky’s drunken, late-night dinner, though she never complained as much about Ricky’s eating habits because the girl was naturally slim.

  As the butter melted and softened the flakes of cheese into a sort of pseudo-alfredo sauce, she grabbed the steaming bowl in one hand, her beer in the other, and threw herself onto the couch in the living room. It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia was queued up on her Netflix and she turned it on, not caring that she’d probably seen that episode five or six times already. She didn’t care about the plot; it was the noise, the familiar voices, that she craved.

  When Ricky woke up the next morning, she didn’t remember having fallen asleep on the couch. The beer she’d abandoned on the coffee table was still half-full, the bowl of pasta empty. Her head throbbed, but she felt faintly drunk still, and as she rose on wobbly feet she grabbed the half-empty beer.

  Half-empty or half-full, she thought with weary amusement before chugging the flat, warm liquid. It slid down her throat with an easy comfort. She looked at the clock; it was just past 9am. She couldn’t have gone to sleep more than 6 hours prior. Yeah, she was definitely still a little drunk. But so what? It was Sunday. She didn’t have to go to work. She could have herself a little Sunday Funday, finish off those beers in her fridge and take a nice long nap in the afternoon. Later, she could order in and call Tricia or Kim (if Kim wasn’t too busy between the sheets).

  Tricia, her best friend since grade school, couldn’t be feeling much better than Ricky that morning. They’d been at the bar for a good long while the night before, and while Tricia’s heavier frame meant she didn’t get as drunk as fast, they’d gone shot for shot all night. The apartment was quiet, and Ricky didn’t like that. She turned on It’s Always Sunny again as she wobbled to the kitchen to make her breakfast of champions: a brewdriver and a handful of Triscuits.

  Though she didn’t like the quiet, she was glad she’d woken up alone. She usually did, no matter how much she’d drank. She wasn’t the sort of girl whose clothes fell off after the night’s fifth shot. But there had been that time, a week ago, when she hadn’t woken up alone. And the man she’d woken up next to…

  Her stomach clenched and threatened to turn over completely as she remembered what it had felt like to open her eyes and see Cristov Volanis laying beside her, his chest rising and falling evenly, his hand on her breast. The ink covering his chest was absurdly bright in the morning light.

  The night rushed back to her with a sickening shame: the way she’d fallen into his kiss like an animal into a trap, the way he’d wound his hand through her hair and tugged at it, his growled words in the dark bedroom, the way he’d been like a lion tamer in a circus, and she’d been his lion.
And how much she’d loved all of it.

  Now that had been an awkward morning. She shook her head to rid herself of the creeping emotions it incited in her breast as she returned to the couch, pulling a blanket over her body. Outside the wide French doors that led to her little balcony, the trees were red and yellow and gold, the air likely crisp and clean and perfect for hiking. She wished it was rainy so that she wouldn’t have to feel so damn guilty about her soon-to-be-wasted day.

  Already, she could feel the worst of her hangover approaching, and she drank her brewdriver quickly to keep it at bay. On the TV, the show’s characters were screaming at each other for a reason Ricky couldn’t keep track of. The world was getting blurry at the edges as sleepiness nipped her ankles.

  Her drink was finished. She considered getting up and making another with one of her remaining beers, but it would require far too much energy. Instead, she lowered herself onto the couch, resting her head on the throw pillow, eyes drooping until they were barely slits. She made a little mewling noise as she fell back asleep, hoping that when she woke up again she’d feel better.

  2

  Cristov fingered the green leaves softly, rubbing them with approval. This crop was nice; possibly the nicest he’d grown in a long while. The strains he’d developed were a nice blend of some high-grade clones he’d picked up in Vancouver a few years back. Thick purple tendrils curled around the tops of the buds, the color so vivid it had lent itself to the name he’d come up with: Purple Gypsy Dream.

  “Hey, Shep,” Nal said, his entrance to the trailer announced by the creak of the screen door and some low woofing from the shepherd mutt Cristov had adopted as guard dog for the plants. Shep was about as aggressive as his name was imaginative, so he wouldn’t be much for actually protecting the stock, but his enthusiastic way of greeting strangers would at least alert Cristov if someone did try to break in again.

  Cristov had taken to sleeping in the trailer’s single bedroom since a month prior, when he’d come in one morning to look over the greenhouse and found the door swinging open on its hinges. Nothing was taken, which he thought was odd, but it was clear that someone had been there, and that put his guard up.

  The Rom, or Romani, came to Kingdom at the beginning of summer, taking up residence in a trailer park on the outskirts of town. Thirty years earlier, Pieter Volanis, Cristov’s father, had been rom baro, or leader, of the gypsy settlement, or kumpania. Kennick held that title now, being the oldest of the Volanis children. Pieter Volanis had been accused of murdering his girlfriend, and the town had run the gypsies out. When Pieter died, Kennick brought the kumpania back to Kingdom to clear his father’s name.

  In the process of solving the thirty-year-old mystery, Kennick fell in love with Kim James, who helped the gypsies despite rising animosity towards them. Another murder in the small town had everyone in a panic, and willing to point fingers at the Romani. It was only by chance that Kim discovered the real murderer: her own boss, Mayor Gunderson.

  Since then, the attitude towards the gypsies cooled to an acceptable level. Even if they weren’t welcome with open arms, they were tolerated and treated with respect – mostly. Kim took Mayor Gunderson’s place as mayor, and the gypsies were left in peace to run their myriad businesses. But that didn’t mean they were completely at ease with their new hometown.

  The last thing Cristov needed was some asshole townie kid stealing his crop, or Jenner Surry messing with his plants. For all Cristov knew, Jenner had come in and laced all his buds with cyanide or something that would kill their customers. He wouldn’t put it past the asshole.

  Jenner made it clear that he was unhappy with the Volanis’ position as head of the kumpania. Of the four families that made up the bulk of the kumpania, the Volanis family had always been in charge in one way or another, with the title of rom baro passed down from Cristov’s father to Kennick, the eldest son. The Surry family had been a part of the kumpania for as long as the Volanis family, but they’d been content to follow the Volanis’ lead. It was, as they say, the way things were.

  Jenner Surry didn’t like the way things were.

  And ever since July, when one of the trailers was set on fire by a supposedly unknown arsonist, Jenner Surry was giving the Volanis family a wide berth. No doubt this was because he knew that Kennick, Cristov, and Damon shared more than an intuition that he was the one to start the fire.

  At first, they believed the fire was set by an angry group of townspeople, but when their nephew, named for their father, came forward claiming to have seen Jenner – or someone who looked very much like Jenner – start the blaze, their suspicions turned to Jenner.

  They hadn’t come forward, in part to protect the young boy and in part because it was the sort of thing that would likely tear the kumpania apart. But they’d kept a close watch on him, and while he hadn’t done anything else, outwardly, to threaten the status quo, there was no doubt that he would do whatever it took to wrestle Kennick’s title away from him.

  So Cristov didn’t put it past Jenner to sneak into the trailer and mess with his plants. He didn’t mind sleeping in the trailer, anyway. Even though he had to take more showers to rid himself of the faint odor of marijuana and loam, the trailer was, at least, private.

  The trailer he shared with Kennick and Damon had become a bit too close for comfort ever since Kim and Kennick got together. He was happy for his brother, but they weren’t exactly the quietest of lovers, and he had to admit his jealousy was starting to get the better of him when he saw how they looked at each other, all love and happiness and togetherness.

  The only night he hadn’t spent in the trailer had been a mistake. He hadn’t thought it was a mistake at the time, but it became more than clear when, the morning after, he’d been unceremoniously kicked out of Ricky James’ apartment without so much as a cup of coffee or even a phone number. Kim’s sister was a regular bitch when she wanted to be. Though he’d be a liar if he said it didn’t kind of make him like her more.

  Even then, he knew it would have been hard to like her more than he already did. The first time they’d met, he was drawn in by her quick wit and no-holds-barred attitude. And, of course, there was the fact that she was pure sex on a platter to him.

  Her eyes, so pale blue they could be grey, teased him endlessly. Her body, lithe and compact and strong, made him want to lick her from head to toe – lingering for a long time in between. Just the thought of her tongue coming out to lick her full, pink lips was enough to make his heart beat faster, his blood rushing. He’d never been so instantly attracted to a woman. When Cristov lay his head down to sleep at night, the thought of bending her over a desk and fucking her until she screamed his name lulled him to sleep.

  Hell, those thoughts weren’t far from his mind in the daytime, either. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the tight, hard buds of her nipples between his fingers as he pulled them softly and made her coo, her thighs opening around his waist to let him in, the look in her eyes when he told her what to do – and the surprise at herself when she did it without question. Outside of bed, she was all spitfire and spirit. In bed, she was his to command. And damn, he liked that a lot.

  “Morning,” Cristov said as Nal crossed the trailer towards him. “Nothing really to do today. Got those aphids under control, harvest should be in a month or so. Everything’s looking mighty fine.”

  Nal Surry, Jenner’s cousin and Cristov’s right-hand-man when it came to growing, admired the buds as he nodded along to Cristov’s update. The growing process was really pretty easy, although an unwanted infestation had been a nuisance a few weeks prior. The harvesting and trimming was back-breaking labor, though, and the selling could be dangerous.

  Sam Surry, Nal’s brother, would come in to help with the harvest and then help with distribution. This would be the second crop to hit Kingdom, and the first crop had sold like hotcakes. It wasn’t cheap, but it was good. Far better than the crappy synthetics that were flooding the market elsewhere, which were m
ostly chemical and could be addictive.

  Synthetic THC was easier, faster, and cheaper to produce, but it had none of the benefits of the real thing, and all the danger of any other chemical on the streets. It might not kill anyone, but it sure as hell could leave you hurting.

  Cristov prided himself on the purity of the product. He wouldn’t have trusted anyone else to provide medicinals for the kumpania, whose elderly population were grateful for something to soothe their arthritis or insomnia or fibromyalgia. Even if they didn’t sell the stuff, he would still grow it, for his own people’s use. He didn’t personally partake, but growing had been a tradition in the kumpania for a long, long time and tradition still held weight among the modern-day Romani settlement. Not in all ways, but in many.

  “Hey, I’ve got an appointment in a few hours,” Cristov said, noting the time as Nal moved through the rows of plants. “Can you hang around tonight ‘til I get back?”

  “Sure,” Nal said with a shrug. “Got nothing better to do since we can’t open the club.”

  Kim may have held some sway as mayor of Kingdom, but she hadn’t been able to stop the Town Council from putting the kibosh on the Romani’s proposal for a strip club on the town limits. The gypsies had opened six other businesses – legal ones – in town, and all were prospering, bringing life back into a town that had been, for all intents and purposes, dying. But the strip club tread a little too heavily on Kingdom’s moral majority, and the proposal had been denied.

  The Surry family, including Sam, Nal, and Jenner, had run the strip club, and without it they had plenty of time on their hands. In its place, the gypsies were planning on opening a boxing gym. The strip club had always been a priority business for two reasons: one, it was one of their biggest money-makers, and after generations of poverty, making money was important to the Romani.