Bad Boy Romance Collection: The Volanis Brothers Trilogy

by Meg Jackson

  “Why don’t you run backwards through a field of dicks?” Cristov snapped, hanging the phone up so hard that he felt the force reverberating up his arm to his elbow.

  He kept his hand on the receiver for a long time, staring at the phone. Then he yanked the receiver off the console, dragging the whole thing along behind it. He slammed the receiver against the desk again and again until pieces began to fly off, little wires and discs spraying across his desk. He pulled the whole thing from its line and swung it, violently, in the air, the coiled link between the receiver and console straightening, until the console hit the wall and exploded.

  He raked his arm across his desk, pens and papers sent flying onto the wooden floor. The sound of shattering glass as his desk lamp hit the floor satisfied him. Framed photographs of his best tattoos jackknifed across the room as he threw them from the wall and sent them crashing across space.

  Finally, there was nothing else left to break, and he was standing in the center of the room, chest heaving. Somehow, he’d managed to cut his hand, and blood leaked in droplets onto a picture of himself, flanked by his brothers, with Mina posing in front of them, all smiling on a bright day. A picture from another life, another world.

  29

  He’d been driving all day. Back and forth, from one corner of the county to the other. For a platoon of burly bikers, the assholes knew how to stay hidden, didn’t they?

  I don’t know that they’re a platoon, he told himself. For all I know, it’s just a few guys, and the rest of their numbers are just waiting in Baltimore to come down and shake everything up.

  Whether there were three of them or thirty of them, they didn’t want to be found, and Cristov’s will to find them couldn’t seem to compete.

  But the driving helped. A little, at least. It helped with his anxiety over the unknown; the unknown enemy, the unknown future. Who would they hurt next? Someone close to him? His nephew, Pieter? Beebi Ana? Kim? His brothers? Mina? One the kumpania’s older members, or the young ones? He’d give his own life for any of them.

  Come for me, you dirty rat bastards, he thought as he clutched the steering wheel, driving down Main Street for the fourth time that night.

  And it helped take his mind off Ricky, too. He didn’t like having her on his mind at all – not when he knew there were bigger issues at hand. But damn if she didn’t keep creeping back in there. The sadness in her eyes when he’d…

  He grunted to himself, as though the noise would chase the memory away.

  Focus, he said. Thinking about her made you lose track of the important shit in the first place. You might want her, but so what? You don’t always get what you want, and the kumpania comes first.

  Driving helped, it was true, but after seven hours in the driver’s seat, Cristov was tired. It came on quite suddenly and surprised him enough that he pulled over to the side of the street and put the car in park; he hadn’t even realized he was around the corner from Sammy’s until he looked at where he was.

  A beer would be nice.

  Ricky might be there, he thought to himself.

  Can’t avoid her forever, he added.

  But you can sure try.

  Sooner or later.

  Why risk it?

  The conversation in his head could have gone on for hours if he’d let it, but he didn’t. Cristov generally settled internal debates in one way: by doing whatever he really felt like doing, screw the rational mind, screw his better judgment.

  Maybe that’s why he and Ricky were so damn good and so damn bad at the same time.

  It was cold out. Frigid, even. He mused that, soon, it would be a matter of weeks instead of months until Kennick’s wedding.

  Those biker fucks have great timing, he thought. Right when we’re all supposed to be excited and happy.

  The warm air of the pub was welcome; the chatter and music even more so after so many hours trapped alone in a car with his thoughts. A quick scan of the room revealed no Ricky. He couldn’t say whether this was a disappointment or a relief. A bit of both, he thought.

  He did see Tricia, and her beau Paul, sitting with a small crew of men who looked pretty much just like Paul. “Business bros”, as he thought of them. Clean-cut guys who ranged in looks from boring to moderately handsome. Tricia, seeing him in the doorway, offered a sort of sympathetic smile and wave. Paul saw this and a dark look crossed his face for a moment, gone so quickly Cristov wondered if he’d imagined it.

  Cristov liked Tricia. Her eyes and hair were the color of warm honey, and she had a cute little button nose that scrunched when she laughed, an endearing sort of face that you couldn’t help but be fond of. She was friendly, and fun, but not too much fun. Ricky seemed to think she and Tricia were on a level when it came to partying, but from a more sober standpoint, Tricia ended most of her nights with both her feet on the ground. He returned the wave too late; Tricia had already given her attention back to the crowd she was with.

  Junior was working the bar that night, as usual, and as Cristov settled down onto a stool the young man approached with a smile on his face.

  “Sup, bro?” Junior asked. “The usual? Stella on tap?”

  “Sure,” Cristov said, aware of the weariness in his voice. Apparently, Junior wasn’t that observant, because the kid kept chattering while pouring the beer.

  “Yo, I gotta say, man, I did what you said, been keeping all that shit in jars until it cures or whatever, but I admit, I snuck a little sample and whoo-eee, that is some good kush,” Junior babbled. Cristov looked around the bar; he didn’t like Junior advertising their relationship. But, except for Tricia’s crowd and a few old men sitting alone, they had the place to themselves.

  “I like to hear it,” Cristov said, thinking about how disappointed he’d been in the quality of his crop. Who cared? Why had he cared so much? It didn’t matter. It wasn’t some special panacea that he was cooking up to cure cancer; it was weed. Fucking weed. Shep dead and things only getting worse…for weed.

  “Where’s Ricky at? Haven’t seen you two around much these days,” Junior continued, sliding the beer across the slick bar top. Cristov shot him a glance he hoped would do the talking for him; Junior was even less observant than he thought, a stupid smile still plastered on his face.

  “That didn’t work out so well in the end,” Cristov finally said, taking a long sip of his beer.

  “Aw, man, sorry to hear it,” Junior said, matching a frown with his words. “You guys were way fun customers. I liked you two together. That Ricky, though. She’s a slippery one.”

  “Yeah,” Cristov said, more to finish the conversation than anything else. He was more than happy when one of the old-timers at the end of the bar demanded Junior’s service, and he was left alone with his beer and the song on the jukebox. The Clash, playing “Jimmy Jazz”.

  Well, didn’t that beat shit?

  Couldn’t escape her even when she wasn’t there.

  Cristov finished his beer slowly, debated ordering another, and decided against it. Leaving a generous tip on the counter, he gave Junior a two-finger salute before leaving.

  Cristov’s brow furrowed as he stood on the street. From around the corner, he could hear something; it sounded, for all the world, like sounds of struggle. First, a high-pitched female squeal, then a gruff male grunt, then the sound of two bodies colliding against a wall.

  It was the alley next to the bar, and Cristov knew it was likely that the noises were being produced by a pair of lovers who just couldn’t wait to get home before starting their night’s activities. Still, something in his gut told him that wasn’t quite the case. He stepped backwards, closer to the alley, and leaned towards the corner of the building, trying to hear better.

  “God, Paul, please,” the female voice said, high and tight and strained. That was a woman who either really, really wanted it…or didn’t want it at all.

  “Makin’ me feel like an asshole in front of my friends,” the male voice responded, and suddenly there was a gagging sou
nd. Cristov’s face darkened further. That was not the sort of thing you say when you’re making love. He walked to the corner and peeked around.

  Two figures, as expected, up against the wall of the bar, a single bulb over the side door illuminating the scene. The man had his hands around the girl’s throat and he was pressing his body against hers as she kicked out fruitlessly, struggling against his larger form.

  Cristov had his own kinks, but this type of violence wasn’t the kind anyone willingly participated in. At least, it was obvious that the girl wasn’t participating willingly. He stepped out into the open and cleared his throat to announce his presence.

  “Fuck off!” the man shouted before even turning to see who had made the noise. When, finally, the man turned to face the intruder, Cristov was surprised to see Paul Tiding’s face in the shadows. And the girl – as her eyes rolled toward him, her face still mostly obscured, her movement gravely restricted by the hands around her neck; that was Tricia. Angry bile rose in Cristov’s throat at the brutal scene. He had no love for men who hurt women. And Tricia? Shit, the girl was all sugar.

  “Let go of her, man,” Cristov said through gritted teeth. His hands instinctively clenched into fists. Paul’s eyes flickered from rage to fear to frustration and back in wild succession. Men like Paul felt good when they were beating on women who couldn’t fight back, but an opponent like Cristov wouldn’t be so easy to subdue.

  Paul’s hands fell away and Tricia gasped, her knees giving away as she fell to a crouch, back against the wall. Her breathing was ragged. Paul seemed to contemplate stepping forward, out of the shadows, to face Cristov head-on, but he hesitated.

  “It’s not what you think, man,” he said quickly, wet tongue coming out to lick his lips, glistening in the dimness. “She’s into it. It’s, uh, it’s private.”

  “Is that so?” Cristov said, sneering as he stepped forward. If Paul wouldn’t come to him, he would come to Paul. Paul stepped back in tandem with Cristov’s advance. “Didn’t look like she was too into it. Still doesn’t look that way, from where I’m standing.”

  “It’s none of your business, buddy. Just walk away,” Paul said, his words lacking the vigor that would have made them a convincing threat. The little fucker was scared. And rightly so. Cristov had a few inches and a ton of muscle on him.

  “I think you’re the one who’s gonna want to walk away, buddy,” Cristov spat, emphasizing the last word with a sneer. “Unless you want me to keep you here ‘til the cops come.”

  “Cops? You’re not calling the fucking cops. Jesus Christ, Trish, will you fuckin’ tell this psycho he’s got it all wrong?”

  The girl was looking up at the two men with eyes that Cristov could only describe as “dead”. The blank expression on her face didn’t sit easy with him, and he felt rage rising in him again.

  “Goddammit, Trish, fuckin’ tell him! God, baby, you don’t wanna see me in trouble, right? You like it when I…this is what you want, isn’t it? Tell him you like it, baby,” Paul yelled, his hands shaking, his eyes veering wildly between Cristov and Tricia.

  “Doesn’t look like your baby agrees with you,” Cristov said, advancing again and appreciating the quick dash to the side that Paul made. The smaller man was creeping away now, his back to the street, his hands up in front of his body.

  “Listen, she’s gonna come to her senses in a minute. Just ask her in a minute. It’s not what you think, man, I’m telling you, she’s into some freaky shit, hell, I don’t even like doing it, but she’s always asking for it and…”

  It took every ounce of restraint in Cristov’s body not to rush Paul and take him down and give him a taste of his own medicine. But he didn’t need the police arresting him for assault, and Paul was already at the sidewalk.

  “Get the fuck out of here, man,” Cristov growled. Paul lingered, backlit by the streetlights, before turning and disappearing, leaving Tricia and Cristov alone in the alley.

  30

  Cristov watched Paul’s shadow lengthen and distort and then disappear before turning his attention to Tricia, whose honey-colored hair was falling across her face in a veil.

  Her body was shuddering slightly, her arms wrapped around her bent knees. He felt uncomfortable; he wasn’t sure what to do, how to comfort her. What he knew is that he wanted to call the cops anyway, and have them go after that fucker and make him pay. But first, he had to talk to her. Crouching down at her side, he gingerly reached out and held her shoulder.

  “Hey, Tricia,” he said, and then paused. What was he supposed to say next?

  “Fuck,” she whispered, and then made a sound that could have been a laugh. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

  Cristov raised one eyebrow.

  “Don’t tell me you were actually into that? I mean, cool, if you are, it’s just…”

  “No,” she said with another gurgling chuckle. “That’s not what I meant. I just…I never wanted anyone to…I was going to leave him you know? On my own, you know?”

  She sounded defeated and refused to meet his eyes. He knew, from some sort of instinct, that she was probably telling the truth, at least in part. She probably did have every intention of leaving him. But when, exactly, was she going to do that? He had a feeling she’d been “going to leave him” since the first time he laid his hands on her.

  “I know,” he said. “I mean, I’m not going to apologize for stopping that…but I know. I get it.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Sure, you get it.”

  She didn’t sound convinced, which was fair, since Cristov wasn’t sure that he did get it.

  “Listen,” he said, knowing that his next words wouldn’t go down easy. “You have to let me take you to the cops. I’m sure he left marks, and I can be a witness. You can’t just let him get away with shit like that. Even if you do…when you do leave, he’ll just go and do it to some other girl.”

  Now, at last, she rose to meet his gaze, her eyes watery – but at least they didn’t look dead anymore. He’d hated that.

  “I…oh, God, Cristov, I can’t,” she said, lips quivering. He tensed. He’d expected a fight, but he didn’t know what to do with it now that it was here.

  “You have to,” he said. “Or I will. I’ll go to the cops myself. And I’ll tell Ricky, and she won’t let you keep this secret. You know she won’t.”

  The look in Tricia’s eyes was pure fear. Cristov couldn’t understand what there was to be afraid of now. She could go to the cops and they’d lock the bastard up. He would be there to corroborate her story. Domestic abuse cases might be tricky, but he had a feeling that the cops in Kingdom, like that Jimmy guy Kennick had befriended, weren’t going to put a whole lot of heat on Tricia to prove her story was true, and wouldn’t let Paul walk away unscathed.

  “Not tonight,” she said, eyes filling up to the point of brimming over. “I’ll go, alright? I’ll go. But not tonight. I just…I can’t do that tonight.”

  Cristov sighed, wanting to go immediately. But what did he know of women’s hearts? What did he know of Tricia’s pain? If he pressed too hard…

  “Alright,” he said, hating himself for giving in but not sure what else to do. “Alright. Tomorrow. But if you don’t go tomorrow, I’ll go to Ricky. And the cops. I’m not going to walk away from this, understand?”

  “It’s not your problem,” Tricia snapped, lashing out at him. He didn’t take offense to that.

  “It became my problem when I came around that corner, Trish,” he said. She sniffled and wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand. Cristov found it hard to believe that this was Ricky’s best friend, the loud and vibrant girl he’d seen in the bar all those nights, the one who’d been the single member of his cheering squad while he tried to make some headway with Ricky. That girl had seemed untouchable, and the one in front of him now was so broken it hurt to look at her.

  “I guess,” she finally mumbled, her knees creaking as she rose to her feet. Looking up before he followed her to a standing positio
n, Cristov stole a glance at her neck; just as he’d thought, there were marks across her white flesh. They’d look worse in the morning. Maybe it was good that she was going to wait before going to the police.

  “Where are you going to go tonight?” he asked. “Are you safe at home?”

  She looked as though she hadn’t given those particular details any thought yet. Which was likely, considering that she had plenty of other things to worry about. She bit her lip and her shoulders slumped. The look on her face answered the question for him.

  “How about Kim or Ricky’s place?” he suggested, but she looked even more frightened at that idea.

  “I don’t want them…I can’t let them…they can’t see me like this,” she said.

  “Kim’s probably not even home,” Cristov said, knowing full well that the older James sister spent most of her nights in Kennick’s bed. “Do you know if she has a spare key?”

  “No…I don’t…I don’t know,” Tricia said, growing more frustrated and agitated by the minute.

  “Then come home with me,” Cristov said impulsively. He wasn’t going to let the girl stay the night at a hotel, and if she didn’t want her best friends to see her in such a state of distress, he wasn’t going to make things worse for her by forcing the matter.

  Even though he itched to drive her straight to Ricky’s house and force her to tell the truth, to make sure that she didn’t forget her promise to go to the police the next day, he was resigned to giving Tricia at least one night to get herself together. But if she didn’t go to the police next day, he’d kidnap her and drive her to the station himself.

  “I can’t do that,” Tricia said, shaking her head, wide-eyed with wonder. “That’s, like, way too weird.”

  “Weirder than me having to stop your boyfriend from killing you?”