Dancing for the Badman (Russian Bratva Book 3) Read online

  I need to figure out exactly what has happened here. Why Tatyana ran from New York to San Francisco. Why she would leave the place she was born, her home, for the west coast. It doesn’t add up to me. Not quite.

  First, I’m going to play with her. She will not get away with this so easily, no matter how badly I want her back in my bed. The bitch will suffer for leaving me the way she did. Weakness will not be tolerated.

  And my child? I will find out about that, as well.

  I pay the ridiculous cover and waltz through the front door, straight to the bar. I ask the bartender for a glass of Beluga Gold Line vodka, and he looks at me as if I am speaking a foreign language. I could spout off Russian to him if he preferred, but my guess is he would have the exact same dumbfounded look on his face.

  “What Vodka’s do you have, then?” I ask with an exhale.

  “Grey Goose, Kettle One, Popov.”

  I hold my hand up, unable to hear another word.

  Disgusting, all of them. I can’t even begin to fathom a bar that does not have a decent vodka selection. Perhaps this is how the rest of the world lives. I’m so used to being submersed in my Russian culture, I sometimes forget I even live in America.

  “Kettle One,” I choke out. It hurts my heart to even mutter the words.

  I throw some money down on the bar and take my drink. He added ice, but the vodka itself is warm—an insult. One sip and I’m finished. I cannot subject myself to this shit one minute longer.

  I slowly weave through the people and find an empty seat near the stage. Sitting down, I look around. It is a nice place with a sexy atmosphere, and there are bouncers scattered throughout. At least she is in a swanky club and not some shithole dive.

  A brunette dancer comes out and does her thing, shaking her fake breasts for the room to ogle. She’s nothing I’ve never fucked before—normal, thin girl with big, fake breasts. They look new, hard. I wonder how many semi-hard dicks she had to grind against to buy them for herself.

  Then, my Tati comes on stage. She’s like gold shining up there, still moyo zolotse. My cock goes rock hard as she begins her dance. She’s a pro on the pole. I watch her work it, as though it is an extension of herself. She’s good. Damn good.

  The Tatyana I knew was so shy, she wouldn’t let me make love to her with the lights on; she wouldn’t let me see all of her in the daylight. This Tati is spreading her thighs and shaking her ass. When she flings her rhinestone bra out to the side, my heart stops. Fuck, her tits look a million times better than they did all those years ago.

  The men around me clap and holler as they throw money on the stage.

  I should feel jealous that they’re looking at her. I should be pissed that this is how she is making money, but the only thing I want to do is fuck her as hard as I possibly can.

  Hate-fuck. Right now, that’s what I want with Tati.

  I want to damage her as she’s damaged me for ten fucking years. Not one day has gone by where I did not think of her, angry and bitter about how she chose to leave me. But now, she lives. I want to mark her as mine. Then I want to watch her dance for all those fucks and know, without a doubt, that my cock is the only one she’ll come for.

  As if she has the choice, I chuckle to myself. She doesn’t. Choices are a luxury for her that will soon be ending.

  I leave the club, unable to stay a moment longer without fucking Tati. I need to breathe. I slide into the rental car and drive toward the St. Regis hotel. I have to play this smart. I cannot just run into her and give her a chance to contact the authorities. I need her to trust me, to confide in me what she has already told the FBI.

  I need her to want me again.

  I’m going to ruin her as she ruined me. Though I’ll do it better. I’ll do it while I’m buried inside of her and she’s screaming my name. Then when I tire of her, I will leave her forever wanting more of me.

  I walk into the hotel bar after I’ve dropped my car at valet, and take note of a woman in a short skirt and high heels—her tits hanging out. I need a hard fuck and she’s just the one to do it for me tonight.

  “Company?” I ask as I slide onto the stool next to her. Her eyes rake up and down my body before landing on my face, and her red lips part in a coy smile.

  “I would love some,” she murmurs.

  “What’s your room number?” I ask.

  I’m not going to be swindled by some hooker, and I don’t want any woman to get comfortable in my room. I want to fuck her and leave her. She smiles wider and takes my hand before tugging me toward the elevators.

  We don’t say another word to each other for the rest of the night.

  A few hours later, I turn the handle to my own room. My cock is satisfied, but I am not. I want Tati. The climax I just had was lackluster, leaving something to be desired. Now I’m even more frustrated than I was before. I’m not sure how patient I can be with this. I may just have taken on more than I am able.

  Tatyana might be in my bed sooner than I originally anticipated, purely based on the needs of my cock alone.

  “MOM,” THE SHRILL VOICE of my nine-year-old daughter yells through our postage stamp sized apartment. I sit straight up from my makeshift futon bed, and look over at the alarm before I let out a gasp in sheer panic.

  I’m late, which means Kiska will be late for school if I don’t hurry.

  I quickly run to my closet and grab a pair of leggings, a bra, and an oversized shirt, throwing them on as I hop out of the living room and to the front door. I then slide into my sandals as I put my hair up in an extremely messy knot.

  “Coffee, so you don’t kill people with your breath,” she says as she hands me a travel mug.

  It’s seven o’clock in the morning. I have only been asleep for three hours. It is our routine. Normal chaos. Kiska gets herself up, dressed, and fed, and I rush around as we run out the door.

  Is it ideal? Absolutely not. Is it the best I can do? Yes.

  “How was work, mom?” Kiska asks as we walk toward her school.

  I never let her walk alone, ever. We don’t live in a safe neighborhood, and my biggest fear is something happening to my baby girl. So every morning, rain or shine, sick or well, I walk my Kiska to school. We walk past the bums and loiters, the cat callers and drug dealers. But together we make it to and from every day.

  “Long,” I say with a sigh.

  I hide my occupation from her. I am not ashamed of how I make my money, but I don’t want her to feel shame. I don’t want her to tell her friends what her mom does and have them ridicule her for it.

  So, instead, I tell her that I clean offices at night. It had been the truth at one time. I had done this, but I didn’t make enough for one person to survive on, let alone two.

  “You work too hard,” she sighs as we reach the steps of the school.

  “Have a good day, Kiska girl. I’ll see you right here afterward,” I say with a smile.

  I don’t kiss her or hug her, because I don’t want to embarrass her. I simply smile and squeeze her hand before she runs off to her group of girlfriends.

  Once she has disappeared safely behind the doors of the school, I turn around to make my way home. I need to sleep for at least another couple of hours before I have to go to the grocery store and then come back to the school to get Kiska.

  I have to work again tonight, which means that my neighbor, Mrs. Hernandez, will stay with her. She watches Kiska from the time I leave for work, at eight-thirty in the evening, until the time I come home, usually around three in the morning. She’s a beautiful older woman and needs the little extra income I can give her. She makes sure Kiska’s homework is complete and that she’s safe until I can return. She knows my occupation and, while she doesn’t necessarily approve, I can see that she is proud of me. I am a hard working, single mother, even if I do take off my clothes for my rent.

  When I arrive back inside of my building, I groan at the sight that awaits me.

  Agent Ryan Green.

  He’s leaning
against my door, looking as clean cut and handsome as ever. Yet, no matter how handsome the man is, I will never want him. He’s ugly on the inside. Completely disgusting.

  “Tatyana,” he murmurs as his eyes roam my body. I’m definitely not a prize this early in the morning, so he’s doing it just to be a creep.

  “How may I help you, Agent Green?” I ask, unwilling to even attempt to open my door. No way in hell do I want this asshole in my apartment.

  “Heard news you may be compromised.” I almost snort, but instead I roll my eyes at his words.

  “I thought that I was useless—pointless to protect. Weren’t those your exact words?” I ask, arching a brow.

  “These are dangerous people, Tatyana. They will come after you, and they will come after Kiska,” he warns.

  I should be scared by his warnings. I should be terrified. However, I’m not. Agent Green is more dangerous then Kirill ever was. I can see in his eyes that he is soulless. Pretending to be a nice guy, manipulating scared girls into turning against their lovers, their fathers, and their friends just so that he can get information and then fuck them before he fucks them over. I never gave him the chance to fuck me, but he sure as hell has fucked me over.

  “I can handle whatever comes my way. Thank you, Agent Green, for your warnings,” I say, looking straight into his cold, dead eyes.

  “You don’t know what these men are capable of, Tati,” he warns. It is like a dagger to my heart.

  “Do not call me that,” I warn.

  “What? Does it make you think of him? You were his Tati, weren’t you? You could be mine, too. I’d give you a nice place to live, a clean place for you and your daughter. You wouldn’t have to shake your ass for dollar bills anymore,” he says with a grin. It pisses me off.

  “Leave,” I grind out through gritted teeth.

  “You’ll be begging for me soon enough, princess,” he chuckles.

  “It has been ten years, Agent Green, and I’ve had some ice-cold lonely nights, yet I have not dialed your number once. Hell could freeze over and I still would not,” I smart off as he walks away. He doesn’t reply, luckily. I wait and watch as he walks away from me before I turn and open my apartment.

  Inside it is cold. Too cold. But the heater doesn’t work, so it will stay cold. I have a heater for Kiska’s room so that she is warm, but I just pile blankets on myself in the living room.

  I can only afford a one-bedroom apartment, so Kiska has the bedroom and I sleep on a futon in the living room. It’s not ideal, but I don’t have a choice. I walk into the kitchen and make myself a protein shake. I need the extra vitamins and minerals in the shake. I don’t eat the healthiest. I don’t have the time, to be honest.

  I sigh before I walk over to the entry closet. It’s supposed to be for coats, but it is more like my personal storage closet. I try not to open it too often; it brings memories with it.

  I stand on my toes and take the little pink shoebox down. It’s covered in fabric and decorated with vintage buttons. A hobby I used to have when I was young—memory boxes decorated with buttons and fabric, glued with the hot glue gun. It was silly, really, but I was a silly girl.

  I walk over to my futon and climb into the middle, wrapping the sheets and blankets around me for the extra comfort. Then I open the box.

  Inside, the photograph on the top immediately brings tears to my eyes. My nose stings and my hands shake as I reach for it. The picture is of Kirill and me. He was so handsome and young, a boy-man of twenty-four. He’s looking at me with a sly grin on his lips, his face clean-shaven. I’m looking at the camera with the biggest, goofiest smile.

  It was taken two weeks before my world crashed around me.

  Two weeks before I found out I was pregnant.

  Two weeks before Agent Green told me how horrible of a man he was.

  Two weeks before I ran from him.

  I quickly put the picture back in the box and slide the lid back on, hiding it from my view. It makes me too damn sad. I shouldn’t look at it until the one day a year I make myself. Kiska’s birthday.

  Every year I take the box down and we look at the photographs of Kirill and me. I tell her about her father, what a warm and loving man he was and how much we loved each other.

  What I don’t tell her is how I was a coward. How I am the reason she doesn’t know him. How I am still a coward. It’s not as if there are millions of Kirill Baryshev’s in the world. I think that I could probably easily find him with a simple search on Google.

  But I’m scared.

  I’m weak and scared.

  I lie down, still holding the box in my arms, and I sleep. I try to clear my mind of Kirill, and of my weaknesses, and my many, many mistakes.

  I watch her from across the alleyway. The empty apartment I rented is disgusting. I wouldn’t let an animal live here, and yet, here I am. She’s sitting in the middle of a futon, wrapped in blankets and visibly upset. I want to hold her, but I can’t allow myself to feel that way. Not ever again. She’s beautiful, her face wiped clean of her makeup and her hair thrown into a messy pile on top of her head. She doesn’t need the makeup she wears. She’s stunning bare.

  This morning my heart ached at the sight of the little dark haired girl who roamed around the apartment. I recognized her for who she is. Mine. My child never died, Tatyana just took her away from me. I want to know why. I want fucking answers.

  Now.

  I also want to know why they’re living in such a dump in the fucking ghetto.

  There are so many unanswered questions that I find myself indescribably angry with Tati. I have every right to be, but anger isn’t an emotion I allow often. I try to steer clear of any emotions since she left me. Emotions fuck with your life. They make you blind and lazy.

  Instead of confronting her, I watch.

  I watch as she prepares a meal, then refrigerates it. I watch as she dresses into jeans and a sweater. I watch as she applies a light layer of makeup and then leaves the apartment.

  I follow suit, keeping my distance but staying close enough to see the gorgeous curve of her ass. Fuck, I want that in my hands.

  When she stops outside of the schools gates, I am surprised. Not only did she walk the girl here this morning, she is walking her home as well. Granted, the neighborhood is shit, but the girl is old enough to walk the few blocks home without her mommy at her side.

  The girl greets Tati with a smile, but they do not embrace. I find their encounter odd, wondering if they should embrace as she is still a young girl. I follow them back to the apartment. Once they are a block away from the school, Tatyana wraps her arm around the girl’s shoulder and she leans into her side, welcoming the touch.

  It is lovely.

  I didn’t know how it would make me feel, to see my ex-lover and my child together, but I enjoy the sight, even from a distance. I find that my heart softens a touch. If nothing else, even if Tati has been a cunt for keeping my girl from me, she obviously loves her. That is something I can appreciate.

  I don’t know that my anger will ever dissipate toward Tatyana, but seeing the two girls together, I think that maybe, in time, it could. Then perhaps we could live amicably, separately, but not with hate in our hearts for each other.

  Today, I still hate her, and I will tomorrow as well. But maybe one day I won’t.

  I am definitely being followed, and now, so is my daughter. I shiver as I pull Kiska closer to my side and I quicken my stride.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks, her voice laced with confusion.

  “Nothing, I just need to get you home. You have homework and I made dinner. I thought tonight we could enjoy our meal together,” I lie. She rolls her eyes but doesn’t say anything. I hope that I am convincing.

  I ask her questions to distract myself from my obvious stalker situation. I ask about her friends, about her teachers and her classes. Today she had art and music, two of her absolute favorite classes, aside from math. She is Kirill’s child for certain. I cannot carry a tune, no
r can I tell the difference between a work composed by Bach or Beethoven, and I am terrible with numbers. Kirill, however, is a mathematical genius and adores classical music.

  I hurry us along upstairs and safely in the apartment. Though, if a weirdo tried to break in, it wouldn’t be difficult. Our locks aren’t indestructible and our building isn’t even remotely close to being secure.

  Once we are inside, I feel a bit better; but the feeling still lingers—somebody is watching me, following me. A shiver runs through me as I plate our food before I warm it up in the microwave. Lasagna. Not the fanciest meal, but hearty and warm.

  Together we eat, my daughter and me. I talk to her. I engage in this moment with her, because I know the older she gets, these will be few and far between. She is already embarrassed of me at times. No longer am I her mommy, but just mom. Soon, she’ll not want to even be seen with me in public. I never want that day to come, but I know that it surely will.

  “Do you think we could look for my papa one day soon?” she asks out of nowhere. My head snaps up.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Neveah said that I didn’t have a dad because you were a slut and you don’t even know who he is. I told her she didn’t know what she was talking about, that I knew exactly who my dad was. But she called me a liar and a bastard,” she admits, looking down in her lap.

  My fork clatters to my plate and I rush to my baby girl’s side before I wrap my arms around her.

  “Kiska Barysheva Orlova you listen to me, yeah?” I ask wrapping my hands around her shoulders and giving her a slight shake so that she’ll look at me.

  When she does, I see wetness shining in her eyes. That little bitch made my baby cry and I have half a mind to call her bitch of a mother, too.