Zain Read online

  But really, the start of it all? It was me.

  I was twenty-six when my parents died. At that point, I was the biggest fuck-up you could imagine.

  I started doing heroin when I was a sophomore in high school, at a party with a bunch of my rich asshole friends. We did it casually back then, only on weekends, so no one really knew. After leaving high school, I went to college for a semester, but then I dropped out. I’d started about fifteen different career training programs, for everything from plumbing to carpet laying. I’d gotten kicked out of each one because I was high. By then, I’d progressed to using every day.

  I couldn’t get my shit together. At twenty-six, I was still living in my parents’ basement, still penniless, putting every single dollar I got toward drugs. I hung out with some really bad people.

  I kept telling myself that it would never be too late to turn things around. Eventually, I’d get out of it, but not today.

  And then my parents died in a car accident. And how’s this for irony? The fucker who hit them head on while they were coming back from a trip to Big Sur, was stoned out of his mind on drugs.

  It was then I realized my dad would never see me turn my life around. My parents had given me everything—a good private school education, a stable home environment, and not only that, they believed in me. Even when I was at my lowest, stealing money from them to keep my habit afloat, my dad never threw me out on the street where I belonged. And I’d let him down.

  It showed me that I was mortal. That I didn’t have all the time I thought I had.

  After that, I’d gotten myself clean in a hurry.

  Once I kicked the drug habit, I started working fast food. I could’ve gotten me a car to get back and forth to the In-N-Out Burger in North Aveline Bay, but I never forgot that guy on the motorcycle. So I saved up and bought my first Harley.

  One of the guys at the restaurant suggested I join Hell’s Fury. I’d seen them around, coming in for burgers sometimes, so I decided to go for it.

  Six months later, I wanted out.

  Not only did they do stupid shit, like hazing their prospects and treating them subhuman, they weren’t the nicest of guys. Blaze was the president at the time and had been a real asshole. He’d go batshit crazy over the stupidest things and have temper tantrums where all the furniture in the clubhouse would end up broken. The prospects were always charged with cleaning up his messes. I couldn’t say the other guys were much better.

  When I said I didn’t want to be a prospect anymore, Blaze came up to me, grabbed me with his big fat fist, and told me it’d feel like I’d been fucked by a lawnmower if I left.

  But I did.

  I told him to go fuck himself, and when he wouldn’t let me go, I laid him out flat on their clubhouse floor with a punch to the side of his head.

  It didn’t end there. Oh no, that was only the beginning. No one so much as looked at Blaze in a bad way if they wanted to live.

  Blaze sent Fury guys after me, to do what he couldn’t. Three of them broke into my house and tried to fuck me up.

  I sent them back to the Fury clubhouse, all bloodied up, with their tails between their legs.

  Now and then, they still tried to get to me. I’d been too quick and too powerful for them, so far.

  I found my home when I met the Cobras, a few weeks after I’d left the Fury. I’d gone to the Lucky Leaf to get my bike looked at, met Drake and Hart, and they asked me about my kutte. I’d torn off the Hell’s Fury prospect patch, but the outline of it was still visible. I told them that the Fury were a bunch of assholes.

  We all laughed about that, and the rest was history. I joined with them a little later, quit the fast-food business and started working at the Leaf.

  Now, instead of targeting me, the Fury targeted the whole club. The thought of my brothers, suffering on my account, didn’t sit well with me.

  I needed a drink.

  Many drinks.

  I didn’t think I had any beer left in my fridge, so I decided to stop at the bar. The Wall was the Cobras’ favorite hangout, right there on the main drag. It had shitty beer, shitty lighting, and well, smelled like shit. The one good thing about it? It was a Fury-free zone.

  I wasn’t in the mood for company or anything. I just wanted to grab a few beers, get home and watch the game on TV until I got shitfaced, and go to sleep.

  I pulled into a space at the front of The Wall and went inside. The dive bar was packed, as it usually was on a Friday night. I waved at the bartender. A few of the regulars called out my name, and I gave them fist bumps.

  “You in to play a little pool?” one of them, Gritty, an overweight, bald-as-a-cue-ball guy who helped at the Lucky Leaf on weekends, asked me.

  I shook my head. “Nah. Just stopped in for a second. I’m headed home.”

  I was pretty resolute in that thinking. As I said those words, my eyes swept over the place, expecting to see the same old people. The same women I’d fucked, the same assholes carrying on the same conversations I had no interest in participating in.

  And then my gaze landed on her.

  She was facing away from me, so I hadn’t even seen her best side yet. But what I saw from behind already had me interested. She had dark hair, down to the thinnest waist I’d ever seen. Wearing a little sweater so thin I could see the outline of her bra straps and a tight skirt that framed her perfect, heart-shaped ass.

  I had to have been gawking, because Gritty laughed at me. “Don’t bother, man. She’s turned down every motherfucker in the place.”

  I watched her tuck a loose hair behind her ear, then grab a shot glass of clear liquid, tilt her head back, and put the glass back on the bar.

  “You ever see her here?”

  Gritty chuckled. “Catherine the Great? Hell no. I’d remember her.”

  I didn’t know what he meant by that.

  Didn’t matter. I raked a hand through my grown out faux hawk and ran my tongue over my teeth, preparing to go in for the kill.

  Gritty scoffed. “You gonna try? You feeling suicidal tonight?”

  I shrugged, then tilted my neck side to side, to crack the bones there and loosen myself up. “Figure she needs a proper Zain Miller welcome.”

  He laughed at me. It was true. Very few hot chicks escaped The Wall without being introduced to me. But a lot of them also left with me, too. So I wasn’t too concerned.

  I sidled up beside her, between two stools, watching her. Her profile was gorgeous—her skin almost porcelain white, contrasting against her dark brown eyes. Because it was so crowded, she was pushed up tight against the bar with her tits resting on it. I couldn’t stop looking at them. In the sheer sweater, I could practically see the outline of her nipples and her lace bra.

  Fuck, she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

  She didn’t turn to acknowledge me.

  Leaning my elbow on the bar, I said, “Your next one is on me pretty lady.”

  She stared straight ahead and said, “I am very capable of affording my own drinks, thank you very much.”

  Wow. I blinked. Hadn’t expected that. Her accent was thick. Russian, probably. And it turned me on like nothing else.

  At that moment, I had one thing on my mind, and one thing only.

  Fuck going home and drinking myself silly all by myself. I had a new purpose. I wanted to leave with her.

  Chapter Four

  Sasha

  I walked into the crowded bar. It was definitely not fancy by any means. Crowded and full of ugly, old furnishings. What was I doing here? The finish peeled off the dark paneled walls and the low ceiling was dotted with water spots. An old jukebox spit out country music. When the door slammed, everyone—mostly beer-bellied men with too much hair and older women in too-tight mini-skirts, hair crispy with hairspray, stared at me.

  Even though it was dank and hot in there and nothing like the places I used to frequent in the Red Square area of Moscow, I felt a thrill of excitement course through me. It felt like freedom. />
  That was something I loved about my single life.

  When I was single, growing up outside of Moscow, my friends and I were poor. Our parents had barely enough to feed and clothe us. So my girlfriends and I would go to bars every night. There was not a lot of opportunity for women in Russia, so after working at GUM, the department store in Red Square, we’d all go out, trying to meet eligible men at a bar that catered to rich, foreign businessmen. We’d get them to buy us drinks and treat us, since we didn’t have the money to treat ourselves.

  Yes, we all dreamed of nabbing one of them and escaping the slums we lived in.

  That was where I’d met Viktor.

  He cruised in there, looking dashing and wealthy in a three-piece suit. The picture of success. We all stared when we saw him.

  He was what all the girls called a catch, because he was both born in Russia and also a citizen of the United States, having immigrated as a teenager. So not only did we understand each other, but he gave me the thing my friends and I wanted . . . the opportunity to move to America and become an American citizen.

  I wasn’t very sure what he did for a living, only that he was successful, showing-off his expensive suits and watches. Some of my friends rumored he might’ve been involved in the Russian Bratva, but I didn’t care. He never flashed a weapon or made a deal or did anything remotely shady around me. All the women swooned when he came near us. He was strong and commanding and definitely drew attention to himself.

  But he’d zeroed in on me. My internal temperature went up about a thousand degrees when he leaned in to talk to me, smelling like expensive French cologne.

  The first thing he said when he met me, was, “I can’t take my eyes off you. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  He bought me a drink, then two. Needless to say, I fell for his charm—and him.

  He said he was only in town for the summer. We’d danced a few dances that night, and then we began a courtship. He was staying at a hotel near the Kremlin, and often he’d come to visit me at GUM, bringing me expensive gifts, like diamond jewelry unlike anything I’d ever owned. I was living with my parents in a small flat outside of the city, and he was always respectful. He’d bring my mother flowers or chocolates whenever he stopped by. My mother adored him and bragged to all of her friends in the slums where we lived that I had a wealthy American suitor.

  When he left to return to America, I’d gone to the airport to see him off, and he kissed me, my first real kiss. Yes, I was twenty-two and had never been kissed before. But I was from a traditional family, and that was how it was.

  A lot of my friends would fly to meet their businessmen after they returned to their home country. They’d fly on the rich guy’s plane ticket until they got the proper paperwork together to have them move in with them on a permanent basis. Or so they said.

  My parents insisted that I not go to visit Viktor unless he offered marriage, because they warned me that many a woman had wound up trapped in a far-off country.

  I didn’t believe Viktor would do such a thing. I told that to Viktor, who wrote to me almost every week for a year. In every letter he told me how much he missed me. Then he called and proposed to me over the phone.

  I got my Visa and flew to the United States. He met me at the airport and got married ninety days later, which was when I lost my virginity.

  It was like a whirlwind romance, a fairy tale, and I truly believed I’d found my happily ever after.

  But the fairy tale slowly fell apart. A few years later, I became the person my parents had warned me not to become.

  Things were great for the first year. I was scared, and not speaking the language, I relied on him for everything. And he provided. I spent most of my time in the condo, not going out even to pick up the mail. The neighbors must’ve thought I was being held there against my will.

  But eventually, I told him that if I was going to live in America, I couldn’t stay hidden away at home. I started taking ESL classes online to gain confidence. I’d always been interested in the law, so I decided to go to school for my paralegal certificate. I thought I wasn’t good enough to pass Law school, so paralegal it was.

  He approved of my plans but in a begrudging way. He’d say, “I don’t understand why you need to work when I provide you everything you could want,” or, “You know you’re not smart enough in America. You’re just wasting your time. Stay with me and I will take care of you.” He never abused me physically. The wounds he caused were deeper inside me.

  Gradually, he’d torn away at my confidence, and made me feel worthless.

  Other than the schooling, he always kept tabs on me. He gave me a phone, but that didn’t give me any independence. He knew the passcode for it and he could track it using his own phone, so he always knew where I was. I was not to have contacts other than him. I was to go to school and come right back. He gave me a small allowance, but if I wanted anything bigger than a pack of gum or some mints, I needed to ask him. He controlled how I spent the money, how I decorated the house, what I wore, who I saw, and what I did.

  I thought things might get better when I got pregnant with Alena, but they only got worse. He controlled what I ate and made sure I exercised and constantly monitored my activity. By the time Alena was born, things got even worse. He insisted I quit the classes I was taking and devote all my time to our new baby.

  So when Alena was three, I was getting in the car, it finally hit me. Did I want Alena to have a mother who was afraid of her own shadow and could barely leave the house? Or did I want her to see me as a strong, independent woman?

  I left the next day. Went to a women’s shelter I’d found in the yellow pages. It wasn’t the nicest place, but there, I finally could let out the breath I’d been holding onto for so long.

  Viktor tracked me down. Begged me to come home.

  I told him no. I told him that if he continued to harass me, I’d take Alena back to Russia, and he’d never see her again. He flew into a rage, berating me in front of all the other people at the shelter. The supervisor had to call the police to take him away.

  I filed a restraining order immediately, and divorce papers the next week.

  Still, he came around, again and again, telling me how much he loved me, until I had to take him to court to ensure he followed the order. When they threatened to take custody of Alena away from him completely, he finally laid off. With my paralegal certificate, I knew how the legal system worked. I knew what he could and couldn’t do. For the first time, I felt powerful.

  Things eventually got better and in time became more civil to one another. We had reached a point where we could arrange a visitation schedule. During those visits, he’d always corner me, sometimes saying sweet things to me, sometimes giving me a guilt trip, always wanting me back. I almost caved about a thousand times.

  Because yes, I knew having both a loving mom and dad was best for Alena. And yes, I still had feelings for Viktor. But not love. No, it wasn’t love at all. I felt loathing.

  I couldn’t do it anymore. We were completely incompatible with one another. He wanted a little doll he could mold to his wishes, and I wanted to go my own way and be my own person. I didn’t want to be told what to do.

  He hasn’t changed, I told myself as I sat at the bar and ordered another double vodka. He’s the same person I left. I have to stay strong. Move on.

  Easier said than done. It was amazing to be independent and able to take care of Alena on my own. But I was twenty-eight now. I wanted to find love, someone who would love us both and complete our family. And I hadn’t been with a man in over two years.

  I was lonely.

  I sat at the stool at the end of the bar as a surly looking man bumped my shoulder. “Sorry, darlin’,” he said with a big smile.

  I looked over at him and waved him away. Typical American asshole, all bravado and machismo. He was small and weak looking, with a too-tight t-shirt. Not my type at all.

  “I’m waiting for someone,”
I mumbled, waiving him off.

  “You foreign?” he said, eyes widening with excitement, as if he’d just struck gold.

  “Wow. You must be a rocket scientist.”

  “Aw, come on, baby. Let me buy you a drink,” he said, leaning in so I could smell the whiskey on his breath.

  “If you are looking to be kneed in the crotch, you’ve come to the right place,” I mumbled to him, motioning to the bartender for another drink.

  Not listening to me, he started to put down his money. I took it, ripped it in half, lifted the front of his shirt, and shoved it down there.

  “I said to leave me alone. You understand?”

  The man lifted the hem of his shirt out of his too-tight jeans and released the pieces of his twenty. He picked them up before they could flutter to the ground and scowled at me. “You’re a crazy fucking bitch, you know that?”

  I nodded, not hurt in the least. “That’s nothing. Leave me alone before I show you how crazy I can be.”

  After that, there were a few more who tried their luck. All of them bothered me. I was lonely, but not desperate. I wanted a man who wasn’t lacking in confidence. And every single one of the men reminded me of Viktor—meaning they intimidated women, probably to hide a small penis. They disgusted me.

  I wondered if that meant I’d never be attracted to another man again. Maybe my experience with Viktor had ruined me, and I’d never meet one that excited me like he had.

  Sighing, I ordered my third vodka double, downing it the second the bartender placed it in front of me. I’d had quite a tolerance for vodka back in Russia, but that had been a long time ago. I didn’t do that kind of drinking anymore. Now, my vision swam a little.

  I spun around on the barstool to see if all the men in the bar were losers like the first one who’d approached me. That was when the door opened and I saw him.

  He walked inside, confidently, like he owned the place. He waved at the bartender and a couple of other people, but his eyes never landed on me. My eyes widened. He wore a leather vest and his bulging muscles strained across his tight t-shirt, and tattoos covered his arm. Dark hair, longer on top, cropped on the sides sent a message across the room: Don’t fuck with me.