Page 5 of One Dark Kiss (Grimm Bargains #2)

FIVE

Alexei

R ain slashes up from the cracked cement sidewalk, dispersing the smell of old piss and decaying meat from several fast-food wrappers crumbled against the standalone building.

I cast my gaze down both directions of the now vacant and quiet street in the bowels of San Jose.

The area holds several boarded-up buildings as well as businesses with dingy windows, including a nail place, a minute convenience store, and a massage parlor that no doubt finishes with dubious and clap-enhanced happy endings.

My attention is caught by the tail end of Rosalie s SUV as she turns a far corner and quite happily deserts me. My groin hardens. Again. Her scent swirls around my head, licking through me. Something good and clean and sweet—way too sweet for an asshole like me.

I glance up at the damaged electric sign swinging drunkenly in the light storm. The words the and pony have died out, leaving only AMETHYST in faded purple letters. A buzzing echoes from the letters. If the sign falls on somebody, the damn thing will probably electrocute them.

Striding toward the peeling red metal door, I shove it open and step inside the darkened interior. Hard-gut whiskey scent instantly assails me, and my stomach cramps in need.

We re fucking closed. Get out before you get shot, a rough male voice bellows from a room beyond the long wooden bar planted on the right side of the structure.

A second later, Garik Petrov appears, dark hair ruffled, faded jeans ripped, and irritation cutting lines into the sides of his mouth. Shit. Alexei.

Yeah. On alert, I stalk closer to the bar, nodding at the bottles lined haphazardly on the cracked glass shelves mounted to the wall.

Garik tosses a box aside. You don t want that crap.

He moves toward the bar and reaches below it, his gaze intense and guarded.

Like always. He was orphaned young and taken in by an uncle who was a low-level operative in the Bratva.

The uncle was killed years ago, and I m fairly certain Garik gutted the old man.

I tense and then force my shoulders to relax as Garik pulls out a bottle of Beluga Gold Line vodka. My mouth waters. It has been seven long years since I ve tasted anything for pleasure instead of for simple sustenance. The front door is unlocked.

He grabs two somewhat clean-looking shot glasses and fills them to the top. Yeah. I m waiting for a shipment of beer in about thirty minutes, and the delivery guy is too scared to go through the alley to the back door. Can t blame him. Last guy got his head smashed before being robbed.

Irritation clacks through me and I reach for the shot glass. Did you make a statement with that?

Tried but haven t found the guy. Garik secures his own glass. I don t have the resources you once shared.

Having the Russian mob at my back is quite handy. I planned to take control from my stepmother once I finished screwing around, and perhaps I should ve cut that shit out long before. A mistake I ll never make again.

Nazdorovie. He lifts his glass.

I clink with him. Nazdorovie. Then I tip back the drink, and wild spice explodes down my throat to my gut. Heaven. Pure and simple. I place the glass on the bar, and he refills it. Thank you. I mean for more than the drink, and he knows it.

Of course. He takes his second shot. You re my only friend in this world.

It s a true statement for us both. I was too young and stupid to realize my vulnerability in life, and the way he has deposited money into my commissary account every week—when he obviously doesn t have much—ensures I will be loyal to him until the day I die.

He could ve joined the mafia as a low-level thug and made some money, which he has not done.

His lineage would make it impossible for him to rise far, but he still could ve made a nice living—and hasn t tried.

Which makes his dedication all the more powerful. Who do we have?

We have at least eight men. He names them, and I mask any surprise. Your brother has made mistakes. Namely with daughters.

So Hendrix still can t keep it in his pants. He should be smart enough to stay away from the daughters of his lieutenants, but apparently those sexual drives are too strong. Our father had the same problem. I m surprised nobody has taken him out.

Garik shrugs. Hendrix has loyal guards and knows how to fight. It won t be easy for you to retake the helm.

I study Garik. The seven years took a toll, with two new scars on his neck, but he stands almost to my height, and his torso has remained muscled beneath his worn black T-shirt. His nose holds a bump as if it has been broken in my absence.

Life has never been kind to Garik, from what I can tell.

I ve never asked and had only known that his deceased father was a low-level Bratva drug mule and his mother a hooker who disappeared years ago.

I initially opened the bar with him because he can sing and is strong enough to handle problems and toss them out on their asses if necessary.

It was one of the many reckless and immature moves in my overly arrogant youth, entered into carelessly.

Yet here we stand. Both pissed off survivors.

How would you like to be second in command? I ask softly.

His chin lifts. I m not from a known family.

You re my family. He s earned as much trust as I can give, which isn t all that much.

I accept. He glances down at my old-man pants. When would you like to meet your very few followers?

I consider my options. Tomorrow here after closing.

He nods. I ll make the arrangements. For now, I live upstairs and have clothes you can borrow. You re welcome to stay. There s a sofa that kind of folds out into a bed.

Thank you, I say, meaning it. But I plan to stay with my lawyer. I mean that, too.

One of his dark eyebrows rises. Rosalie?

Her name on his lips nearly has me lunging for him, and I tamp down on emotion. You know her?

He shrugs, his gaze alert against danger again. Smart man. No. She dropped by yesterday with the news that you d be released this week. She wanted to make sure you had a place to stay.

I scan the dismal bar with its scattered tables, small dartboard area, and lone torn pool table. A small, raised dais sits in the far corner with a guitar leaning against the wall. She came here?

He grins. Slowly. Yeah. Even sat on a bar stool without wiping it off first. Said she wasn t sure she d be able to keep you on the outside but wanted you safe while she tried.

A thoughtful and sweet heart to go with that spectacular body. Sometimes the gods are kind. Yet, they ve tossed her into my path, so perhaps not. I see. I plan to go buy clothes with my measly two hundred dollars in a few moments, but I appreciate the offer. How are the finances here?

Not great. We re afloat but barely. The books are in order in the office, and they re all yours.

I trust you. Words I wouldn t give to anybody else in this world—even those I ll soon rule. My contacts inside had kept me informed about the Russian organization, and not much has changed. Yet. I ve heard my half brother is dead. I take the second shot and my limbs relax.

Garik pours two more. Yeah. I ve asked around and nobody knows who did it.

Perhaps Thorn Beathach had done me a favor by ending Cal.

The little shit had been a weak link in the future organization—and he liked to beat women.

There s no love lost between my father s second family and me.

My father had not chosen well with a second wife.

Has Hendrix been by? I wonder about my other half brother.

No. He doesn t visit this part of town, Garik says wryly. But a few of his guys have dropped by and caused damage before. Just reminding me that he s in the world and knows I am as well.

I m certain Hendrix is running the organization right now. Using the word Bratva has always seemed like overkill to me. When I take over, it ll be referred to as Organizatsya, or Organization.

Garik finishes his third shot. What are the chances you ll be released for good?

I don t know. Yet I have no intention of ever going back. Which means time is limited to gain enough power to prevent that from happening. Did you keep my go bag?

Yep. Garik crouches again and rustles in the back of a cupboard, pulling out a worn black leather bag and plunking it on the bar. The sound of a couple of amethyst gems clunking is obvious. They re small and not charged, yet a trill of power comes from them. Here you go.

Besides the Beretta 92FS I managed to hide before being arrested, I placed passports and cash in the bag. Just enough to buy new clothing and not much else. You never opened it?

Of course not.

I might have to knight the guy. Thanks.

The outside door opens and we both turn. Instead of a beer delivery man, a tall blonde in a form-fitting red silk dress slinks through, her shiny black high heels clipping seductively on the dirty floor.

Blythe Fairfax. A woman I might ve loved. She could be a murderer.

Uh. Garik replaces the bottle beneath the bar. I m going for a walk. He crosses around and moves toward the door, nodding at her and keeping a wide berth as he exits.

I wait for a feeling to hit me. Any sensation. Nothing.

She glides across the worn linoleum and reaches me, her expensive perfume clogging my senses. You re free.

I turn to face her more fully. While the years apart had been rough on Garik, she looks better than ever.

Her blue eyes sparkle in her still unlined face, probably helped along with Botox and whatever other treatments have been invented lately.

The dress clasps in a halter behind her neck, leaving her toned shoulders and arms bare.

She blinks at my lack of answer and looks up at my face. Did you kill him?

It s the first time she s actually asked the question. After my arrest, she cried a lot for the media, making herself into a victim instead of an adulterous thrill seeker. I figure you did.

Her smile is catlike. We both know that s not true.

Do we?

She runs a bright red nail down my arm. These clothes don t suit you. Her color heightens and her perfect nostrils flare. Like a horny mare s would. I ve missed you. Even if you are homicidal.

I missed her for my first six months in prison while I tried not to be shanked in my sleep. In my youth, I thought myself in love with her.

An emotion I will never allow myself to feel again—if that had been real. I have my doubts. Either way, I ll never be unguarded and vulnerable to anybody again. The image of sweet Rosalie flashes through my mind, and my muscles tighten. I need to work that woman out of my system.

That s the look I remember, Blythe purrs, stepping closer.

The look isn t for you. I remain in place, unwilling to move away.

She laughs, the once twinkling tone sounding grating now. Do you have a new lover named Bubba? I ve heard the joint can change a man.

Her using the word joint shows her absolute stupidity.

So I step into her, forcing her to tilt her head back to see me.

I hope that she actually does. If I discover you set me up and sent me to hell for seven years, you ll beg for death long before I grant it.

Adding one more name to the kill list coming my way will take minimal effort.

She blinks. Once and then again. Her flared nostrils widen—from arousal to fear instantly.

Yet she masks the emotion. Somewhat. You and I had the real thing.

Our love was true and can be again. Going with her strengths, she moves in, her full breasts brushing my lower chest. She smells like money.

Even if you stabbed him to death. That s in the past. Her lids partially cover her eyes.

You re in the past. Gripping her bare arms, I lift her and plant her ass on the bar.

Her eyes widen and meet mine, and a small smile curves her blood-red lips. Then, smoothness gained from, no doubt, many Pilates classes, she shifts, turns, and slides down on her belly while lifting her skirt up and showing her bare butt.

How many times had I taken her against that old bar? She likes it rough.

So do I.

No, I say softly, tamping down on anger.

She pivots and stands so suddenly, her long blond hair flies in every direction. No? she repeats, her eyebrows rising faster than her shrill tone.

I step back, enjoying her confusion. Years ago, I would ve fucked her until she begged to come. Had more times than I could count. We had both played at being something we weren t. Me, a playboy, music-playing rich kid. Her, an adventurous and trapped wealthy woman. We were both useless assholes.

Her skirt falls down to her thighs. You ve changed.

Yes. I stare back evenly, letting her see the killer set loose inside me. There is no containing him. I don t want to hide him any longer. You want to stay the hell away from me. And if you are the person who set me up, you should start running now. I ll find her but I have work to finish first.

She licks her lips, the movement nervous ... and aroused. Her gaze runs over my body and flares with interest. She s not smart enough to see the killer inside me and thinks I m playing like we used to do. I know exactly how to make you happy.

True. Her mouth held more talent than an experienced call girl. I stare at her. How in the hell had I allowed her into my world years ago? Talk about my having no standards.

She smiles again. Reaches for me.

I lean around her and fetch my bag off the bar. I m done with whores. With that, I turn and stride toward the battered door.

You ll regret this, she shrieks, her voice reaching the rafters and probably scaring the shit out of the spiders.

I pause and glance over my shoulder, watching her until she visibly shrinks. I ve given you the only warning you ll get. Then I push open the door and forge into the storm.