by Lane Hart
I’m well aware that neither of my parents are saints. Despite their flaws, they’re good people who have worked hard to give me everything I wanted or needed growing up. I only wish that my father’s business wasn’t tangled up with a criminal enterprise.
They may not have ever told me all the specifics, but I have figured out that hearing the name Boris Kozlov is enough to send my father into the bottom of a liquor bottle and my mother to church.
It’s my belief that Kozlov is one of the heads of the Russian mafia. He must control his empire from his home country since I’ve never seen him. Instead of making personal visits, he sends goons like Zeno to the States to keep his business ventures running smoothly. My father receives imports from Russia, and since he’s always kept me away from the docks and inventory, I don’t see what comes in. I’m guessing it’s more than wood and fabric...
“You owe Mr. Kozlov half a million for the lost merchandise,” Zeno responds in English to my father.
Oh shit.
My parents were struggling to keep their heads above water before the fire in their warehouse wiped out all of their inventory. I’ve seen their bank statements, so I know they only have enough money to cover the bills for maybe two more months thanks to the fucking Russians taking a percentage of everything they earn.
“I’ll have it for him soon,” my father tells Zeno. “I’m just waiting for the insurance check.”
Wait, what?
I know for a fact that the insurance check for the fire is only a little more than three-hundred grand for the structure and the inventory inside. If he gives it to this jackass for drugs or whatever illegal shit my father was storing for him, how will they afford to rebuild?
“You’re running out of time. I’ll be back for the check at the end of the week,” Zeno responds. Placing his hands on his hips to open his suit jacket and reveal the guns on either side of his shoulder holster, he says, “If you don’t have it by then, your wife will be cashing in your life insurance plan to reimburse Mr. Kozlov.”
With that final threat on my father’s life, the giant, bald meathead turns and leaves our house, causing my mother to softly utter a prayer in Russian.
“If you give him the insurance money, then how will you be able to afford another warehouse or-or pay the bills while you build all new inventory?” I ask my father since his craft takes time and dedication. He doesn’t just slap a few pieces of wood together and call it good. He’s a perfectionist, and he makes beautiful pieces of furniture.
“We won’t,” he responds, tugging on the corners of his graying mustache.
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Your mother and I will just have to find other work,” he huffs before softly adding, “And sell the house.”
“Other work? There is no other work! You make furniture and she helps you sell it. Neither of you have any other skills!” I exclaim. “And you can’t sell the house. Where will we live?”
“Don’t worry, Kira. We’ll figure it out,” my father says. Pointing his index finger at me, he says, “You will go to school in the fall. No more putting it off!”
“How can I possibly leave you now of all times when everything is going to hell?” I ask him as tears blur my vision.
“You can and you will because I said so!” he shouts as he gets to his feet. Stomping over to the door, he rips his coat off the hook and says, “I’ll be back before dinner, моя любовь,” before he disappears.
“Mama, you’re not gonna let him give in to those assholes, are you?” I ask when she gets up from the sofa and I follow her into the kitchen.
“What choice do we have? You heard the man. If we don’t come up with the rest of the money and fast, he’ll kill your father! Those threats are not idle.”
“There has to be some other way for you to make Kozlov happy and rebuild the warehouse without selling the house,” I tell her.
“No, Kira. There is not!” she responds with her back to me as she pulls out pots and pans from the lower cabinet. They clatter nosily because she’s angry at me or my father or Kozlov, so she’s banging them around on purpose. “Now, go! I have dinner to cook.”
After she scolds me like I’m still a child, I take the hint that she wants to be alone and climb the stairs up to my bedroom. My entire life my parents have spoiled me, putting my happiness over theirs. They spent a ton of time and money they didn’t have taking me to ballet classes for ten years, and they never missed a single one of my volleyball games in high school. After I was born, they started saving money to send me to pretty much any college I want to attend.
Five years after graduating from high school and I still haven’t picked one. And each year since I’ve had to discreetly withdraw a little more money from my college fund to deposit into their account. I don’t mind. The money is theirs, not mine. If I really wanted to go to college, I would have done so already, and I could probably get a student loan to cover tuition. The problem is that I still don’t know what I want to even study. And how could I leave, knowing that son of a bitch Kozlov is making my parents’ lives hell?
It’s not fair. A man across the entire freaking ocean shouldn’t be able to take the money my parents need.
There has to be some other way for us to get the money to rebuild. Maybe they could get a business loan.
One online application with a bank later entering in my parents’ information and I’m disappointed to find out that’s not an option thanks to their plummeting credit history. They must have been using credit cards to pay for supplies and didn’t tell me, which means things are even worse than I thought.
I have to come up with a plan to help them get through this instead of letting some Russian bully win.
Typing in a quick search online of how to make hundreds of thousands of dollars fast isn’t very helpful. We don’t have anything of value to sell other than our home. I refuse to gamble away what little money is left in my college fund in a casino to try and make more. Organ donation is extremely risky health wise, and illegal. Besides, it doesn’t even pay that well!
I keep scrolling through the results pages until I find an article about how a woman sold her virginity online for a million dollars…
My virginity may be long gone, lost to Steve Baker in the back of his mom’s station wagon after our senior prom, but it does give me another idea.
Thirty years ago, my parents had an arranged marriage of sorts in Russia, and it worked out well for them. My father was getting ready to come to the United States to start up his business; and my mother, who he randomly met and started talking to in the grocery store checkout line, wanted to leave the country and come with him for a better life. Her parents wouldn’t let her leave with a man she just met, so they got married before coming over. They may not have started out loving each other, but they do now, that I’m certain of.
Aren’t there old, rich men out in the world who are willing to pay for female companionship? I’m not looking for a million, but maybe half of that so that my parents can keep their home?
An internet search for mail-order brides brings up several results, including a few that are specifically Russian and Ukrainian.
Am I actually willing to enter into a marriage with someone I don’t know for money, giving up the chance of finding love and marrying the man of my dreams?
Yes, I am, if it means making sure my parents will be okay. I would endure hell for them. They would do no less for me, so now it’s time for me to repay the favor.
Chapter Three
Miles
It’s hard to believe, but porn is my new way of life.
I’m a Savage fucking King, and lately, I’m the only person who touches my dick.
A few years ago, the clubhouse would be full of honeys looking to get laid by a big bad biker. And yeah, I know I’m not the hottest or most charismatic King. I still got a ton of ass from my brothers’ leftovers, so that was fine by me. It was hard to find a woman to come back for seconds after get
ting my rough treatment, but there were plenty of women on rotation.
Now, everyone is getting married and having babies, so going upstairs to get my dick sucked is no longer happening. Most of the club girls are gone, and the ones left won’t touch me right now because of how fucked up my face is after Reece’s recent beating. It was his own damn fault for not telling me Cynthia was off limits and that he had a thing for her.
So, I’m not looking for much. I just want a sexy body warming my bed every once in a while. I know full well that I’m not the type of man women marry. Who could ever love a murderer like me? Not that I think I’m actually capable of loving anyone back…
Which leaves me with…porn.
And god, I hate watching porn, but I’m not desperate enough to drag my ass into a nasty whore house.
The women in these flicks are all fake as fuck. Even if they weren’t, watching some other asshole screwing their brains out is nowhere close to being as good as being the one doing the screwing.
Porn also makes me sad. Sad because I’m so lonely and horny that I have to tug on my own cock while watching other people fuck.
Still, I have needs and a swollen shaft that occasionally needs some relief, so here I am, searching the internet for naked chicks sucking dick. Or I was, until a little box pops up on the screen.
An animated girl in a tiny black bikini wants to know if I’m a hard-working man looking for a submissive woman to cater to my every need.
Why, hell yes, I am.
I click on the big red button, and it takes me to a site that says something about mail-order brides from Russia.
Ooh, and I need to click now for an optimized experience, including a naughty private strip show from my potential bride.
Fuck yes.
I click on the link; then wait for the page to load.
Instead of a hot half-naked woman, I get a close up of an angry and familiar man’s face, completely killing my mood.
“Reece?” I ask, squinting at the screen. “Why is your fat head on my screen? What the fuck are you doing?”
“What the fuck am I doing?” he asks. “I’m saving your ass! How in the hell did you manage to fuck up your computer this badly?”
“I was just…I mean, I was looking for some porn, you know…” I start and trail off thanks to his glare. The guy already hates my guts and tried to beat the shit out of me twice in one night. I don’t need to go another round.
“Is there some reason you had to look at Russian porn?” he snaps at me. “What did you click on?”
“I thought I was getting set up for a private show, but I…shit, Reece, what happened?” I ask.
“You gave whoever is running this site administrative privileges. Did you see someone else moving your cursor around the screen, like I’m doing now?”
“Yeah, but they said they were just ‘optimizing the experience’!”
“Goddammit, Miles,” he sighs. “From now on, warn me whenever you get on one of your computers. You let some Russian hack bypass our VPN and get access to our servers.”
“I…I don’t know what that means,” I admit. “Is it bad?”
“Yes, it’s bad!” he shouts at me. “You allowed an outsider to access everything! All the club’s records, you understand?”
“Oh shit, Reece, oh shit, can you fix it?” I ask as I try to get closer to see what he’s doing.
“It’s all right. Whoever you gave access to wasn’t looking for anything specific, they started trying to copy our entire server. Since they were accessing us, I could access them too. I uploaded a program to them that I just launched. We’re fine, now. But you bring that laptop to me right now, you hear me?” Reece yells at me.
I try to click around and find the page with the mail-order shit again, but it’s no longer there.
Getting up, and glad I hadn’t gotten to the part where I unzip my pants yet, I unplug the laptop and go knock on Reece’s closed door.
My head hangs in embarrassment when he opens up. “Man, I’m sorry. I was just having a little fun looking at that website. It wasn’t there anymore after you did…whatever you did. Is there any safe way I could check it out, you think?”
“There are plenty of safe ways to check out other websites,” Reece replies. “It will probably be awhile before you see that one again, though. The program I uploaded and launched on their server wiped everything they tried to copy from us, and then formatted all their drives. I don’t know what they were doing over there, but I shut that shit down.”
“Oh, okay then,” I respond, disappointed. “I guess I’ll go shoot some pool or play cards with the boys. You want to come up for a while?” I ask, trying to repair the riff between us thanks to Cynthia.
“No,” Reece snaps. “You managed to fuck up my night with this stunt, and I’m not in the mood for your companionship. Get out of my room.”
“Grumpy bastard,” I snort before shutting his door behind me on the way out.
Instead of going upstairs, I decide to go get another laptop from the chapel, playing it safer this time by not searching “dirty sluts sucking cock” and instead typing in “mail-order brides” to find out what that shit is all about.
And boom, there are a ton of sites offering women of all nationalities for marriage. One even has an option to check the little boxes for everything you’re looking for in your dream wife. It all seems too good to be true.
Is finding a wife really as easy as clicking on a few buttons and paying a little cash?
It has to be easier than the traditional method. I’ll be old and dead waiting for some knockout to show up at the bar and say she wants to sleep with me every night for the rest of my life.
Hell, forget forever, I would be happy keeping a woman around for a year since the club girls don’t seem to want more than a few nights at most from me.
So, what do I have to lose if I buy myself a wife? I have plenty of money. The Kings do well with our various business enterprises, most of them even legally. Since I live at the clubhouse for free, I barely spend any of my earnings, which total nearly a million now. If I could find a woman who is desperate enough to marry me for some cash, then I could probably keep her around by just buying her nice shit or whatever. That seemed to always work on my mom with her husbands since she’s never worked a day in her life.
There’s no reason not to take a look around, see who is available on the site. So, I start going through the various criteria.
I definitely want her to speak English because I’ll be damned if I’m smart enough to learn some other fucked-up language. Next, I select for her age to be under thirty. And finally, for the price, I select under half a million. I may have plenty of cash, but I’m not stupid enough to blow it all in one day on a woman I’ve never met.
Finished with my selections, I hit the enter button and I’m provided with three choices of equally beautiful women. Two of them are still over in the fucking Ukraine, so I’m not taking any chances on them lying about the English thing and then not being able to communicate, or even worse, getting deported. So that leaves…one girl – Kira. She’s a twenty-three-year-old from down in Charleston, South Carolina.
No shit?
That’s just a few hours away!
And Kira is…fucking gorgeous with long, straight, brown hair, the bluest shade of eyes, and big, plump cock-sucking lips. She’s a steal at five-hundred thousand too.
I quickly read through the information on the site and determine that, in order to talk to the girl to work out the details of our contract, I have to create an account and then pay a non-refundable fee of one thousand dollars. But that once I pay up, she won’t be able to accept any other offers unless our deal falls through.
I pull out my credit card from my wallet because that sounds fucking awesome to me.
Chapter Four
Kira
Holy crap! I’ve got an email about a potential offer and my profile hasn’t even been up for an hour!
Now I just have to
log back into the site to talk to the guy and figure out the details. Hopefully he’s not too old or creepy and he can come up with the money fast, like before Friday.
Once I’m logged in, I see the flashing envelope icon notification on the top of the page, indicating a new message. It’s from member SavageKing69 and he’s… asking me for nudes.
Great.
The guy could be some random pervert, but he must have paid a thousand dollars that he won’t get back even if this falls through in order to send that message.
There’s also a little green dot by his user name, indicating that he’s still online.
I type back to him, “How do I know you’re serious about going through with this? Do you really have half a million dollars, or are you stupid enough to pay a thousand dollars to try and get a nude pic?”
His response comes back a few seconds later, “Dead serious but need to see the goods before I buy. Half a million is a lot of damn money. It’d be a waste to spend it on a flat-chested chick and have to pay for implants. Show me what you’re working with, princess.”
Wow. The man is certainly…blunt, that’s for sure. I’ve never done anything like this before, but I don’t want to lose a potential buyer.
Getting up to go lock my bedroom door, I pull my shirt over my head on the way back to my computer desk, and then use my phone to take a photo. Even though I’m still wearing a bra, I make sure my face isn’t visible in case the image ends up on the web. Then I upload and send the picture to SavageKing69.
His instant response is “Very nice tits.”
Trying to prevent him from requesting any nude photos, I quickly get to work asking him his age and where he’s from.
While I know it’s impossible to choose, I hope I don’t have to move all the way to the west coast since that will make it difficult for me to see my parents.