Billie and the Russian Beast: An Enemies to Lovers Russian Hockey Player Sports Romance [50 Loving States, South Carolina] (QUARANTALES Book 2)

by Theodora Taylor

  And the newsletter exclusive:

  Reina and the Heavy Metal Prince

  Finally, here’s your sneak peek at the third scorching hot Quarantale,

  Goldie and the Three Wisconsin Bears.

  Once upon a time…

  A golden beauty on the run

  found a cabin in the woods

  The perfect refuge.

  But little did she know,

  the cabin belonged to

  Three

  Very

  Hungry

  Bears

  GINA

  My Chevy Spark sputters about forty miles outside of Duluth. Then it jerks to a stop with a sickening metallic gurgle.

  I curse when I climb out of the car. There’s gray smoke spilling from the hood, and it smells like old rust and burned oil. I’m no mechanic, but I’m sensing it’s going to take more than a walk for gas to get me off this two-lane highway.

  This extremely remote two-lane highway.

  With nothing but dark woods on either side of it.

  An icy wind blows as I look into the carless distance and think about the worldwide coronavirus pandemic that has so many people scared. And I’m alone out here. More alone than I’ve ever been.

  Panic descends, threatening to overwhelm me. I knew I couldn’t do this. Knew I couldn’t escape on my own. Tommy was right about me. I’m too stupid and weak to do anything—

  My old beauty queen inner voice cuts off my inner spiral. Yes, you can! The voice is soft now, barely a whisper. But it’s firm and insistent as it tells me, Tommy wasn’t right about you. You’re strong and smart, and you can do this. You have to do this.

  Yes, I have to do this.

  I shake off all that fear and force myself to be grateful I made it this far. I’d only been able to withdraw five hundred dollars from my bank account before I left Georgia. That was enough to get me all the way to Wisconsin. So, mission almost accomplished.

  I used my bank card to buy gas in Madison, which was risky for sure. Tommy was probably monitoring our shared bank account to track me, or he would have closed it as soon as I disappeared. But I figured I was close enough to my final destination for it to be safe. If everything had gone as planned, I would have been across the Canadian border before the charges even registered on my bank account.

  However, now my only means of transportation is spitting smoke. Dammit.

  But this time, I place a hand on top of my stomach and stay calm.

  “I’m going to get us out of this,” I promise the baby growing inside of me. I whisper the same words now as I did a month ago when I peed on a stick in a grocery store bathroom and saw the two thin blue lines.

  Zipping up the hoodie I bought at that Madison gas station over my turquoise blue ribbed bodycon dress, I start forward with a determined stride. Walking a mile or two to find a mechanic is a small price to pay for our freedom.

  Only it isn’t a mile or two. At least I don’t think it is. I left my phone along with most of everything else I owned back at the house in Jonesboro for fear of Tommy using it to track me. But I’m pretty sure after what feels like an hour of walking that I’ve gone more than a couple of miles.

  It was technically a good idea to stick to back roads whenever possible, so there would be less chance of a surveillance camera picking me up. But this one might be a little too backcountry. In the time I’ve been walking, not one car has passed by. Also, it’s getting dark….

  I eye the setting sun with a fearful heart.

  Something rustles in the woods.

  I snap my head toward it. What was that?

  Okay, time to turn back, I decide, reversing direction. Better to wait in the car where wolves and bears and back road murderers can’t get me than out in the open.

  I pick up my step, but by the time what feels like another hour has passed, I’m trudging. My yellow espadrille wedges match nearly everything in my wardrobe and make my calves look spectacular. But they are not ideal for hours of walking. My whole body aches and my legs have gone wobbly, like they’re just looking for a reason to give out.

  Despite that, I keep trudging along, determined to get back to my car. Only to jerk to a sudden stop when I see the sign nailed to a tree, bright and red:

  PRIVATE ROAD. PRIVATE PROPERTY. NO ONE ALLOWED PAST THIS POINT.

  A lump of horror rises in my throat. That sign wasn’t there before. I would have remembered it.

  Oh, God… Someone must have taken my car. I’m stranded. Lost and stranded.

  I look back to the quiet road. I know I passed a small town in the other direction. Maybe about ten to fifteen miles back. But after nearly a full day of driving and hours of walking, I don’t have it in me to hike that far.

  I shift back to the sign. Ominous and forbidding. But at this point, I can’t see any other choice. The sun’s almost fully set, and I have no idea where my car is.

  Teeth chattering against the freezing night wind, I make my way down the dirt road that the sign declared forbidden.

  The sun sets behind me, and the moon rises in front of me as I walk down a path just wide enough for a car. But relief fills me when I finally reach a cabin. Relief and apprehension…

  The house isn’t completely terrible; I admit after a few moments of observing it under the moonlight. It’s made of cute little logs and features a gabled front porch with a swing hanging down. It kind of has what I used to call cozy potential back when I would help my friends at Emory decorate their dorm rooms for free.

  But other than those cute touches, everything else about the house is stark. Plain front door. No smoke coming out the chimney. No lights inviting weary travelers off the road. No sign whatsoever of who might live here.

  The lack of personal effect combined with the cold Wisconsin night makes the cabin seem almost as ominous and forbidding as the sign at the end of its road.

  But it’s not like I have a choice of places to spend the night.

  Taking a deep breath, I walk up the three steps to the door and knock. My heart feels like it’s about to thunder straight out of my chest as I wait for whoever owns the cabin to come to the door.

  But no answer.

  Now my heart sinks. But I try again, this time knocking a little louder.

  Still no answer.

  I try the knob. Of course, it’s locked.

  This is probably somebody’s summer vacation cabin. And unlike me, who left her car unlocked at the side of the road with the keys still inside it, most people aren’t idiots.

  This can’t be happening. I barely made it through last night when I was sleeping in my car with a blanket. There’s no way I’ll survive a night in the woods. With whatever animals live out here in the middle of nowhere.

  But the slim windows on either side of the door look old. So maybe…

  I unzip my hoodie and wrap it around my wrist. Then, with a silent apology to whoever owns this place, I punch my fist through the left side window. It shatters on the first hit. Thank goodness. I carefully stick an arm through the now empty pane to unlock the door.

  It’s a latch handle—another reason to send up some thanks. With just a little of maneuvering, I’m in.

  I find a light switch on the wall, flip it on…and nothing.

  This must really be a vacation cabin if the electricity’s turned off. I don’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. No electricity means no current occupants. But save for the shafts of moonlight shining through the windows, the cabin’s pitch black.

  I’m not loving the thought of moving around this cabin in the complete dark, but the pinching hunger in my stomach reminds me to be brave. I have to find something to eat. For me and the life growing inside of me.

  I touch my way across the room, knocking into what feels like big, heavy furniture and smooth wooden walls until I come to a swinging door.

  Thankfully, the kitchen is smaller and brighter than the living room. I can easily make my way to the refrigerator with just the light streaming through its
windows to guide me. And this time, I easily avoid the room’s primary piece of furniture, a circular round table. It has four chairs situated around it, so maybe this cabin belongs to a family.

  It was always just me and my mom growing up in Atlanta, and most of my school friends were in the same single mom boat. But when I went to Emory, I’d met girls who did things like meet their families at vacation cabins on the weekends. Cabins that might have looked like this. Who knows, even though we were attending the same school, those nuclear family girls lived in a different world from me.

  They weren’t former state beauty queens who had to strip to make up the difference between their scholarship money and their real living expenses. Their dads hadn’t abandoned them, and their mothers weren’t dead. Those girls were protected and loved. None of them would have fallen into Tommy’s trap….

  The familiar mix of regret and shame washes over me. Why did I believe him so easily? Why hadn’t I listened to my best friends, Cynda and Billie, who’d worried from the start that he was too controlling? Why had I insisted on pretending to myself and others that I was living in a fairy tale when it was really a nightmare?

  But I can’t change the past, I remind myself, only try to fix it as best I can for the sake of my baby. So I shake off the many regrets and concentrate on the refrigerator.

  It’s a nice one. Stainless steel with a smart screen. But my shoulders droop with disappointment when I find it completely empty. Figures, considering there’s no electricity. I should have thought of that before getting my hopes up. Dumb, dumb, I’m so dumb.

  Sometimes it feels like me and the girl who made it into Emory are two totally separate people.

  I check the cabinets. Nothing there except plates. But then, jackpot! When I open the double pantry, I find all manner of dry goods: beans, canned vegetables, and several packages of pasta. Not only that, when I turn on the tap, water comes out. Hot water, which means there must be a gas heater in play somewhere on the property.

  I only need one more thing to make this work.

  “Please let it be a gas stove,” I beg whoever is up there, watching over me.

  And…jackpot number two, it totally is! I grab the pasta and a saucepan from the cabinet below the range. Less than fifteen minutes later, I’m plating up the first home cooked meal I’ve had in…

  Wow, I think it might be years. Tommy liked to eat out at restaurants. And I was expected to be at the door, ready and waiting for him whenever he came off his shift, dressed to slay in full hair and makeup.

  Let me tell you, after years of restaurants and a week of scarfing gas station food in my car, eating a meal I made myself at a kitchen table feels like a dream come true. The only things that could make this dinner any better would be some overhead light and a nice glass of wine.

  Not that I can have wine these days.

  The thought of the baby growing inside of me takes some delight out of eating my first proper meal in days. I’d always dreamed of having a child, but not with Tommy. And not like this.

  I pause, eating halfway through my plate of spaghetti. I’m no longer hungry, and suddenly the day is catching up with me. I feel tired and weak. So, so weak.

  But I can’t take good food for granted. And who knows when I’ll get my next meal? I force the rest of the spaghetti down, then rinse off the plate. There’s a dusty bottle of dish soap but no dishwasher or drying off towel that I can discern.

  I do the best I can and leave the plate to dry on the counter. I’ll put it back tomorrow morning…and figure out how to make it the rest of the way to Canada without a car.

  But tonight I’ve got to get some rest. It’s been a week since I slept in a proper bed.

  I go back through the living room and feel my way around until I come to a hallway. I open the first door to find a larger than expected room. If I’m reading the room’s shadow play right, what looks like a gigantic bed stands against the back wall.

  Okay, I’m sure there’s a bathroom somewhere in here, but it feels all kinds of wrong to not only break into a cabin but also make myself right at home in what’s obviously the master bedroom.

  I close the door and open the next one, hoping for a smaller bedroom. But the second room is the first one’s complete opposite. Super small, like a closet with just enough room for an extra-long cot. And I’m not choosy at this point, but there’s definitely no bathroom in here.

  Okay, I’ll try the last door, and if that’s a bust, I’ll just have to tamp down my guilt and go back to the huge master bedroom.

  But to my pleasant surprise, the room behind door number three is perfect. Regular queen sized bed. A small bathroom with a door I can close behind me. Please let there be hot water in here too, I beg whoever’s watching over me again.

  And I must be on a roll. The shower turns on with no problem, and after a few moments, the water warms up. I waste no time, stripping out of my grimy dress and jumping into the shower. God, the hot water feels so good on my skin. It makes me wish I could get my hair wet too.

  But washing and conditioning my hair in the dark probably isn’t a good idea either. Pretty much the only thing I was allowed to keep from my time at Magic Peaches after Tommy made me quit was my long blonde weave. It makes me look and feel as beautiful as Beyonce, but washing the golden extensions is a job. Plus, all the products I’d bought to maintain my weave at my last appointment were in the car that disappeared.

  With a sigh, I grab the first bottle I my hands come to after fumbling around the dark shower. Maybe it’s body wash. Maybe it’s shampoo. Whatever it is, it smells good. Like pine and wood, same as the cabin. I gratefully soap up my body, then rinse off, careful to keep my hair out of the water as I do.

  After stepping out of the shower, I plait my blonde tresses into two long braids. A warm memory of my Canadian mom doing the same thing when I first started getting weaves for beauty pageants washes over me. God, I miss her. I don’t think I’ll ever stop regretting that she died of cancer before she could see me win the Princess Georgia pageant. She would have been so proud.

  But not so much now…another stab of shame replaces the warm memories.

  I should put on some clothes. But looking down at the dress and underwear I left outside the shower, I decide against it. I don’t want to dirty the bed’s clean sheets. So I leave the clothes in the bathroom and return to the bedroom wrapped in the towel I found hanging on the back of the door.

  Ugh, it’s even colder in here than before. But I’m dead tired, so I don’t bother to go searching for a thermostat. I just dive straight into the queen-sized bed, hoping the blankets will be enough to keep me from freezing.

  They are. I sigh into the pillow, feeling safe and warm for the first time in…I don’t know how long. The warm part was simple in Georgia. But when was the last time I felt safe? So long ago. Too long ago.

  No matter what, I need to figure out how to make this warm and safe feeling last. For the sake of my baby.

  First thing tomorrow….

  And on that hopeful thought, I drift off to sleep.

  MICAH

  “Sonofabitch broke into our cabin!”

  Jeb curses.

  And Nico says, “One of us should have stayed behind to look after the cabin when we towed that car.”

  He’s right. But I blame myself most. They’re both from other parts of Wisconsin, but I grew up in these woods. I should have known better when I saw the abandoned car just a few meters away from our private road. I was so concerned about getting it off our property and towing it back to town that I didn’t wonder where its owner was. I assumed, from the looks of it, that somebody abandoned it and never look back.

  But you know what they say about assuming, and I feel like an ass right about now.

  “He might still be there, if that was his car we towed,” Nico points out.

  “Yeah,” I agree.

  Jeb, as usual, didn’t bother with words. Just stalks back to the truck and returns with his hunting rifle.


  Hunting season hasn’t nearly begun yet, but Jeb has that glint in his eye as he shoves past the both of us and through the front door.

  He doesn’t talk much about his Army Ranger days before joining Nico and me on the Wisconsin Bears football team. But I can read his training loud and clear as he stalks silently through the front room, a deadly shadow with his gun raised.

  Nico and I follow behind him. No guns. But we know how to fight on and off the football field. We keep our bodies tight, and our fists clenched, ready to handle anything or anyone that jumps out at us.

  We go to the kitchen first and find three dishes drying on the sink counter. A pot, a plate, and a fork.

  “Made himself right at home,” I whisper.

  “And cleaned up after himself,” Nico whispers back. He sounds impressed.

  I roll my eyes. Nico—or Saint Nic, as his teammates call him—has a bad habit of seeing the best in everybody. Technically, he’s the same age as me and a couple of years older than Jeb, but Jeb and me consider him the younger brother we’ve got to protect because he’s too damn trusting.

  Jeb doesn’t have any commentary to add. He just continues out of the kitchen and down the hall.

  We watch him kick open the first door, which leads to my bedroom. He storms in with his rifle pointed then comes right back out a few moments later.

  So nobody behind door number one. That’s a good thing, but disappointment tightens my heart when I glance at the empty bed.

  We’d thought we’d be sharing that bed with Charlotte when we started renovating my old family cabin a year ago. But she dumped us on account of Jeb. Said she liked Nico and me, but Jeb was too intense. Then she got upset when we didn’t offer to cut our foster brother out of our package deal, just because she said so.

  Last I saw on Instagram, she was dating some douchebag banker, who looked like he didn’t know what a clit was, much less how to give a woman multiple orgasms.

  But whatever. She decided to play it safe. Her loss, not ours. Jeb’s pissed that he’s the reason she broke up with us. But if Charlotte had been right for us, then Jeb’s so-called intensity wouldn’t have been a deal breaker. I’m not nearly as optimistic as Nico about most things, but I agree that there’s somebody perfect out there for the three of us.