by Bella King
I blink a few times, tears starting to roll down my cheeks. I can’t control them. I never cry about such silly things, but my emotions have been all over the place since I met Viktor, and now things have come to a peak. It’s hot outside, but my tears are even hotter as they roll down my chin and neck.
“What are you crying for?” Viktor asks softly, raising a finger to my cheek to brush a tear away.
“I don’t want to lose you,” I say, my voice cracking as I admit my feelings. My throat feels tight enough to suffocate me, and suddenly, my body feels like I could collapse in this patch of flowers and die. I might just do that without Viktor in my life. It’s funny how a week with the perfect man can change your life completely.
“You don’t have to lose me, Cora,” Viktor says, the tight line of a frown between his dark eyebrows. “We can still get married.”
“No, we can’t,” I reply, shaking my head as the tears start to fall faster. “You’re in the mafia. That’s not the right life for me.”
“I told you, Cora,” Viktor says, lifting my chin with his finger and looking into my blurry eyes again. “I made a deal with Jacob. I’m handing over operations to him in return for paying off my debt to the Malaugurio.”
“What?” I ask, confused as to why Viktor would ever do such a thing.
“You heard me. It’s over. The mafia stuff is done. I still have to fly out to Russia after the wedding to close the deal, but we won’t have to worry about it any longer.”
I wipe the tears from my eyes. “You’re serious, aren’t you? I mean, you’re not lying to me again.”
Viktor gives me a half-smile, keeping his face serious. “No, and I should have never lied to you in the first place. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Just do better this time,” I say, gazing at him with a smile spreading across my flushed cheeks.
“Cora,” Viktor says, matching the intensity of my gaze. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” I blurt, unable to hold myself back.
Viktor laughs. “Well, I guess that means you’ll be sharing my bed again tonight after all.”
“I can think of nothing better,” I reply, licking my lips at the thought of enjoying him again.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Cora
“Mrs. Johnson!” I exclaim as she appears from a crowd of finely dressed people.
“Cora, dear,” she says, a smile spreading across her face.
“Where have you been?” I ask, holding out my arms to give her a hug.
“Oh, you know, I had a nice vacation with some fine young Russian men. They sure do know how to party,” she says with a suggestive chuckle.
“You were in Russia?” I ask, confused.
“Your new husband Viktor sent me there when I stumbled across his, uh, mafia operations,” she replies, stepping back from my hug.
“He’s not doing that anymore,” I am quick to say.
“Of course not, darling. Otherwise, I would still be in Russia with his minions. They are pleasant people, though. I have half a mind to go back once this reception is through,” Mrs. Johnson says.
“Jesus, I’m glad Viktor didn’t have you killed or something,” I say, dusting a crumb of yellow wedding cake from my bosom.
“Speak of Viktor, where is he? I still haven’t gotten the opportunity to speak with him after everything that happened,” Mrs. Johnson says, looking around the crowd of people in suits and dresses.
“I think he’s already talking my father into getting him into the senate,” I reply, glancing over my shoulder to where I last saw him. He’s not there anymore, but neither is my father, which probably means they’ve sauntered off somewhere private to speak.
“Oh, well, I can wait,” she says. “I just wanted to ask him who that guy with scars on his face was. I never got his name while I was in Russia. I figured he might know.”
“Dimitri?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Could be,” she replies. “He was rough around the edges, but also a real charmer.”
I laugh. “That’s Dimitri. He used to be Viktor’s driver before he got fed up with it and hightailed it back to Russia.”
“He could drive me any day,” Mrs. Johnson says, a grin on his pretty face.
I laugh. “I’ll let him know that you asked about Dimitri.”
“Perfect. I’m going to go get another glass of wine. I’ll see you later,” she says, placing her hand on my shoulder before she leaves. “I’m happy for you. I know that you and Viktor will have a nice life together.”
“Thank you,” I say with a bright smile, and I watch as she walks away.
My wedding was fantastic, and the reception is turning out to be full of pleasant surprises. Everyone I’ve ever known is here, which is admittedly very few people, but there are plenty of others who Viktor and my father are close to. Even Jacob decided to show up, pulling in stares from some of the women here.
I can’t wait until Viktor, and I set off to enjoy our honeymoon. We’re going to travel across the world, dine under the moonlight in France, sail through the turquoise rivers in Italy, and marvel at the ancient ruins in Greece. It’s going to be a whole new adventure, and I can’t think of anyone better to join me than Viktor Kazakov.
The End.
Bad Boy’s Captive
What do a million dollars in cash, a red Mustang, and the cartel have in common?
They’ve all arrived at my workplace, and I don’t seem to have a choice but to go with them.
I’m just a regular girl from Texas.
He’s a rebel on the run from the cartel and the law.
I don’t like him, but he doesn’t care.
He’s after one thing, and he’s going to get it.
I’m just along for the ride, whether I like it or not.
He’s the boss, after all.
The problem is, I’m starting to enjoy the thrill of the chase.
I’m starting to fall for my captor.
How can I resist the temptation of those blue eyes, that criminal gaze, and those muscular tattooed arms?
He’s nothing but trouble, but when adventure calls, I’m picking up the phone.
Chapter One
There’s nothing hotter than a Texas summer. In mid-July, the heat is reaching its peak, and not even all the cacti survive the cruel gaze of the glaring noon sun. This isn’t the time for a girl like me to be out, but I am.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead with a red bandana. The color used to match my red and white checkered shirt, but it has picked up so much of the dry dust floating through the air today that it looks more like a rusty brown now. I had just washed it this morning.
I tuck the bandana into the back pocket of my jean shorts as a car pulls up, the window already rolled down to speak to me. I feel a bead of sweat drip from my eyelashes despite having just wiped my forehead. Today is going to be a long day.
“Two cokes and a burger,” a man grumbles out the window of his car before I have the chance to step up to take his order. He holds out a twenty-dollar bill, all worn and tired from its years of use.
I step up, taking it from his hand and repeating his order back to him. “Would you like to add fries to that for ninety-nine cents?” I ask in a voice that’s much happier than I am. Smiling faces get the best tips.
“No,” the man answers bluntly.
I can’t see who is in the car, but I assume it’s the typical type of customer I get in the middle of the day. The younger folk seem so much happier out here, but they only come in the evening when it’s cool enough to walk. The customers that come in the middle of the day are older people with dusty cars and sour attitudes.
I carry the money back toward the building where the food has already been made. If I were in charge, I would cook everything to order, the boss insists on having everything premade in case there’s a rush, but there never is during this time of day.
I take a deep breath as the cold air hits my sweaty wet face, bringing my body tempera
ture back down to something manageable. The slower parts of the day are much worse than the busy ones. One would think that running around in the sun would be absolutely brutal but standing still in the blazing heat is much worse. At least when we’re busy, I get to go inside more.
I hand the flimsy twenty to the cashier. He gets to stay inside all day, but he also doesn’t get tips. They only ever put out the young women to deliver food to the cars because more people come that way. It’s an archaic practice, but when you live in a small town on the outskirts of Texas, you don’t experience much progressiveness.
“He wants two cokes and a burger,” I say to the cashier, leaning against the metal table in the tiny room.
“What kind of burger?” He asks, keying in the codes for the drinks.
“I don’t know. He didn’t say,” I reply.
“You need to ask him,” the cashier says, clearly annoyed with me.
“Just do a regular one. That’s probably what he meant,” I say, trying to smooth the whole thing over. It’s not a big deal, but for some reason, everyone at this joint makes everything into a big deal. I doubt they have anything better to do with their lives.
“And what size cokes does he want?” the cashier asks.
“Medium,” I answer, making it up. I don’t want him to berate me about not getting the details of the order. Some customers are just short, and you have to deal with whatever sparse information that they give you.
The cashier squints his blue eyes at me, trying to read whether I’m telling the truth or not. I look away, trying to hide my face from him. Unfortunately, I’m awfully easy to read, and that gets me in trouble more than I like. I have no moral qualms with white lies, but I get caught way too often.
I look out of the foggy floor-to-ceiling window at the car sitting in the drive-in spot. Its blue paint is peeling and cracked, and the tires look like they need air. People who drive nicer cars seem to tip less. I’m not sure why.
“Here,” the cashier says, nudging me with his arm as he holds out a fist full of change and a receipt.
I hold my hand under his, letting him drop it into mine. I don’t like getting close to my coworkers. They tend to get weird ideas if I do that. Just last week, the cook asked me out on a date after I gave him a hug. I had only done it because I heard his grandmother passed away, but I won’t be doing it again. I don’t enjoy my niceness being used as an excuse to make advances on me.
I flip one of my dirty-blonde braids over my shoulder before grabbing the paper bag filled with food from the cook. I want to be fast because I’m more likely to get tipped, but at the same time, I dread going back into the summer heat. I linger in the building for as long as I can, allowing some of my sweat to dry, leaving my skin cold and clammy.
One of the funny things about working at the drive-in is that people don’t want their food too quickly. If they get it too fast, then they’ll know that it was made before they got there. They want the illusion of you making their food to order and bringing it out to them fresh. I think we all knew that it doesn’t work that way.
Eventually, I leave the building, coming back around to the old blue car waiting alone in the empty parking lot. The window rolls down again, cleaning off a fresh layer of dust from the glass, and a veiny hand emerges from it.
“Here is your food,” I chirp, thrusting the bag into the old man’s hand. “And here is your change,” I say, holding out the other hand to him.
The man grumbles a thank you, then hands me a dollar back. It’s not much, but tips like that add up during the day, and my manager overlooks reporting it with our wages. If he didn’t overlook it, I think people would stop working here. Minimum wage isn’t what pays my rent.
I flash a final smile at the man in the blue car and walk back toward the building. I’m not supposed to stand too close to it because my manager wants people on the street to see me and pull in for a bite to eat, so I stand just close enough to the brick building to steal some of the shade.
The blue car doesn’t stay parked for very long. It pulls out onto the long road and drives off, leaving me alone again.
Life in Texas can be boring, especially on days like this. I want a better life than what I have now, but that costs money. I don’t have a car yet because I am spending so much on rent. If I could go back in time, I would get a roommate, but I made the mistake of getting a flat with one bedroom and a year-long lease. I can’t break the lease because I can’t afford the fee that comes with getting out of it. I still have six months left in it, and I’m dying to get out of Texas and do something with my life.
I’m thinking of becoming a pilot because I like the wide open spaces, and I know that the training to become one isn’t that long. I wouldn’t be able to stand going to school for four years to get a regular degree. For one, I don’t think I’m all that patient, and secondly, I can’t afford the cost.
I look over at the empty parking lot, wondering when things will pick up. I doubt that I’ll have many for customers for the next few hours, so I relax and try to let my mind wander for a bit.
I like to play games with the cars that pass by on the lonely outstretch of road adjacent to the drive-in. I have one where I count the colors of the cars, giving myself more points for specific colors. For example, white ones get one point because they’re so common, but yellow ones get five. It’s a pointless game, but there really isn’t anything else to do out here.
No cars are passing me, and none have since the blue car pulled away. I look back at the building, peering through the dirty glass to get a glimpse at what’s going on inside. I can see the cashier and the cook talking to each other. They appear to be having a good time.
I’m envious of their position, but not their income. I guess I can’t have it all.
I look back to the road as I hear tires slowly crackling across the dusty pavement. A new car rolls up to the dine-in. This one is a bright red Mustang from the early seventies, with paint so glossy that it looks like it’s still drying. I can see the heat warping the air over the hood, indicating that the engine has been pushing high-speeds recently.
I step up to the parking lot, back into the sun as the Mustang rolls to a stop, and a window comes down. I take a quick peek at the white plastic watch on my wrist, noting that it was almost time for my break. This will be the last person I serve before I have lunch, but I don’t feel like eating a greasy burger for the fourth day in a row. Maybe I can go to the shop down the street for a bottle of water and some fruit. I’m trying to watch my figure, or at least I’m pretending to.
Chapter Two
“Howdy,” I say to the driver as I come up to the car. He has pulled up in the wrong direction, which means I need to lean into the passenger side window to take his order.
“Hello,” the man inside says, leaning back casually on white leather.
I can immediately tell that he’s not from around here. He doesn’t have a heavy southern drawl like I do, and his hair is a pleasant medium-brown. Even though he’s wearing a sleeveless shirt, I can’t see a single tan line, which would be impossible for a Texas man in the middle of summer, especially one his age.
To be fair, though, it could just be because I can’t see much of his skin under all the tattoos he has. Seriously. This guy has tattoos from his fingers to his neck. I can even see that his torso is covered in them through the large armholes in the side of his shirt.
“I’d like a large fry and a sprite. Do you have that in a bottle?” he asks, looking me over the way they always do.
I shake my head. “Sorry, we only have it in the fountain. The lids are pretty tight, though, if you’re worried about spills.”
He pouts a set of soft pink lips out as he thinks about it, but I already know what his answer will be. It’s too hot to say no to a cold drink.
“That’s fine. I’ll have it in a cup then,” he says.
I nod. “Anything else for you, sir?”
He rubs his tattooed fingers across his strong chin, t
hen shakes his head.
I can’t help but linger for a moment to admire his striking facial features. His cheeks are high and prominent, his jaw cut at a dramatic angle, and his blue eyes sparkle with a softness that’s rare to see in a man. He looks like he could just as easily caress me as he could choke me. It was a winning combination of looks.
“That will be three seventy-three,” I say to him. I already have all the prices memorized, including sales tax, so I don’t need to make two runs to the building just to complete his order.
The man digs a hand into the back pocket of his blue jeans, thrusting his hips up in the seat as he retrieves his wallet. I watch the bulge between his muscular thighs like the total pervert I am, unable to resist. It’s the most interesting thing I have seen all day, and it’s hard to take my eyes off it.
He pulls out a card and hands it to me between two fingers, flashing his pearly whites. I swoon at his direct gaze, but I try to hide it. I don’t need strangers thinking that I’m soaking my panties at work. I’m supposed to be professional.
“I’ll be right back with your order,” I say, as though he would go somewhere when I had his card. Part of me wants to ask for his name or a phone number, but I figure that will be too forward, and I’m shy about that sort of thing.
I walk back to the drive-in building with a skip to my step, happy that I finally get a break after this customer. I only have three hours after my break until the end of my shift.
The cool air inside the building greets me again, but I notice it less this time because I’m not as hot. The cashier looks at me expectantly, and I hand him the card. “He wants a medium sprite and french-fries.”
I was too distracted by the customer’s appearance to ask him for details about his order, which makes two in a row. I don’t care, though, because he doesn’t seem like someone who’s too picky about his order. It’s usually the people who drive brand-new SUVs that are the pickiest in my experience.