Page 4 of Triplets for the Russian Boss

Bonnie

My dance ends just as Crystal slides into the bar beside Kostin, stealing him from Peach, just like she steals all the high-end clients.

She’s talking up a storm, batting her glued-on eyelashes so many times you’d think she was trying to blow him out of the club instead of taking the crisp hundreds from his Givenchy wallet. She’ll get the money anyway. I know him to be a big spender, but God only knows where the money comes from.

I wonder if I’d even have the guts to stroll up to Kostin, acting like nothing ever happened to us in the past; like I haven’t dreamt about him constantly, since he stuffed his cock inside of me and filled me like a whore on prom night.

I hate that man, even with his thick chocolate curls and the laughter in his youthful blue eyes that betray the crinkles beside them that reveal his actual age. He’s an asshole at heart, and he did something irreversible to me, even if he doesn’t even know it.

I don’t blame him for the second part, though. It’s been two years, and the moment we shared was in a bathroom at a club. It’s was hardly the time for proper introductions, but I did manage to catch his name before catching his load between my legs.

After that, it was like he stopped existing. I didn’t know enough about him, to hunt him down after I realized I was pregnant, and I mostly blamed myself. How was he to know that I wasn’t on birth control, that I was too stupid and reckless to manage something that should’ve scared the living shit out of me? What part of that was his fault?

Still, I hate him. He’s the reason I’m here, and it’s not like he’s some kind of gentleman who just happens to like hooking up with random women. He’s a sly son of a bitch that could talk the panties off a nun and rob her blind at the same time.

I don’t trust him.

“Do you have a tampon?” Amy asks from beside me, causing me to jump.

“Jesus, girl. Please don’t do that,” I say, placing my red acrylics over my fishnet-covered cleavage.

“Do what?” she asks, cocking her head to the side with a blank look that’s only achievable through copious amounts of drugs, or trauma. For her, it’s most likely the result of both.

I sigh, shaking my head. “Never mind, but I don’t have a tampon. Maybe you should ask Crystal.”

Amy laughs. “She’s with the big boss player at the bar. She ain’t giving up a second of her time for me.”

Big boss is right. Kostin is nearly seven feet tall and built like a linebacker. He’s too pretty for football, but I’d still believe him if he told me he played in the NFL. He’s a wicked good liar, but that’s not the only thing his tongue can do.

I look away quickly as he glances at me. Why does he keep doing that? He has someone already, and I know he doesn’t recognize me. I’d hardly recognize myself with all this makeup on, and two years ago, I was a brunette. I’m blonde now.

Amy brushes past me, eager to ask another girl for something she should already have, and I’m left in the middle of the club, standing awkwardly as the music blasts around me. I need to find another client, but I’m also drawn to Kostin. I want to know more about him, even if he’ll never meet our triplets.

My triplets,I mean. He has nothing to do with them, other than being the sperm donor.

I straighten up as Jerry flashes me an urgent look. There are plenty of potential clients in the club, and if they get bored because women aren’t attending to them, they’ll leave and take their money with them. As the owner of the club, Jerry takes offense to even the shortest breaks, unless, of course, you’re snorting meth in the dressing room. Then, he might join you.

I hurry toward the other end of the club, keeping my eyes glued to Kostin as I pretend to find another man to take advantage of. I wish I could’ve grabbed Kostin when he walked in, but I doubt I would’ve had the confidence to, even if I was right beside the door as he came in. A strip club is hardly a place for an introvert, but enough money can make me pretend otherwise.

In this case, however, I’m not coming within six feet of Kostin, much less having a conversation with him. He might figure out who I am, and even if that doesn’t mean much to him, it means a hell of a lot to me.

I’ve tried to forget about him.

And, I can’t.

Kostin looks at me again, those blue eyes lighting up like he’s about to crack the stupidest joke that I’d still laugh at. He’s not even paying attention to Crystal now, mouthing his beer while staring straight through me.

I look away, but I suspect it’s too late. Enough instances of eye contact, and I’m going to be the one digging into his wallet for that money. He’s just another client. He’s just another man who wants to get drunk and pretend like he can get lucky here.

The scary part is, he’d be able to - if he really wanted.

I move further from the bar, walking toward the back where all the smokers are huddled, pretending like anyone cares if they smoke inside or not. I remember Kostin lighting up a cigar in a regular club. He never gave a fuck about the rules, nor did he pretend to like these other guys.

“Hey,” a deep voice startles me. It pierces through the music, cutting the bass with its deep tone and rattling my guts around like an electric whisk stuck down my throat.

I already know who it is, by the prickle of heat in my cheeks and the hammer of my heart against my ribs. That’s not to mention the thick Russian accent that prods my eardrums with the same sinful sensation as a Q tip.

I spin around, to find Kostin standing no more than an inch away from me, having to lean forward to look down at me, even with my stupidly tall heels. I forgot how fast he moves. The man can cut through a crowd like a hot razor through butter.

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