NAUGHTY BEDTIME STORIES
Strangers passing through. Friends seeing each other with new eyes. The hesitant touch of new lovers. A first glance. A first word. A first touch. A first kiss. Take a journey through thirteen erotic shorts, poems and art to relive that first-time feeling. Naughty Bedtime Stories: First Taste will stir the butterflies, curl the toes and send hearts racing. After all, nothing tastes as good as naughty feels…
Enjoy the FIRST chapter of my short story in the #NBS Anthology here!!
“You want to live?” Sergei’s dark Russian voice rained down on her, along with the smoke and ash. The destroyed building crumbled around them. Her body burned in pain, but she forced a nod. “Good, then remember—you did not see shit, you did not hear shit, and you do not know shit, da?” Unfortunately, Jade had seen shit, heard shit, and definitely knew shit. The man, known as Sergei Yazov, towered above her promising hope and a new life, but at what cost?
Bratva: A Brothers in Sin Short
1. Sergei
New Jersey
December 15th 2013
Sergei placed his gun on the counter. The metal hit the marble surface and echoed throughout the now silent room. He closed his eyes, breathing in and exhaling slowly. Peace and quiet.
Many considered him a callous, vicious man, but too few knew the discord he felt at the sounds of screams—especially when he was the reason behind the pain. Silence was a beautiful thing, a treasure he couldn’t often find. Whether it was the Council arguing, bullets flying, or men screaming in pain, there was always one kind of noise or another. Except, of course, when he went home to Jade.
Behind Sergei, Anton moved swiftly but silently, transferring bodies from the living room to the bathroom tub. Drag marks stained the floor with blood and guts, showing a clear path to the corpses’ new resting place. When Sergei had found the location of the hit men sent after Jade, he hadn’t thought clearly, leaving him disorganized and unhinged. It could have been a set up, he could have walked into a trap tonight. If he was being honest, he hadn’t cared. Luckily, this crack house was thought safe and there were only two men guarding it. Four deaths, yet Sergei was no closer to stopping the hit placed on Jade.
“Boss,” Anton called from the other side of the room.
Sergei strode to the faucet and placed his bloody hands under the cold water. They’d swell soon. There was no way to beat the shit out of a man and not harm your hands. It was a casualty of war. “Da,” he answered.
Blood turned the water red, pink, then finally clear, before Anton spoke again. His heavy foot falls signaled he was near. “Next time we bring plastic, da? This blood is everywhere. It takes hours to clean.”
Sergei turned and eyed his Enforcer. Often considered the brains of the operation, Anton was a man Sergei not only trusted with his life, but also his secrets.
Drying his hands on a towel, he reached into his back pocket. “I call Vasily and Oleg to help, but this shit is gone in two hours.” He dialed Oleg’s number and glanced around the room. The carnage wasn’t unusual, but the anger still boiling inside definitely was. Normally, killing men who insulted him, gave him great pleasure. But now, as he looked at the blood plastered on the walls, the bullet holes and brain matter splattered throughout the room, Sergei realized he was still pissed off.
A voice filled the line. “Oleg.”
Sergei told him their location and gave him twenty minutes. He hung up the phone and turned to Anton, who was leisurely leaning on the counter beside him.
Anton raised a brow and observed him. “Something wrong?”
Sergei shook his head. At a time like this, when he was taking over the drug trade on the east, his men needed to have faith in him and not be questioning his mental state.
Anton pulled a blade from his shoe and picked his nail with it. “Pizdobol.” He smirked at Sergei’s sharp glance. Only Anton would have the balls to call him a fucking liar—other men had died for much less.
He had grown up in Saint Petersburg, Russia with Anton back when is was named, Leningrad. They’d fled to the states fifteen years ago, making a home in the Bronx. As a master of thievery, Sergei robbed and climbed his way through the Bratva brotherhood, landing him in New York with Anton, where they both now lived like kings. The ranks took years to ascend, and with sheer determination and ferocity, he was now Pakhan, or boss, and Anton his next in command, Sovietnik.
He considered Anton a brother, even though he wasn’t of pure Russian blood and through Bratva rule, could never hold the title Pakhan. His Polish mother and Russian father had left him on the side of the road when he was a baby. He and Anton had this in common; both were unwanted children.
Sergei spat on the floor. “Speak fucking English. You know Russian, it is your English that sucks.”
Anton chuckled and stuck his middle finger in the air. “Da, brat. You need fuck. Is issue, yes?” He pushed away from the counter. His clothes were soiled, his hands bruised and bleeding.
Anton knew him well. Sergei needed a woman in his bed, but not just any woman—Jade. He’d saved her life twice, and she still wouldn’t let him fuck her. Sergei had many whores at his disposal, but his wretched dick seemed to lead him back to the one person who wouldn’t fuck him, even if he paid her.
A knock on the door sounded and Anton left the kitchen. “That was fast.” He pulled a gun from his waistband and aimed it right below the peephole.
Sergei’s phone rang. The caller I.D. said it was Oleg. “Fucking stop pissing around. Come in.” He hung up the phone.
Anton took a step back, as the door slowly slid open. On the other side stood Oleg and Vasily, but Anton didn’t lower his gun.
Glaring at the men as they just stood in the doorway, Sergei motioned for them to enter. “Come,” he commanded.
Both men entered the room, loaded down with clean-up kits. Anton kicked the door shut, but his aim stayed on the door for a few more moments before he placed his gun back in his belt and pointed to the living room.
The apartment belonged to Giovanni Gela, and was in the process of being developed into exclusive high rises. At the moment, they were rat-infested, crack-head headquarters and Alexei was using them to hide his gunmen from Jade’s shooting. The open concept area left nothing unseen. The blood splatter was even on the ceiling.
Sergei chuckled. He remembered when he was on clean-up duty. It’d been long ago, but he never forgot the obstacles he faced mounting the Bratva’s throne. He listened as Anton gave orders in Russian. He thought to tell him to use English, but he needed the clean-up finished in less than two hours, and Anton’s English was almost non-existent.
Sergei left the men and headed into the bathroom. He felt something was wrong—that they’d missed something. He just couldn’t put his finger on it. Inside, the two bodies were stacked on one another. Anton had managed to get some information out of the youngest one. His fists were referred to as “truth serums” and tonight they hadn’t failed. He’d repay Anton in some well-deserved time off, but that wouldn’t happen until after they found Alexei and his men.
They were still after Jade, and Sergei couldn’t help but feel a bit helpless in the situation. Jade’s death was necessary, she’d witnessed the murder of Vladimir. If Sergei were in Alexei’s position, he’d have her killed as well.
Leaning forward he pushed the dead man’s collar back from the neck. A dark line crested just above the man’s collarbone and Sergei cursed under his breath. He pushed the collar back completely, revealing the familiar scrollwork of the Armenian Power group. What the fuck were they doing all the way on the east coast?
Sergei stood and kicked the tub. “Anton,” he bellowed.
His head popped around the corner. “Da, brat?” A cigarette bobbled in his mouth.
Sergei motioned for one. He’d promised Jade he’d quit, but tonight was just a cluster fuck. Anton pulled a pack from his pocket and started to pull a cigarette from the pack, but Sergei snatched the whole thing from him. Anton grunted his disapproval.
“You see anything odd?” He pointed to the bodies.
Anton handed him a lighter and walked over to the pile. “What the fuck is this?”
Sergei followed the finger pointing to the tattoo he’d discovered. He took a long draw from the cigarette, and the shit tasted so fucking good. He inhaled and took another drag. “It means Alexei is pulling strings with lower bosses in Russia.” It was like spitting in Sergei’s face, as he was Pakhan. “I will not let him kill his mark, so he has declared war.”
Anton leaned against the door jam. “Fuck.” He chuckled. “Pussy runs to Papa for help, da?”
Sergei smirked. Pussy was right, but with that, came problems. His control didn’t reach Russia in the ways it should. He was considered a street rat, undeserving of the title Pakhan, and even some of the Council seemed to eye him with unbridled disdain. Even as Pakhan, Sergei had rules he couldn’t break.
Now, with Alexei paying in blood to Russia, Jade’s life was destined to end. The Council would convene and ask Sergei to find her and hand her over. No one knew Sergei held Jade in his home. At this point, it seemed there was little he could do. The shitty feeling in his stomach worsened. Sergei snuffed out his cigarette and left the bathroom. He needed Jade—now.
