Wreckless Engagement: The Russian Engagement Series Read online

  Wreckless Engagement

  The Russian Engagement Series

  Copyright © 2018 by K. Marie

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. All names, characters, places, and events are products of the authors’ imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design and Book Formatting by Yellow Prelude Design, LLC

  www.yellowpreludedesign.com

  This book is dedicated to my favorite guy, for having infinite amounts of patience, understanding, and for always being supportive. And to my urchins, for the many times they were ignored or tuned-out for the greater good of the book. Kisses.

  Contents

  I. Genesis

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Ninteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  II. Revelations

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Epilogue

  Wreckless Intentions

  About the Author

  Find K. Marie

  Part One

  Genesis

  “Make yourself necessary to somebody”

  - ralph waldo emerson

  One

  “It’s inferred that love must be fated, since most of us meet by chance. Can it then be inferred that love is destined to be tragic, since heartbreak inevitably finds us?” I read the words aloud for the third time, weighing their substance, but still unable to connect with them.

  “Hell, yes love is destined to be tragic! It’s nothing but a giant Greek tragedy waiting to happen,” my cousin Marie interjected next to me, completely unsolicited.

  We were 36,000 feet in the air, headed to Florida for what I hoped to be the best five days ever. “With that attitude, it’s no wonder you’re still single,” I quipped.

  Marie hated ‘sappy love stories’, her words.

  “I’m single by choice, not by circumstance,” she asserted, for at least the hundredth time to date. “Your problem is you’ve completely bought into all that drivel you have to read day-in and day-out. Love is for suckers who’ve watched too many Disney Princess movies as children,” she cynically added.

  I’m far from being a hopeless romantic, but Marie and I differed in our opinions on love. “This drivel serves to pay my bills,” I reminded her imperiously, referencing my job as a book editor. “Besides, I’m no sucker for love; I happen to agree with the author’s words. However, I suppose it’s either take a chance on tragedy or end up all alone and bitter like you,” I said with a smirk.

  “Those sounded like real encouraging words coming from someone who’s engaged to be married, yet won’t set a wedding date,” Marie scoffed.

  Yeah, there is that. I reminded myself, focusing back on the manuscript.

  I wasn’t as cynical as Marie, but I didn’t believe in fairytale love either. I believe marriage needs more than just love to sustain it; friendship, commonality, shared values and stability, seemed more important factors. And that’s what I’d found with John, my fiancé.

  In my opinion, when you put more emphasis on those factors instead of love, you saved yourself from heartbreak and tragedy. Besides, I didn’t see the point of rushing into marriage just because I was wearing a ring on my finger. A person should only take that big leap when they were absolutely ready, not because they felt they were wearing something around their finger that came with an expiration date.

  I sat in a stupor an hour later, waiting impatiently for all of the passengers ahead to make their way off the plane.

  Get your shit and get the hell off the plane already! I wanted to scream, eyeing the woman three rows ahead as she struggled to get her bag out of the overhead bin. Where in the hell do these people come from? Why couldn’t everyone just quickly get their crap and move along?

  I wasn’t normally an impatient person, but the tediousness of the air travel routine never ceased to make me want to lose my shit. I hated flying.

  Though it was a short flight, with us having only come from Michigan, my legs were now stiff and cramped from being stuffed into the overpriced child-sized seats. It seemed almost criminal, inhumane even. It’s as if the airline industry’s sole intent was to make us lesser mortals as uncomfortable as possible. Or else, to force us into purchasing the exorbitantly priced first-class seats.

  I grumbled in complaint as we finally exited the torture chamber, lamenting the flying conditions to my traveling companions. My sister Lauren, and cousin Marie, only ignored me as we trekked the distance to baggage claim; it was nothing they hadn’t heard before. Once we’d collected our bags and exited the automatic doors of the Miami International Airport, I nearly choked on the hot, thick, southern air.

  “My God,” I croaked. The heat was so oppressive it felt as if I was breathing in my own stale breath out of a plastic bag. I typically loved hot weather, but I at least got to be able to breathe in it.

  “It's Miami in the summer, what did you expect?” asked Lauren, who was sometimes sensible to a fault.

  We were beginning a five-day getaway to South Beach in celebration of her thirty-sixth birthday. At age twenty-six, Lauren was ten years my senior and never let me forget it.

  “Looks like our ride is here,” she said, looking towards a short, middle-age man holding up a white sign. Her name was displayed across it in large black letters.

  We dragged our luggage behind us as we headed that way.

  “Dude is so not getting a tip if I have to drag all my shit over to him myself,” griped Marie, who appeared to have packed enough crap for a month.

  “Don’t be rude to the driver because you over-packed as usual, you won’t even need half the stuff in those bags,” Lauren told her.

  For anyone who didn’t know it already, Lauren was the official spokesperson for common sense and practicality.

  I listened to the two of them bicker as we handed our things off to the driver to be stowed away, b
efore getting into the car to start our journey to the hotel. This would be my first time in South Beach; a place reputed to be the premiere party spot in Miami. There would be five of us when we met-up at our hotel with Marie’s sister Anna, and Lauren’s best friend, Lake. Both of whom had to take separate flights.

  Looks like we’re off to a good start already. I reflected humorously, listening to the back and forth of the two opinionated women in the car.

  Two

  I stood on the sidewalk outside our Ocean Drive hotel, eyeing my surroundings, and inhaling the salty perfume wafting off the Atlantic Ocean.

  South Beach was undoubtedly overcrowded. The small streets were packed with traffic, and the narrow sidewalks packed with people. I got bumped several times as we waited for the driver to unload our bags.

  “Stop gawking like a tourist,” said Marie.

  “I am a tourist,” I returned, looking longingly towards the ocean. It was literally just a stones-throw away.

  I watched as the masses headed towards the beach with gear in hand, and all I wanted at this moment, was to fight my way over there with them. But, with our bags finally unloaded, we headed inside to check-in, and I did a mental countdown to how soon I could unpack and make my way to the sand.

  Unlike the others, I wouldn’t be sharing a room; I didn’t like sharing my space unless absolutely necessary. Call me particular, but when vacationing, I found certain actions intolerable. Snoring, farting, loud phone conversations, absurdly early risings, having to sleep with the television on, and just about anything in general, that annoyed me was strictly prohibited.

  Once I entered the hotel room, I exhaled a huge sigh of relief, as I parked my luggage next to the bed; taking in the colorful art-deco décor.

  This would be my escape for the next five days. I reflected happily.

  Suddenly giddy, I squealed like a child and jumped into the air, doing a free-fall backwards onto the bed. It’s been too long since I last vacationed. As a single mother of a five-year-old daughter, I didn’t often get time to myself. Added to that, I’ve been working like crazy to meet editing deadlines, so this vacation was much needed. I lay on the bed thinking about what lie ahead…and remembered nothing at all after that.

  “Yes?” I murmured into the phone sometime later, having dozed off.

  “We’re waiting on you in the lobby; were you sleeping?” Lauren asked suspiciously.

  The plan had been to get settled in before heading out for lunch.

  Quickly making my excuses, I jumped up to check my image in the mirror. My hair was frizzy, but that couldn’t be helped. Making do with smoothing the chestnut tresses down with my hands, I brushed the wrinkles out of my shirt as I grabbed my purse and headed for the door.

  We opted for indoor dining, at a restaurant one block away from our hotel. And while I sat munching on crab cake sliders, and enjoying the best mojito I’d ever tasted, plans for the rest of the afternoon were made. Our night was already set; a friend of Lauren’s who lived in Miami Beach, invited us to party with him at a nearby nightclub.

  “I know Camry will object, but I’d like to go to the mall,” Lauren said.

  That wasn’t a phenomenon, Lauren always wanted to go to a shopping mall. But, she isn’t alone; I’m in the minority at the table.

  I also hated shopping. Yep, I rated shopping malls right up there with air travel and root canals.

  “We’ll get it out of the way, besides, malls are the best place to be when it's this hot outside,” Lauren argued, anticipating my resistance.

  As excuses went, she did have a point about the heat. But, she needn’t worry; I had no intention of being a Debbi-Downer today. I know when I’m outnumbered.

  We left the restaurant about twenty minutes later, hailing a taxi on the corner of Collins Avenue and 8th.

  I guess the beach would have to wait.

  Walking into the loud den of the nightclub, the pounding music made it nearly impossible to hear what Marie was saying. “What?” I yelled for her to repeat herself.

  “I said the rapper, Crank, is performing here tonight!” She shouted, holding up a yellow flier for me to read.

  I raised my eyebrows in question, wondering who in the hell Crank was.

  Marie gave me her patented look of disgust mixed with pity. She always expressed disbelief over my cluelessness where the latest rapper or pop-star were concerned. We are of the same age; Marie being a year older, but our tastes in music couldn’t be more different. Marie loved rap and hip-hop, while I believed much of today’s stuff to be pure crap.

  Marie quickly dismissed me as being rapper ignorant, and we continued towards the crowd just ahead.

  Having become a mother at a young age, I never really got into the whole club scene like Marie and some of my other friends. However, the few that I did go to over the years, looked absolutely nothing like this one. This club made all the others look like hole-in-the walls.

  Perhaps all South Beach clubs looked this way, but it was impressive, with its theme of blue, white, and shiny chrome. The upholstered sofas and chairs were of a midnight blue; as well as the carpeted floor, and the tables were all white-topped with chrome bases. The walls were towering and mirrored, and ginormous chandeliers hung from its high ceilings. However, the showstopper was a towering wall of rock that was perhaps thirty feet in height; and featured a waterfall with mist rising from its blue glowing base. I found it mesmerizing; I’d never seen anything like it.

  We followed Lauren over to a small group of men standing close to the bar; where she hugged the one I assumed to be her friend, Austin. Introductions are made all around, but when I go to shake hands with one of the men, he held onto my offered hand longer than necessary. The man, Mike, just stood checking me out, eyes raking my body, and instantly rubbing me the wrong way.

  His scrutiny made me feel under-dressed, and also in desperate need of a shower.

  Admittedly, my jade-green strapless dress was a bit more revealing than I’d typically wear; its briefness displaying a lot of golden skin. But, it was no different than what most of the women here were wearing.

  Not so discreetly, I pulled my hand back from the douche-bag’s.

  He’s attractive, I guess, in an exotic sort of way. His skin was caramel hued; grayish eyes slanted, dark hair short, and a patch of dark hair lined his chin. However, and to my estimation, he could afford to gain fifteen to twenty pounds, and he was on the shorter side. I don’t like short nor scrawny men, so both would be deal breakers for me. Were I available, of course.

  I immediately dismissed the douche, giving him my back as I turned to talk with Marie.

  “Looks like you’ve got a bidder,” she teased, wearing a silly grin.

  “Hardly,” I returned with a roll of my eyes.

  I didn’t begrudge a man his look of appreciation, but I found the act of being overtly eye-fucked, uncouth and disrespectful. The douche-bag was obviously a short, scrawny, sleaze-ball.

  Unfortunately, the douche’s interest didn’t wane. I kept receiving looks that I pointedly tried to ignore. However, when I angled my body to better face Marie—unwittingly causing my already short dress to rise even higher on my thigh, the douche obviously took that as a divine sign. A couple of minutes later, he made his way over to ask if I’d like another drink. I politely declined

  “Come on, that’s no way to celebrate!” he exclaimed.

  “Celebrate what?” I asked, being intentionally dense. I wished him far away.

  “My man’s birthday!” he shouted, pointing towards Austin.

  I’d noticed his penchant for using punctuated exclamations at the end of every sentence.

  “That means he should be celebrating with an over consumption of alcohol, not me,” I said with a raised brow.

  “That’s not how it works, we celebrate by drinking with him!” he exclaimed once more.

  He seriously needed to bring it down a notch.

  “I’m not yet ready for another drink, but, thank you,
” I said politely, proud of my own good manners.

  He ignored my good manners when the server came by, instead ordering another round of drinks for both Marie and me. I just gave a small smile in acceptance, because it seemed simplest. Persistence was a quality I normally found attractive in a man. However, douche-bag seemed the sort to buy a girl a drink, then believe it his right to hang onto her for the rest of the night.

  With two lemon-drop martinis having already been consumed, fifteen minutes later, I’m totally game when Marie asked me to go out onto the dance floor with her. I moved to the beat of the music as we made our way over; arms thrown in the air, and hips swaying to ‘Drake’ blasting through the speakers. Marie was the better dancer, so I had some fun mimicking her moves, while making silly duck faces at her. I’m feeling happy and in my own little zone, when I feel a body move up-close behind me.

  Darting a look over my shoulder, I see that the Douche had come onto the dance floor and invited himself to dance with me.

  In my happy-state, I simply moved a few steps forward, and tried to ignore him. However, I startled a moment later when I felt a hand grip my waist, and a hot body press against mine. I instantly placed my hands over his to try and pry them from my body, but he only tightened his grip. The jerk pressed against my ass, making me want to vomit!