Hidden Truths (Perfectly Imperfect #3)

“What’s wrong?” Pavel asks and looks around himself with disgust.

“What’s wrong?” I motion with my hand in his general direction. “You do not come to a motorcycle club in a fucking three-piece suit. They’ll think we’re the fucking authorities.”

“Oh, and what should I have worn to this meeting?”

“Jeans, Pasha. You do know what those are, don’t you?” I don’t think I’ve ever seen Pavel in anything other than a suit.

“I don’t have jeans.” He looks down at his gold Rolex and nods toward the bar. “Let’s get this over with.”

He doesn’t have jeans. I shake my head and dismount the bike. Pavel and I are the same age, but it feels like he’s fifty. “You should have been a banker.” I snort.

The moment we step inside, all heads turn in our direction. There are a couple of seconds of utter silence, then a roar of laughter fills the room.

“Wrong place, pal!” someone yells. “The bridge club is down the street.”

Another round of laughter follows us as we walk toward the table where the MC president is sitting. A woman is kneeling between his legs, with her mouth wrapped about his cock.

“Drake.” I nod as I take a seat across from him. “Roman said you want to discuss some kind of collaboration.”

He shoos the girl, tucks away his dick, and sizes up Pavel, who takes a seat next to me. There are seven MC members sitting around the bar, and a bunch of scantily clad women all looking in our direction, snickering. Pavel ignores them, leans back in his chair, and crosses his arms in front of him.

“I’m not discussing shit with Miss Priss here.” Drake nods at Pavel. “I thought you were a serious guy, Belov.”

“Oh, don’t let the suit trick you, Drake. I bet that Miss Priss here”—I laugh—“can beat up any of your guys.”

“Sergei,” Pavel says in grave voice.

“What? It’s the truth.”

“We came to talk. Not to play,” he grumbles.

“Oh, the candy-ass doesn’t want to play,” Drake roars with laughter, then turns toward the room. “This fine gentleman here just announced that he can take any of you on,” he yells, pointing his thumb at Pavel, and the room erupts in laughter.

Pavel shakes his head, lifts his hand, and squeezes his temples. “You act like a nine-year-old, Sergei.”

“Will you tattle on me to Daddy Roman again?”

“You slaughtered our buyer in my club two hours before opening. He would have found out anyway.”

“Well, looks like it will be me calling the pakhan this time.” I smile and nod toward the center of the room where one of the bikers is standing with his hands on his hips.

“Hey, pretty boy!” the biker shouts.

Pavel ignores him and turns to the president. “Can we discuss what we came here to discuss? I have work to do.”

“You let pussies in the Bratva, Belov?” Drake snaps, then leans over the table into Pavel’s face. “We don’t do business with fucking cowards. When you claim shit around here, you prove it!”

Pavel turns his head toward me to give me an exasperated look, then gets up and turns to the bald-headed biker standing in the middle of the room. The guy is in his midtwenties, a little over Pavel’s six feet two, and around seventy pounds heavier. I grin, grab the bowl of peanuts from the table, and lean back in my chair. This will be fun.

Another round of hysterical laughter erupts through the room when Pavel removes his watch and starts methodically unbuttoning his jacket. However, when he places it on the back of his chair and brushes out the cresses on the shoulders, the crowd goes crazy. They even start cheering.

Pavel walks toward the biker and stops two paces in front of him. They are quite a sight: the biker—in jeans, with tattoos, bald head, and a biker’s cut over his inked chest. And Pavel—with slicked back hair, perfectly pressed white shirt, and black vest.

Drake laughs. “I hope your pakhan won’t mind him ending up dead.”

“Not at all.” I throw a peanut into my mouth. “But he says that kind of shit is bad for business.” I take another handful ofpeanuts, then shout. “Pasha! Try not to kill him. Daddy will be mad.”

The biker picks that moment to swing his fist. His face is all confidence. He clearly thinks he’ll get Pavel with one blow. Pavel ducks. The biker’s confused look is priceless. Pavel punches him in the stomach, and the big man stumbles backward. I laugh out loud. The biker is still trying to get his bearings when Pavel executes a perfect spinning back kick. The heel of Pavel’s twelve-hundred-dollar shoe strikes the side of the goon’s head. The guy tumbles to the floor, unconscious.