Read Online Wallbanger by Sable Jordan - Free Book Online Page A

he distrusted Americans. Sacha
had learned well the history of Mother Russia, and her downfall
could be traced directly back to those sneaky snakes. Throw in the
greedy, inflexible Japanese and Russia had no one she could trust
at her back. Akio Takata should have been satisfied with the deal
as it stood, but instead he wanted to undercut Sacha on the split and control production and distribution of Harvey after a
year. They weren’t dealing with his father. It was Sacha’s
technology now, and the sooner everyone got that through their
heads the better off they’d all be.
    Removing a silver tray and a business card
from his desk drawer, he dumped an eight ball of coke onto the
shiny surface, using the square of thick paper to separate two neat
rows from the mound of white powder. An empty pen shaft to one
nostril, he pinched off the other and inhaled deeply, tracing a
line.
    “Stupid Nikolay,” he muttered, sniffing. He
switched holes and repeated the process. “You and that fucking
Amerikanskoy. And the fucking Yaponskaya?” He thumbed his nose,
feeling the white work it’s magic, then gripped both cheeks with
his fingers and sucked in a lungful of air.
    This was all his father’s fault. Nikolay had
a history of working with the most deplorable of the world, the
first of which was the American woman that had born him. Raised in
the Marlboro projects in New York, any money she got turning tricks
or that Nikolay insisted he’d sent rarely went toward something to
put in little Sacha’s belly. Birthdays found him asking for toys
that never came, and winter found him with few clothes to keep him
warm.
    She was not his mother. Just another useless
cunt Nikolay knocked up and ran out on. The only thing Sacha
Sokoviev ever got from that bitch was her coke habit.
    At sixteen he was shipped back to Russia to
live with an uncle, and the conditions weren’t much better. But it
was then he realized the true power of his father’s roots. He was
mesmerized by the influence of the Sokoviev name, and set out to
prove just how much better than Nikolay he could be. There were
those who reminded him he was a half-breed, but he didn’t feel like
one at all. The strength of the Russian blood coursing through his
veins had years ago washed away the stink of American from Sacha’s
skin.
    Unfortunately, another of Nikolay’s
three-decade-old infractions had come back to haunt his eldest
son.
    Vision blurry, Sacha eyed the babushka dolls
lined up on an occasional table, a gift from his father once Sacha
had gotten out of jail and moved back into the chateau. To
remind you it is all about family, Nikolay had said, one day
you will understand . Sacha hadn’t given it much thought. He was
no more family-oriented than his bastard of a father.
    The nine rotund wooden toys denoted the
lineage of the Sokoviev men, each one hand-painted with some
feature of the person it was meant to represent; the name engraved
on the flat surface of the base. He recalled his old man unpacking
the dolls—opening the largest and removing the one hidden inside
only to open that one and find another—repeating the process until
he’d lined them up in order of height, droning on about the
greatness of the Sokovievs that had come before them. At the time,
Sacha busied himself with admiring the patterns of the thick
Persian rug his desk sat upon.
    Of the nine, there were but three dolls he
could identify without having to read the appellation off the
bottom. The smallest was Misha, his half-brother. He was born and
raised in America, and the only kinship he felt toward the teenager
came from knowing Nikolay had abandoned him too. With their father
gone, Misha’s youth was all that protected him from Sacha’s
wrath.
    Next in the line was Sacha himself.
Naturally, he liked his doll the best. Though there was nothing
particularly distinct about it—small with the features rather hard
to make out—he found it the most aesthetically pleasing of the
bunch. And