Strong Enough Read online

  Strong Enough

  Melanie Harlow

  David Romanov

  MH Publishing

  I want to dedicate this story to my husband, who is the coolest guy in the universe and my everything, forever.

  D.R.

  What he said.

  M.H.

  Copyright © 2017 by MH Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design: Letitia Hasser, Romantic Book Affairs

  http://designs.romanticbookaffairs.com/

  Cover Photography: Vitaly Dorokhov

  http://instagram.com/vitalydorokhovphoto

  Editing: Nancy Smay

  http://www.evidentink.com/

  Publicity: Social Butterfly PR

  http://www.socialbutterflypr.net/

  He was my secret conduit to myself—like a catalyst that allows us to become who we are, the foreign body, the pacer, the graft, the patch that sends all the right impulses, the steel pin that keeps a soldier’s bone together, the other man’s heart that makes us more us than we were before the transplant.

  Andre Aciman, Call Me By Your Name

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Bonus: Author Q and A

  Connect with us!

  Also by Melanie Harlow

  One

  DEREK

  Her name was Carolyn, and she was damn near perfect.

  “Thank you very much for dinner,” she said as I pulled up in front of her house. “I had a great time tonight, as usual,”

  Beautiful. Sweet. Intelligent. Twenty-nine years old. Divorced from her high school sweetheart, no children, but wanted them in the future. Taught college algebra. Loved to travel. Volunteered for UNICEF. Ran marathons.

  “Me too.” I put the Range Rover in park. “Let me walk you to the door. Stay right there.”

  We’d been on six dates—one coffee, two lunches, and three dinners—and I’d enjoyed every one of them. She was exactly the kind of woman I’d envisioned for myself. Nothing about her turned me off.

  The problem? Nothing about her turned me on, either.

  She unbuckled her seatbelt and waited for me to walk around and open the passenger door before getting out. I offered her a hand and she took it. “Thank you.”

  You’re not trying hard enough.

  Keeping her slender hand in mine, I shut the car door and escorted her up the front walk. The June night air was warm and balmy and smelled like orange blossoms. Everything about the evening whispered romance.

  “Such a gentleman,” Carolyn teased. “It’s good to know that chivalry isn’t dead.”

  “Not at all.” I liked the idea of chivalry, that a man could be governed by a code of conduct based on tradition, honor, and nobility despite being a warrior at heart. That he buried his propensity for violence or his darker urges in order to preserve social morality, or at least the appearance of it. I understood that.

  We stepped onto her front porch and she turned to face me. “Would you like to come in for a drink?” Her eyes glittered in the dark as her body swayed closer to mine. “And maybe stop being such a gentleman?” She ran her hands up my chest.

  I slid my arms around her waist and pulled her against me, lowering my mouth to hers, praying to feel something. Anything.

  But I felt nothing. No quickening pulse, no rush of heat, no stirring in my blood. (Or my pants.)

  Shyly, she slipped her tongue between my lips, and I met it with mine, opening wider to deepen the kiss.

  Nothing.

  Frustrated, I clutched the material of her shirt in one fist and grabbed a handful of her hair with the other, hoping some aggression and resistance was what I needed to get turned on. For me, sex was best when it was a little antagonistic. A little combative. A power play. And it had been so long…

  “Ouch!” Carolyn cried.

  Immediately I let go of her and stepped back. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

  “Yes. I’m fine.” She rubbed the back of her head and laughed nervously. “Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who said the thing about not being a gentleman. It just surprised me.” She softened her voice. “Could we maybe try again? Go a little easier this time?”

  What’s the fucking point?

  “I’m sorry, Carolyn. I’m a little out of it tonight. Another time?”

  “Oh, okay. Sure.” She sounded let down, her eyes dropping to our feet. Then she looked up again. “Are we still on for tomorrow night?”

  “Of course.”

  She beamed, clearly relieved. “Great. I’ll bring dessert. I’m excited to meet your friends.”

  “They’re excited to meet you.”

  Her smile widened. “Night.”

  “Night.” Shoving my hands in my pockets, I watched her go in and shut the front door.

  Fuck.

  What the hell was my problem?

  Twenty minutes later, I let myself into the beautiful three-bedroom brick house I’d purchased a few years ago when I’d been about to propose to my then-girlfriend. I thought we’d be married by now. I thought we’d have a family by now. I thought I’d feel complete by now.

  None of it had happened.

  I turned off all the lights and trudged upstairs, feeling every one of my thirty-six years. In my bathroom, I frowned at my reflection in the mirror, running a hand over my slightly scruffy jaw. Jesus, look at all the gray coming in. For a while, it had only been a couple of spots, but now I was solidly salt-and-pepper. At the temples, too. Was it normal to go gray at this age? And what the hell was with those lines between my eyebrows? Was that from frowning? I quickly relaxed my face, and they mostly disappeared. But not entirely.

  Goddamn, I was getting old.

  At least I was still in good shape. I slipped my coat off and hung it and my shirt in my closet, tossed my T-shirt into the laundry basket, then stood in front of the full-length mirror on the bathroom door, eyeing myself critically.

  No paunch yet. No flab. No “handles” anywhere. My stomach was still hard and flat, my six-pack still lingered, my chest and arms were still muscular. I might not have all the sculpted lines and bulges I’d had ten years ago, but I worked hard to maintain my physique. I liked working out. It made me feel strong and powerful and in control of my body. I commanded it to do something, and it obeyed. Run those miles. Lift that weight. Punch that bag.

  Easy.

  Same reason I kept my house so immaculate. My fami
ly and friends teased me endlessly about what they called my “obsession” with neatness. I didn’t get it—who wouldn’t want to come home to a house where everything was clean and organized? It wasn’t a germ thing; it was just an aversion to chaos and mess. No clutter on the counters, no dirty laundry piled up anywhere, no dishes left in the sink. And I always knew exactly where a thing was because after I used it, I fucking put it away. What was so weird about that?

  I got ready for bed and turned out the light, feeling a little pathetic since it wasn’t even ten o’clock on a Friday night, but telling myself I’d get a good night’s sleep and hit the gym early. I hadn’t even closed my eyes when my phone buzzed on the nightstand. Picking it up, I squinted at the screen in the dark. My sister, Ellen.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  In the background, I could hear muffled bar noise—music, voices, the clanking of plates and glasses. “What’s up?”

  “I need a favor.”

  Two

  MAXIM

  For the first time since jumping on a plane in Moscow, I started to wonder if I’d made a mistake.

  It wasn’t like me at all. I tended to make decisions quickly, but afterward I wasn’t the type to agonize over whether I’d made the right one or not. I trusted my gut.

  So last week, when my gut told me to stop dreaming about moving to the U.S. and make it happen already, I went with it. Booked a ticket, quit my job, packed a bag.

  In hindsight, I probably should have planned it out a little better.

  A friend of a friend—some guy named Jake—was supposed to be here at the airport to pick me up, but I’d been standing outside the international terminal at LAX for two hours already, and he still hadn’t shown. I hoped nothing was wrong, but I was starting to think I might have to go to Plan B.

  Not that I had a Plan B.

  Pretty much everything hinged on Jake. He’d found me an apartment, and I’d already wired him the money for one month’s rent. I hadn’t liked the idea of paying for something without seeing it, but Jake said if I didn’t grab it, somebody else would, and he didn’t know of any other place I could rent that cheap, especially on such short notice. I told him I’d take it and sent the money. I hadn’t asked for the address, though.

  That was a mistake.

  I checked my phone again, like somehow it might have magically charged itself in my pocket. Still dead. Unfortunately, in my excitement to leave, I’d forgotten to throw my charger into my bag.

  Another mistake.

  Unable to stand still any longer, I crossed the street and jumped in a taxi.

  “Where to?” the driver asked.

  Well, fuck.

  “Downtown,” I decided, figuring I’d grab some food somewhere, maybe see if I could charge my phone. Hopefully Jake would get in touch in the next couple hours. If he didn’t, I’d have to get a hotel tonight. It would be ridiculously expensive and I didn’t want to waste that kind of money on one night, but I didn’t see any way around it.

  It took a long time to get downtown—traffic was terrible. I was nodding off for the third time when the driver spoke.

  “What’s the address?” He glanced back at me, and I blinked a few times.

  “Uh, no particular address. Any suggestions for a bar or restaurant around here?”

  He scratched the top of his head with his thumb. “The Blind Pig is pretty popular.”

  “Blind Pig?” I repeated, a little confused. Maybe the words had different meanings than what I thought. My English was pretty good, but far from perfect.

  “It’s another name they used for illegal speakeasies during Prohibition.”

  “Ah.” Quickly I pulled my notebook from my bag and scribbled that down. I wanted to be a screenwriter, so not only did I have to improve my English, but I needed to learn all those little cultural details that would make a script authentic.

  My friends made fun of me for it, but I always carried a notebook with me so I’d have somewhere to take notes and write down all the ideas that came to me at random times during the day or night. I’d learned the hard way that I wouldn’t necessarily remember them later. And since I’d sold my laptop last week to pad my savings a little, a notebook was all I had. As soon as I could afford it, I’d have to get a new computer.

  But that would take a while.

  A few minutes later, the driver pulled over and switched off the meter. “It’s just up ahead there on the right.”

  I thanked him, paid him with some of the cash I’d gotten from the airport ATM, and jumped out. Even though I wasn’t sure where I’d sleep tonight, it was hard not to feel excited as I walked up the street. Before today, I’d only seen places like this on a screen, but this was real. I was actually here. It made me feel invincible, like anything was possible.

  A moment later, I pulled open The Blind Pig’s heavy wooden door and stepped inside. The light was low, the atmosphere warm, and the music upbeat. It was crowded, but I managed to find an empty seat at the long wooden bar.

  “Hi there.” The bartender smiled at me as I set my bag on the floor. She had dark hair pulled into a ponytail and big brown eyes. “I’m Ellen. What can I get for you?”

  “Could I look at a menu, please?”

  “Of course.” She brought me a menu and I looked it over, deciding to order the most American thing I could think of.

  “I’ll have a burger. And a beer.”

  “Great. Can I see your ID?”

  “Sure.” I pulled out the travel wallet where I kept all my important documents, handed her my passport, and dropped the wallet back into my bag.

  “Russia, huh?” Ellen smiled at me again. “Are you here for work or just visiting?”

  “Just visiting.” I didn’t want to jinx myself by announcing my intention to try to stay here for good. Technically, I could only stay for six months on my tourist visa, but I had no intention of using my return flight.

  “Having a good time so far?”

  “Well, I’ve only been here for about three hours, and I spent two of them waiting for my friend to pick me up from the airport, but he never showed.”

  The bartender gave me a sympathetic look. “L.A. traffic can be awful. Have you called him?” She handed my passport back to me, and I tucked it inside my coat pocket.

  “I can’t. My phone is dead. And I forgot to pack my charger.” I gave her a smile intended to charm. I wasn’t into women and never intentionally led them on, but I won’t lie, sometimes being attractive to them was helpful. “Do you think anyone has one here I could use?”

  It worked—or she was just nice, because she smiled back warmly. “I can check. Let me get you that beer—sounds like you need it. What kind would you like?”

  “Corona, please.”

  She nodded, and a moment later, she set it in front of me. “This one’s on me. I’ll put your food order in. You’re probably super hungry after that long trip.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  After a long drink from the bottle, I pulled my notebook from my bag again, and a school photo of my eight-year-old sister Liliya fell out from the front pages. She’d given it to me right before I left, and on the back she’d written, To Maxim. Don’t forget about me. Love, Liliya. I set it on the bar as a woman slid onto the empty seat next to me. “Hi there.”

  She was about my age and dressed professionally, like maybe she worked in an office, but she was the kind of American blonde I pictured more like a lifeguard on TV or a dancer in a beach movie. Her grin was confident and flirty. American women were so different from Russian.

  “Hello,” I said.

  She glanced at the photo of Liliya and gasped. “Oh my God, she’s so beautiful! And she looks just like you. Is that your…daughter?” she asked tentatively, wrinkling her nose like she hoped that was not the case.

  “No, that’s my little sister. But we do look alike.” Although we had different fathers, Liliya and I both had our mother’s wide blue eyes, dark blond hair, and
dimpled chin.

  She smiled and held out her hand. “I’m Amy.”

  I shook it. “Maxim.”

  “Maxim.” She repeated my name as I’d said it, complete with the accent. After giving my palm a suggestive squeeze and holding onto it way too long, she swiveled to face me, crossing her legs in a way that put them on display. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

  “I’ve never been here before.”

  “I like your accent. Where are you from?” She leaned a little closer to me, so close I could smell her flowery perfume.

  “Russia.”

  “I was going to guess that!” She looked pleased with herself and slapped me lightly on the leg. “What brings you to L.A.?”

  “Just visiting.”

  “Traveling alone?” She widened her eyes and batted her lashes.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “So you’re single?”

  It was strange to me the way Americans asked such personal questions. I’d have to get used to it. “Yes, but…”

  “Yes, but what? You don’t like American girls?” she teased.

  Evasive words were on the tip of my tongue when a voice spoke up in my head. There’s no reason to hide here.

  “Yes, but I’m gay,” I told her, meeting her eyes directly. It was the first time I’d said the words out loud to anyone. I wasn’t ashamed or anything, but growing up where I had, sexuality simply wasn’t talked about, whether you were gay or straight. Clearly, the boundaries here were different.