The sharp, crowing voice of Ruby–not her real name–reaches me from all the way on the other side of the room as she bursts in, dressed in shorts so short that they’d almost count as stage lingerie and a crop top that barely covers her breasts. She’s curvier than I am by far, and the clothes cling to her like a second skin, accentuating every swell and curve of her bust and hips. Combined with a narrow waist, huge blue eyes, and dyed red hair, she drives all of the men who come to the club absolutely wild.
We all have our strengths. Mine is being an actual,traineddancer, once upon a time. In a place that prioritizes lewd gyrating over actual skill, I bring something to the table that the frequent customers here rarely see.
They’re not exactly the types to hold season tickets to the Moscow ballet.
“I picked up a shift.” I lean forward, brushing eyeshadow over one closed lid. My look is always the same, and I don’t deviate from it. The most important part is that it looks nothing like what I used to do with my makeup. Before, I was a devotee of a bare lid, a clean face, a sharp wing, and a red lip. Now, I’ve learned the art of a smoky eye, thick liner, and faux lashes to make my blue eyes look even wider than normal, how to apply contour and blush to accentuate my sharp cheekbones and delicate features.
The red lip, though, stayed. I’ve learned that men–the type of men who frequent this club especially–like brightly colored lipstick on the dancers. It encourages them to spend more, to take us back to the inaptly named champagne room, where they can more intimately imagine us leaving traces of that same lipstick on their cocks.
It’s not something I’d ever entertain the idea of, but plenty of the girls do, and I can’t fault them for it. Tips aren’t the best in a place like this, and a girl’s got to get by.
“You need to take a day off.” Ruby plops into the chair next to mine, unzipping her clear makeup pouch as she pulls it out of the huge tote bag that she always carries with her. There are more things in there than I’d ever dared guess at–I’ve seen her pull all sorts of items out over the span of time I’ve worked here. Lingerie, tampons, makeup, a curling iron, a dildo, a lunchbox full of snacks, water bottles of vodka–I’m pretty sure that it’s less a purse and more a bag of wish fulfillment, as if Ruby is some kind of particularly benevolent genie. “I don’t think there’s been a night that you haven’t been here inweeks.”
I shrug, peering in the mirror as I carefully apply lash glue just above my actual lashes. I hate wearing falsies–they feel thick and heavy and as if I have a creature glued to my eyes–but they’re a must. I made it exactly one shift at the club before Ruby whipped out a spare set and showed me how to apply them, lecturing me thoroughly on why I couldnevergo out on stage without them ever again.
She’s been the closest thing I have to a friend ever since.
“Gotta pay rent,” I say casually, tapping my nail against the lash as I let it dry. “It’s criminal, what they’re charging for that shithole I’m living in.”
“That’s why you need to take me up on my offer and move into my place.” Ruby pouts at me playfully. “I have a spare bedroom and everything. We could split the rent and have girls’ night every night. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s a hell of a lot better than where you’re at now, from the sound of it.”’
“And you know I’m never going to take you up on it, as much as I appreciate the offer.” I grin at her as I glue on my other lash, trying to soften my words. “I like my quiet time.”
I can’t tell her the truth, of course, which is that I lay awake nights sometimes wishing that Icouldtake her up on her offer. As much as I really had enjoyed my personal space and quiet in my old life, I crave company now, to not be alone with my thoughts, especially in the dark. I’d give anything not to live alone.
But I can’t. It would put her in too much danger, and Ruby doesn’t deserve that. She’s been nothing but a good friend to me, even if she is loud and abrasive at times.
Ruby rolls her eyes playfully. “Well, you can at least come over after our shifts next Saturday. I’m throwing a party.”
“Afterwe get off work?” On Saturday nights, closing the club means staying until two in the morning, even later sometimes if there are enough paying customers still spending. The thought of partying after a long night of dancing at that hour makes me feel exhausted beforethisnight has even begun–which in turn makes me feel much, much older than my twenty-five years.
Ruby wrinkles her nose at me. “We’ll sleep when we’re dead,” she declares, getting up and shimmying out of her shorts as she starts to change into her lingerie for the night.
It’s just a turn of phrase, but a shiver runs down my spine anyway, an echo of the one I’d felt earlier tonight as I’d walked to the club. The neighborhoods that I live and work in aren’t really ones that a young woman wants to be on foot in, but I hadn’t been lying when I’d said that I’d picked up a shift because money is tight. Getting a cab is a luxury I can’t afford. It shouldn’t have felt strange that I’d had the prickle of feeling as if I were being watched as I’d walked, but it had felt particularly strong tonight.
I’d felt distinctly as if there were eyes on me, crawling over me, and it had made me pick up my pace more than normal. Usually, I try to walk slowly, casually, as if I belong here, and no one should think twice about it. Hurrying, rushing, in neighborhoods like these, indicates that you’re not supposed to be there.
That you’re afraid.
I haven’t often felt afraid in my life. It’s possible, actually, that I’ve experienced toolittlefear, and that’s what landed me in my present situation. But tonight, as with many nights since I came here, I felt that stinging chill of fright.
Even now, ensconced in the brightly lit dressing room of the club, I can’t shake that feeling of being watched.
Of beingfollowed.
You’re just being paranoid,I tell myself as I swipe my red lipstick on, picking up Ruby’s curling iron to add some wave to my hair.You’ve done an excellent job of covering your tracks.
No one would expect you, the daughter of a once-powerful Bratva leader, a former prima ballerina, of being within a dozen blocks of this place.
I’d picked this club for that reason, precisely, as I had my apartment. TheCat’s Meowis one of the seediest strip clubs on a street of seedy clubs, lit up on the exterior with neon lights and figures of naked women, guarded by bouncers so muscled and huge that they span two of me. Anyone looking for me–themeI used to be–wouldn’t come here. They’d assume I’d die before I stepped foot in this place as a bystander, let alone as a dancer.
The same goes for my apartment, a tiny, leaky studio in another rundown neighborhood with broken stairs, broken furniture, broken faucets–and sturdy locks. I’d rented it precisely because it’s the kind of place that would have made me gag before, back when I was accustomed to thousand-thread-count sheets, caviar for breakfast, and designer clothes shipped to my door.
Ruby wiggles her hips next to me, reaching for the curling iron. “Hand it over,” she demands playfully. “Besides, you’re the first one out tonight anyway.”
I wince as I stand up, moving away a few steps to trade out my tattered sneakers for heels. It’s hard to hide ballerina’s feet in the type of shoes that a dancer here wears, but I try to avoid drawing attention to them all the same. I keep the toenails painted now, at the request of the owner, after he was horrified by the lingering bruising on my toes from years of being crammed into pointe shoes. Nothing can change the way they look beyond that, but the polish helps, and I always choose heels with wide straps over the toes.
If Ruby or any of the other dancers have ever noticed, they haven’t said anything. There’s a code here, it seems, that no one askstoomany questions. I’m certain I’m not the only one hiding something. Even Ruby, as outwardly verbose as she can be, has a secretive look in her eyes sometimes, as if she’s holding something back too.