It’s a generalization to say that no one ends up working at a place like this by choice, but it’s one I’m willing to stick to.
“What are you wearing tonight–ooh, that one! I love that.” Ruby flutters her eyelashes to me as I wiggle into the gold lace bra I’d brought for the stage tonight. Gold or silver lingerie has become something of a staple for me, building on the stage name I’d chosen–Athena. It stands out in a sea of jewel and sweets-themed stripper names, but I don’t mind.
For the first time in my life, I’m afraid more often than not. Having a goddess’ name with me on stage, especially the goddess of war, feels like the sort of shield I need.
“You’re going to kill it.” Ruby flashes me a thumbs up as I hear the cues for my stage music start to come up, and I stride towards the door, feeling my heart somersault in my chest.
In all my years as a ballerina, I can’t ever recall being nervous. I’d danced from a young age with a confidence that had catapulted me to the heights of the Moscow ballet, earning me fame and accolades–and a reprieve from the unwanted marriage that would have ensnared me much earlier, if I hadn’t brought my father so much prestige from my place there. I’d stepped out on stage every time as if I’d belonged there–because I’d believed unequivocally that I had.
This stage doesn’t particularly feel like one I belong on. Though I’ve conquered it every time, I always feel nerves when I step out. Tonight is no different.
The club is crowded. I see throngs of men around my stage–three, four, five deep in places, all watching and cat-calling as I stride out, swaying to the music. I can feel my softly curled dark hair brushing against my shoulders, swinging back and forth, the scrape of the cheap lace of my lingerie against my skin. I let the music wash over me, calling back the old immersion techniques of my days in ballet.
Hear. Touch. Smell. Feel. Become.
I focus on the sound of the music, the slick surface of the pole beneath my hands, the feel of the cool metal against my body and the hard surface of the stage, and desperately trynotto smell my surroundings. I’ve become mostly numb to the miasma of alcohol, sweat, perfume, and cologne that fills the room, but it’s still unpleasant.
I become something else.Someoneelse, someone I’ve never been.
I give myself over to the alter ego I’ve created, to Athena, and I dance.
The music fills me, twisting my body, spreading me open, turning me into a thing of lust and desire, created only to please the men surrounding the stage waving bills at me. I forget who I was, who I am, and focus on this.
The thing that might save me, if only because no one who knew me before would ever dream that I would be here, doing this.
That I would have fallen so far.
I spin down the pole, landing in a split on the stage. The crowd shouts approvingly as I push my ass up in the air, legs still spread as I bounce on the hard surface, my back arched deeply as I slide upwards, sinuous and graceful, onto my hands and knees. I grab the pole, throwing one leg out as I spin to my feet, and just as I rise up again, I see him.
A man in the very front row, directly in front of me. I freeze for a split second, startled.
He’shandsome. Gorgeously, inordinately so.
So few men who come here are. They’re portly, unkempt, balding, unhygienic, or some combination of all of those, more often than not. But this man is none of those things.
Sandy blond hair falls into a sharp, chiseled masculine face, the faintest of stubble on his strong jaw. He’s wearing a black shirt open at the chest with the sleeves rolled up, showing muscled forearms covered in tattoos–including one of an eagle at his wrist.
His eyes are ice blue–and they’re fixed on me with an intensity that none of the other customers here can claim. It sends another of those cold shivers down my spine, because the way he’s looking at me is more than attraction, more than lust, more than desire.
He’s looking at me as if he knows me.
As if he’s here for me, specifically.
32
MIKHAIL
Years ago, Moscow felt like home.
No longer.
I glance at the cracked clock on my side table as I run my hand through my hair, looking in the mirror. The bar I’m going to isn’t the dingiest of places, so I don’t want to look like a slob, but I also don’t want to stand out too much. I’ve long since given up the color my hair used to be, since I’ve been in Moscow to hide instead of the reason I used to come here–to work for one of the most powerful Russianpakhansto ever lead a Bratva.
TheUssuri, the Bear.
Once my boss, now my enemy. My own personal Baba Yaga, the boogeyman that I’ve run from for a year now, trying to find the key to returning to his good graces.
To the life I used to live.