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Another letter.
I stand in my kitchen, holding it in my shaking hands. It’s dark out, which makes the fact that I walked out to find it just as I was about to leave even more terrifying.
What if whoever left it is still out there? Waiting?
Licking my dry lips, I look down at the piece of paper. It’s in the same style as before–cut-out, glued-on words.
Pizda. We will find you. You will bleed.
“Well, you’ve already technically found me, haven’t you, you bastard?” I ball up the paper in an angry fist, stalking across the kitchen to throw it into the garbage to join the first. My hands are still shaking, and I try to steel myself for the walk ahead of me.
It’s a long way to the club, and for a moment, I can’t make myself head for the door. It feels like an impossible task–to walk those blocks knowing that there’s someone out there in the shadowswho, just minutes ago, slipped something threatening under my door.
You could call off sick. Girls do it all the time.But even as I think it, I know I can’t. I need the money. Every night, every shift, is one day closer to my escape from this place. From threatening letters and handsy men and cheap store-bought hair dye. Out there somewhere, in a smaller town in France, London, Amsterdam, or one of a dozen places, there’s a version of myself living happy and free, my hair blonde again, my days spent without worrying that someone is in the shadows, waiting for me.
Somewhere, a version of myself has put the past so far behind her that she doesn’t have to fear it catching up with her any longer. The thought is enough to propel me towards the door, out onto the landing, and down to the street, towards the job that will give me that chance.
If I can’t make the money to get out of here, it won’t matter anyway. I might as well be dead.
I can only live like this for so long. I can only hide for so long. I’ll be caught eventually, and then–
I swallow hard, keeping to my quick but steady pace as I walk down the street. It’s a little too warm out for a hoodie, but I threw on an oversized one anyway, hoping the bagginess will help hide the fact that I’m a woman walking alone. I’m slender and small-breasted enough that the combination of my loose jeans and the hoodie should make a difference, and I keep my head lowered, looking down and slightly ahead as I walk.
It’s something I’ve honed and practiced since coming back, but tonight it feels more necessary than ever. I want to look around to see if anyone is following me, but I don’t dare.
And then I hear footsteps behind me.
They’re quiet at first as if they’re much further away, and then louder. Steady, keeping behind me at a regular pace, my heart leaps into my throat. I suddenly feel cold despite the hoodie and the mild early summer night air, blood chilling in my veins, and I have to fight back panicked tears.
Another block, and the footsteps are closer still, but still at a steady pace. I can’t pretend that it’s not something strange. I can feel a warning prickle at the back of my neck, and as I see the light of a cab coming down the street, I make a snap decision.
Without looking to see who’s following me, I step out into the street and hail the cab, praying to whoever might be listening that they’ll stop. That I can get away from whoever is now much, much closer.
I steel myself for a hand on my arm, grabbing me or an arm around my waist, hauling me backward towards an alley. I brace myself to fight.
The cab stops, and I fling myself forward, snatching the door open and tumbling inside. As I do, the footsteps pass by me, continuing down the street.
“The Cat’s Meow,” I say breathlessly, craning my head over my shoulder to see who was walking behind me. All I see is the shape of a person, average height and somewhat broad shoulders, walking at a steady clip away from the cab that’s now pulling out in the opposite direction. There are no defining features, no way to know if it’s someone threatening, man orwoman, if I’ve just wasted some of my precious money for nothing.
I lean back against the seat, feeling tears well in my eyes all over again. I wipe viciously at my eyes, not wanting to let them fall, but a few do anyway. I can’t afford this cab ride, but what else was I supposed to do? Let myself be followed all the way to the club, just in case the person following me didn’t already know where I worked? Risk whether or not it was someone after me or just another person out on the street?
I don’t have answers to any of it, but it doesn’t matter anyway. I made my choice, and I pay the driver when I get out of the cab at the back door of the club, steeling myself to go inside.
What I really want is to get back into the cab and flee back to the dubious safety of my apartment, but that would be even more of a waste. Instead, I shoulder my bag and walk inside, heading straight for the dressing room.
Ruby is already there, curling her hair. “Athena!” She practically squeals my ‘name,’ twisting so that the edge of the hot curling iron briefly brushes against her neck. “Ow!”
She shakes it free of her hair, frowning as she peers in the mirror at the light pink mark. “Dammit. Well, it just looks like a little hickey. It’s fine.” She flashes me a bright smile, which quickly fades as she gets a good look at me. “What the hell are you wearing? And why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”
“Just someone else walking down the same street as me, near my apartment.” I shrug, giving my best impression of someone who knows she’s overreacted, when in fact, I’m fairly certain that thelastthing I did was overreact. The more time that passes sinceI hopped in the cab, the more sure I am that I probably averted disaster. “And I was cold.”
Ruby gives me a look that says she doesn’t entirely believe me, but she turns back to curling her hair as I drag the hoodie over my head and deposit it on the floor next to my chair. “Sooo,” she says slowly, dragging out the word as if it’s something delicious. “I heard someone bought time in the champagne room with you the other night. Someonenew. Davik was talking about him with one of the other guys. I guess he got a bad vibe from him?” She wrinkles her nose, glancing sideways at me as she spirals another lock of her hair around the iron. “What about you? Was something off?”
“He was an asshole.” I shrug, forcing back the quick flicker of desire that flares up at the mention of Mikhail. “Arrogant and entitled. You know, practically the first thing he did after he got me in the room was to ask if I did more than just dance and how much it would cost him?”
“And how much did you tell him it would cost?” Ruby’s eyes twinkle with mischief. She knows good and well that I don’t do anything more than lap dances, and she enjoys giving me shit about it. “Please tell me you didn’t turn him down flat. Davik said he looked out of place. Like he has money.”
“If he wanted an escort, he could go two blocks over,” I say stiffly as I get my makeup pouch out of my bag. “This is a strip club.”
