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There’s no going to the cops. The Russian police are a joke anyway, as terrifying to an ordinary citizen as to an actual criminal. Even if I thought they could or would help me, all I’d be doing is turning myself in. Thepolitsiyawould love to get their hands on me.
I walked to work anyway. When faced with a stalker or giving up precious rubles… I opted to take my chances.
I distinctly felt as if there were eyes on me the entire way, crawling over me, making 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 back to Moscow, 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 ever being within a dozen blocks of this place.
I picked this club for that reason precisely. 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 ever stepping foot into 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 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.
The letter has to have been from some infatuated customer. Who else would know you dance here? Who else would look for you here? It makes more sense that someone followed you home from the club.
The alternative–that someone linked to my father in some way has found me–is far more terrifying. I’d rather deal with an entitled, horny incel from the club any day over the Russian Bratva.
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 at that as I stand up, moving away a few steps to trade out my tattered sneakers for heels. It’s hard to hide ballerinas’ 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 my toenails painted now, at the owner's request, 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 canbe, sometimes has a secretive look in her eyes, as if she’s holding something back too.
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 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 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 position. I stepped out on stage every time as if I belonged there–because I unequivocally believed that I had.
This stage doesn’t particularly feel like one I belong on. Though I’ve conquered it every time, I always feel nervous 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 Istride out, swaying to the music. I feel a momentary flash of fear that I’ve never had before on stage, a chill down my spine as I remember the letter.
What if whoever pushed that under my door is here tonight? What if he’s looking at me right now? Watching me, imagining…
I remind myself that it doesn’t matter–as my heel hits the slick, hard surface of the stage. There are more terrifying things out there than men who clip words out of magazines and glue them to paper to scare a woman who won’t sleep with them. There are bigger things that go bump in the night. Worse things that can happen than a scary letter.
I know because I’ve seen them, heard them. My father was one of those terrifying things.
If I can conquer that, I can conquer anything.
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 rigid texture of the stage. I 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.
