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“Word really spreads fast around here, doesn’t it?” The words come out sharper than I intended, and Taffy flinches back. “I just don’t feel good. I’m going home.”
“What if he comes in tonight? You don’t want to miss out–”
“Then one of you can enjoy. He’s a customer, not my fucking boyfriend.” I can hear the acid in my voice, made worse by the fact that I feel another of those hot, instantaneous flashes of jealousy at the thought of Taffy straddling him.
I strip out of my lingerie, pulling the loose jeans and hoodie back on for the walk back. I feel tense and pissed off, all my muscles sore, and I’m suddenly longing for a hot shower and to fall back into my own bed.I’ll just sleep it off. Reset my brain. Tomorrow will be better.I have a feeling Igor won’t be happy if I come back to work tomorrow–I think I’m on some kind of temporary hiatus until he feels like I’ve had enough time to think about what I’ve done–but I can’t afford to not risk it. The worst-case scenario is that he fires me, and then I’ll go to another club. I can’t go days without working a shift.
“I hope you feel better!” Taffy calls after me, and I wave at her, doing my best to acknowledge it with the current mood I’m in. I rub the back of my neck as I walk down the steps leading out of the back door of the club and to the street, trying to work some of the soreness out. It doesn’t help much.
Bag slung over one shoulder, I make my way past the puddles and cigarette butts, out to the sidewalk. I desperately want to call a cab again but resist the urge, thinking of the meager cash in my pocket tonight.
There are no footsteps following me this time as I head back to my apartment. However, I still have that uncomfortable,prickling sensation that I’m being watched. For all I know, Iam,and after the second letter, it’s hard not to imagine someone skulking in the shadows, watching me walk home, thinking of what they’ll do next to try to frighten me into–what, exactly?
What do they want? To catch me? Hurt me? Just to scare me?That particular not-knowing makes it worse. I have no idea what this person’s goal is, and though in my past life, I tended towards realism, if not optimism, now it’s hard not to jump to the worst-case scenario. I want out of this nightmare, away from this feeling of being trapped, like I’m caged without any ability to see who’s on the other side of my bars watching me.
The only way to accomplish that is money.
Money will buy me a fake passport. A new name. A new start.
There’s no getting out of Russia, no starting over without that.
The second I’m in my apartment, I slam the door behind me, locking all four of the locks tightly. I stride into the bedroom, stripping off my clothes, and I glance at the large windows on the left side of my room. They’re bare and facing the street, and I find myself wishing that I’d spent the money to replace the blinds or buy curtains–something my landlord will absolutely never do.
I feel exposed, but a tiny thought slips into my head, startling me.
What if it’s Mikhail following you? What if he’s outside right now, watching you through those open windows?
I think of those ice-blue eyes dragging over my body, taking in my exposed flesh, and my arms drop away from my breastswithout my meaning for them to. My skin prickles, suddenly chilled, but a thrill washes over me at the same time.
A small part of me, one that shocks and horrifies me, feelsarousedat the thought. I squeeze my thighs together, feeling the dampness there, and a knot forms in my belly.
I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t.I’ve never been an exhibitionist. Never thrilled at the idea of a man I hardly knew watching me, lusting after me.
What is wrong with me?
I tell myself he’s not there. Thatno oneat all is following me, much less the wealthy, arrogant asshole with the cold blue stare who had managed to insult me within five minutes of meeting me. I tell myself that all of this is in my head.
It doesn’t change the fact that a part of me is excited at the possibility that it might not be.
Mikhail
Ididn’t mean to follow her all the way back to her apartment.
I talked myself out of going to the club tonight. I wanted to see her outside of it–when she’s not putting on a show. To see how she walked, how she behaved, how she carried herself.It might give me a better idea as to what the truth is,I reasoned.
It was easy to follow her. Easier than I imagined it would be. It took me a moment to realize it was her when she came out, dressed in that loose clothing that was clearly meant to make her look less feminine. Less of a target for men who might want to hurt her. She came out too early, long before her shift should have been over. If I hadn’t arrived earlier than I expected to, I might have missed her.
She was upset, clearly. It was clear from the way she walked, hands shoved in her jean pockets, chin tucked in, shoulders slouched.What happened in there?I thought when I saw her. I felt a quick, unexpected flash of anger that someone might have hurt her in some way.
It brought me up short. I have no reason to care if she’s upset. No reason to give a shit if someone hurt her feelings. It shouldn’t matter to me.
Only I’m allowed to hurt her,I reasoned with myself as I started down the sidewalk after her.Her pain is all mine.
I expected her to pick up on the fact that she was being followed at some point–to have to duck into a nearby alley to keep from being caught. I hadn’t thought I’d make it all the way back to her apartment or that I’d walk along the sidewalk adjacent to it only to come face to face with the windows facing directly into her bedroom.
I know it’s hers because I see her standing there. She looks forlorn, exhausted, and I half expect her to fall into bed clothed and for that to be the end of it.
She reaches down, pulling the oversized hoodie she’s wearing up and over her head. I’m treated to the sight of her slender form in a tight grey tank top, her small breasts outlined, braless, against the soft fabric.
