AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Thelust. It darkens them briefly, gives them a glimmer of heat in all that ice that nearly takes my breath away. I feel a thrill rush through me as I see his eyes flick back up to my face, looking at me as if he’s trying toseeme. As if he’s captivated by me–but not in the way the others are.
His tattooed, muscled arms cross over his chest, flexing. His expression is curious but hard. This isn’t a man who would beg or grovel for anything. This isn’t the kind of man I could wield power over.
He looks like the kind of man who wields it himself. Who makesothersbeg. In my present situation especially, I should find it terrifying. The shivers running over my skin, prickling it and raising the hairs, should be ones of fear, not arousal.
After this morning, especially, I should be afraid.
But all I feel is a slow, dazed heat spreading through me as he watches me, his eyes never leaving me for even a second. He doesn’t have money in his hands. No offers of tips for a more personal experience.
I shouldn’t pay attention to him. Shouldn’t give him the time of day.The arrogance - to stand there watching me so intently, without even a single ruble to offer.
He looks as if he can afford to tip, and tip well. Unless the well-pressed, quality clothing, the watch on his wrist, and the styled hair is all a farce. A facade to make the girls fawn over him without having to pay to take them back to the champagne room–because he can’t.
Which is it?Despite myself, I’m fascinated…and even more so, I’m curious. I’ve always loved a good mystery.
The last beats of the song hit, and automatically, without thinking, I finish the dance. My feet propel me forward even though my mind is elsewhere, towards the steps off the stage, down into the throng of horny, eager men. It’s the routine every night for every dancer.
A solo number, then mingling, until you get the signals from someone that they might want more. The cheaper option of an on-the-main-floor lapdance, or, if you’re lucky, they’ll ask to take you back to the champagne room. It’s another part of the night that I could go through on autopilot if need be at this point. Still, I feel as if I’m buzzing under my skin, anxious and overly aware of everything around me.
The man’s gaze left me unsettled, prickly.Surely he wouldn’t be so brazen as to leave me that letter this morning and then show up tonight? And I’ve never seen him here before. I would have noticed. So itcan’tbe him.
I hear the beat of the music picking up, intro-ing Ruby’s dance. I feel some of the crowd around me part and move away, drifting towards the stage to see her come out, but one man with thin dark hair sprawls onto the chair nearest me, motioning for me to come closer.
“Come wiggle that fine ass for me,lyubov,” he slurs. I move towards him, already swaying as I turn to face away from him and back towards the stage as Ruby comes out in her signature red.
Without meaning to, I look for the man with the blue eyes. I want to see if he looks at Ruby in the same way, if he gives her the same intense stare, the same assessing gaze–or if it was reserved for me.
I should want him to look at all the dancers like that. It’s less creepy if it’s not solely directed at me.
I can’t help the small flare of jealousy in my stomach as I look for him, though, as illogical as it is. I haven’t felt special or noticed,for what feels like a long time now. Not since Adrian–and even then, not for long.
But it doesn’t matter. I scan the crowd, but I don’t see him. The space where he stood is filled in now by more of the same clientele that comes in every night, and no matter where I look, there’s no sign of him that I can see.
He’s vanished.
Mikhail
It’s beginning to rain again as I step outside. I stay close to the overhang at the back of the building, watching the rain drip down in front of me as I fumble in my pocket for my pack of cigarettes.
Three days. It’s been three days since Yuri passed me that photo of the woman he claimed was Natalia Obelensky. There was no real reason to wait; he said she’d been seen there most nights of the week. In fact, it seemed as if she rarely took a night off. I could have gone the next night–hell, I could have probably gone thesamenight and seen her.
But I waited.
It’s possible to conjecture any number of reasons as to why, but deep down, I know that a large part of it is that I didn’t want to be disappointed. The idea that Natalia Obelensky might have fallen into my lap seemed too good to be true, but the idea that it might be because of a lapdance, that the Bratva princess might have fallen so far from grace as to be turning tricks at a cheap strip club, seemed absolutely ludicrous.
Now, I’m not so sure.
I’m unsettled by all of it–by the prospect that it might be her, by the simplicity of it all, and most of all, by my reaction to her.
If this woman is Natalia Obelensky, then she’s no different than any other job, even if this is more personal. I’ve come across plenty of beautiful women in the course of doing my job, particularly when working for Viktor Andreyev–none of them have left me with this unsettled desire, the urge to forget why I’m really here and become just another customer salivating over a nice pair of tits and perfect body.
Andgoddamn,is it perfect.
The purpose of coming here was to determine if she really is Natalia,I remind myself as I slide the cigarette into my mouth, the orange flame of my lighter standing out against the wet darkness.You don’t have an answer to that yet.
I’ve seen pictures of Natalia before, of course. Pictures of her with her hair slicked back into a tight ballerina’s bun, her even thinner figure in a leotard, tulle frilling out at her hips, and her perfectly arched feet crammed into those torture devices dancers call shoes.
I’ve seen pictures of her at events for the Moscow ballet, at galas she was required to attend because of her father’s station, her honey-blonde hair cascading over her shoulder in a froth of waves or pinned up elegantly, that perfect body poured into an expensive designer gown, those imperfect feet propped up in high heels.
