by S. Ann Cole
Nope. Not working.
I’m a snail as I climb the steps to the stage, silently begging the tequila to kick in and do its thing, seeing as I don’t have a rhythmic bone in my body.
Once on stage, I grip the pole and walk slowly around it, taken by surprise when I feel it moving along with me. Hmm. So this is how strippers spin on poles. Leaning back against it, I slowly slide down it and into a Lil Kim squat, like I saw one of the strippers do earlier.
I spot Kate in the crowd, her hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking. Laughing at me, no doubt.
Whatever. I didn’t ask for this. I’m neither a stripper or a prostitute. Hopefully, I’ll be so awful up here that I’ll be let out of on-stage dancing.
From the looks of the men crowding the stage, however, waving their cash with excited grins, that’s probably not going to happen. Zoey was right, these men don’t give two damns that I don’t know how to work a pole. They’re here for the nudity.
I straighten up and reach around to undo my bra, then stop, squinting into the crowd. I think I see him again, moving through the crowd. But he disappears so quickly it’s almost as if I conjured it.
“Take it off!” someone shouts.
I gyrate my hips—or at least I think I do—as I search the sea of bodies for him.
He’s nowhere.
Why do I even want to see him so badly? What do I think will happen? For all I know, I’m here only because Kristie is gone and Igor didn’t want to have all his top girls out at once.
I give up the search and attempt to undo my bra again. But, again, I halt when I see a blaze of orange.
Someone screams.
Someone shouts.
The blaze of orange gets brighter, bigger.
It takes me a hot minute to realize that it’s the bar.
The bar is on fire.
Bodies begin moving, shifting, running toward the bar to help put the fire out.
One man throws the contents of his highball glass at the fire, but the alcohol only feeds the flames. Drunken idiots.
Then, a loud pop, and then another, as the bottles of liquor start to explode, sending splinters of glass everywhere. That’s when people really start screaming and running away from the bar, herding toward the exit.
The fire spreads—fast.
Too fast. And I know, I just know, this is no accident.
Viktor darts across the club with Kate thrown over his shoulder.
Is this Igor’s doing?
When I see Pavlov and Dimitri hurrying past the stage with Zoey, both on either side of her rushing her to the exit, I realize one good thing: I’m not priority.
Taking advantage of that fact, I jump off the stage and duck low, aiming for inconspicuous. This could be my way out.
I get on all fours and begin to crawl.
Smoke fills the club so rapidly, thick and white, that there’s no way it’s all from the fire.
The screams and shouts grow louder, more panicked, as everyone fights to get through the narrow exit.
I crawl as fast as I can in the opposite direction. There has to be an emergency door somewhere. Has to be.
The smoke worsens, impeding my vision. Someone stomps on my fingers and I yelp, but I don’t slow down.
Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me. Please don’t see me.
Another loud pop.
A shout.
A shriek.
A chorus of hacking coughs.
A strong arm bands around my middle and lifts me up off the floor.
Dammit! No!
I open my mouth to scream and end up choking on a mouthful of smoke. I fight against the muscled arm around me but it’s like a band of steel. The man moves with me, a one-hundred-forty-five-pound human, like I’m a weightless doll. Fast and confident. And although the club is too nebulous to see much at this point, I know we’re headed in the opposite direction of the exit.
“Cut it out, Lyra,” the man growls above me.
Immediately, I do.
For two reasons: One, the voice isn’t Russian, but American. Two, he used my real name.
In the time I’ve been in this country, no one’s ever used my real name. Igor named us, and those names are what we go by. And I don’t think anyone but Igor knows our real names—that’s assuming he does at all.
I try to look up to see the man’s face, but all I’m able to make out through the smoke is a black balaclava.
We reach a door somewhere and my body flails involuntarily as he kicks it open. And then we’re outside. Arctic wind rakes over my bare skin like nails, calling goosebumps to the surface.
From my dangling vantage point, I can see the glint of chrome car rims plus two pairs of booted feet moving in our direction.
“Got her. Finish it,” the man tells someone, voice calm and indifferent despite having just ran through a burning building with an entire adult human-being under his arm. “But be sure everyone’s out first. No casualties.”
“Got it,” another man replies. “We’ll unblock the emergency exits now that she’s out.”
His heavy boots beat against the wet tar as he runs with me toward the chrome-rimmed vehicle. The back door flies open and he tosses me inside like I’m just a throw-pillow.
Before he’s even properly inside, the vehicle jerks, the tires screech, and we’re moving. He slams the door, shutting the cold out, and I exhale a breath of gratitude for the warmth.
I scramble up from the face-plant I was dumped in, righting myself into sitting position. My ankle twists against something on the floor and I glance down to see it’s a duffel-bag. To make room for my long legs, I pick it up and rest it on the seat, between the man and me.
In the front seats are two more men wearing balaclavas.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask them. “Are you with Igor?”
No one answers.
As the vehicle speeds in the opposite direction of the club, I twist around and peer through the tinted back windshield. Smoke billows from the building, pluming to the overcast sky.
If “finish it” means what I think it does, then that entire building will be up in flames soon. I wonder about Simone, if she got out safe.
Then, I think of him. That’s his establishment. Why would Igor do that to one of his biggest clients?
Most importantly, who are these men who took me?
Twisting back around from the window, I ask again, “Are you Igor’s men?”
“No.” This comes from the man beside me. He’s looking out the window, back at the club. “Just be quiet. You’re safe.”
Safe? That makes me snort out loud.
At this, the man beside me turns from the window to look at me. Immediately, it’s as if two separate gusts of air, one hot, one frigid, wrap around each other like fierce, passionate lovers and blast me in the chest. Because... those eyes. I know those eyes. I’ve dreamt of those eyes. I’ve searched all night for those eyes.
It’s him.
How is he…?
Why is he…?
What. Is. Happening?
“There’re clothes in that bag for you. Put them on.”
With an obedient nod, I unzip the bag and begin taking out the articles of clothes inside. Not because I believe I’m safe with him—something tells me he’s deadlier than Igor. No, I relax, because...well...call me Stockholm, but this dangerously magnetic man is a syndrome I don’t mind having.
Wherever he’s taking me, I will go without a fight.
CHAPTER FIVE
“This is the world we live in, princess.”
Lyra
WE DRIVE FOR A LONG TIME.
Until the cars become less and less, the buildings farther and farther in between.
The men remove their masks.
The driver is William.
I’m surprised, but I don’t utter another word.
Soon, we’re careening onto vast open land with running blue and orange lights.
Flashing lights ahead catch my atten
tion and I lean forward to get a closer look.
A jet.
We’re headed toward a jet.
Where is he taking me?
When the vehicle finally brakes on the tarmac, all three men jump out. Not waiting to be told, I grab the duffelbag and clamber out as well, because hell if I’m getting left behind. There’d been two new jeans, plain t-shirts, a pair of sneakers, and a wool coat inside the duffelbag. All surprisingly my size—perfect fit.
I have so many questions.
What if...no—nope. I refuse to allow myself to hope again. This man is not my savior. The one I’d spent months hoping would kick down Igor’s door and rescue us. Clearly, there’s some kind of rivalry war among human traffickers going on. Though, why anyone would take me, the least valuable Diamond Girl, as spoil of this war is beyond me. If he thinks he can use the svin’ya to negotiate with Igor, he’s in for a rude awakening. But I’m not about to tell him that.
The Bronze Man takes me by my upper arm and moves with surefooted strides toward the jet, where two burly men with machine guns strapped across their chests wait at the foot of the steps.
“You’re behind,” one of the men mutters when we get up to them. “Pilot’s been ready.”
“Small snag,” The Bronze Man replies.
“Long as it’s done,” the man returns with a nod. “You’re all set. We’ll take care of the ripples.”
The Bronze Man releases me and raises his hand to his forehead in an army salute, then the other two men do the same. They remain like that for several beats before the two men turn without another word and jog off to the vehicle we came in.
The Bronze Man presses his hand at my lower back and gives me a tiny push, urging me up the steps. I ignore the small tingle that shoots up my spine, because really, it’s pathetic. Wanting this man makes me no better than the other delusional Diamond Girls.
A stewardess waits just inside the door, greeting us with a pretty smile and a wave inside. “Welcome on board, Mr. Garza. Miss Henderson.”
Oh, wow. The stewardess knows my name, too. Still, I refuse to hope.
I won’t hope. I won’t hope. I won’t hope. Because the kind of disappointment that hoping like this brings is not something I want to feel again.
“Go sit. Buckle in,” The Bronze Man tells me. “Need to have a quick word with the pilot.”
We split in opposite directions.
The jet is quite nice, with toffee-colored interior and large, roomy seats. As I’m settling into one of the seats, William boards the jet, rubbing his gloved hands together.
“Oh-kay, time to get the fuck out of dodge,” he says, taking the seat across the aisle from me.
Frowning at him, I ask, “What happened to your accent?”
He pauses from buckling his seatbelt to look at me. “Oh, bullocks, do you mean this one?” he replies in the thick English accent he’d been using the entire time. “Fake.”
Why? “Who are you guys? And where are you taking me?”
The Bronze Man walks out from the cabin just then.
William jerks his head in his direction. “Better to ask the boss.”
While the attendant prepares for takeoff, The Bronze Man comes to the section I’m in and settles into the seat that’s facing mine, separated by a table. He snaps on his seatbelt and rests his head back with a sigh, eyes closing.
I stare at him.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sexier, more brutally handsome man in my life. How can he look so dangerous, but feel so warm and…safe? Instead of triggering alarm bells inside me, his aura feels like handwritten letters from an old friend.
He just feels right and wrong at the same time. So much it’s made a normally rational girl like me stupid. Lusting after a villain.
How sad.
“Who are you?” I ask out loud, again. “Where are you taking me?”
“Home, Lyra,” The Bronze Man replies, eyes still closed. “We’re taking you home.”
~
“ARE YOU OKAY in there?”
Ignoring the voice on the other side of the door, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Red-rimmed brown eyes, tear-stained cheeks, quivering lips. Dark-brown flyaway tendrils sticking to my cheek. I suck on my bottom lip to stop it from trembling.
Home.
At first, I didn’t understand the monumental significance of the word. I figured he meant home to wherever he lived. I’d been about to ask where his home was, when the pilot’s voice cracked over the intercom, telling us to prepare for takeoff.
That we would be landing in Los Angeles in 9.34 hours.
Home.
I was going home.
At first, I was stupefied. Frozen in disbelief. Waiting for the joke. The punchline. I’d stopped breathing. On the verge of hyperventilating.
Then, it’s like the sluice gates opened. Wild waves of emotions engulfed me, submerging me. And suddenly I was drowning. In relief and disbelief. In joy and grief.
Out of breath and overflowing with tears, I’d ran to the lavatory and locked myself inside. And that’s where I’ve been for the past however long. Bawling my eyes out.
I’m going home.
Dad.
Mom.
Oh, God. Oh, God. I can’t wait to see them. Oh, God, I can’t want to see them!
I’d buried the images and memories of them in a safe place in a tight corner of my mind. Where they couldn’t be marred or erased. Protected them so my bitter hurt couldn’t touch them. My parents have been my lifeline. My talisman. The thing that’s kept me from damning myself to the same fate as Kristie. Even if I’d given up all hope of ever seeing them again.
“Lyra...”
Another sob rockets up my throat and I press my hands over my mouth to stifle it.
This is real. This is not a dream. No, not this time.
I really am on a jet, 35,000ft in the air, on route to Los Angeles.
Home.
Thinly, so quietly that William can’t possibly hear me on the other side, I answer, “I-I’m fine.”
“You should come eat something.”
Face crumpling, I sink to the floor and press my face between my knees. Take in long, deep breaths to calm myself. Ten….nine…eight…seven—
I burst into tears.
~
ONCE I’M WRUNG dry of every ounce of liquid in my body, I peel up from the floor, wash the salt from my face, then exit the lavatory.
William is back in his seat, his brows creasing with concern as he watches me amble down the aisle. On the other side, The Bronze Man is fast asleep.
Instead of going back to my seat, I take the one facing William’s. I have questions.
The stewardess straightens from her seat above and inquires if there’s anything she can get me.
“Tea, please,” I answer absently. “And some nuts, if you have it.”
As she goes off, William murmurs, “Here I thought you’d be ecstatic to be going home.”
Crossing my legs, I frown. “Why do you think I’m not?”
“You spending over an hour locked in the bathroom crying?”
I breathe out a sigh. “Forgive me if I’m not bouncing off the walls and doing tequila shots with you. But I gave up hope a long time ago. Numbed myself because it was the only way to endure, to survive. What happened in that bathroom was an unlocking of all the emotions I’d bottled up. Can you even begin to imagine what that’s like? It—it was like a deluge, a torrential downpour. It was like…like I was trapped on the bank of a wild and rowdy river, and I-I had to try and find my way to the other side.”
He grunts. “And did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Find your way to the other side.”
I look down at my hands in my lap and shrug with one shoulder. “I don’t know yet. One side was captivity, the other was freedom. I stepped off the bank of captivity, but I…I don’t know if I’ve made it to freedom...” I pick at my fingernails. “It’s a mental thing.”
The
stewardess returns with a cup of hot water, a selection of teabags, and a small bowl of mixed nuts.
“Thank you very much.” From the selection of teas, I choose a Chai Spice, unwrapping it and dunking it into the cup.
William glances over at The Bronze Man, who’s still asleep, then back to me. “Told me to tell you whatever you wanna know.” He emits a short chuckle. “Think he’s happier to be going home than you are.”
Resisting the urge to look over at the devastating man, I pick at my bowl of nuts. “Where’s he from?”
“Same place as you.”
“L.A.?”
“Yup.”
Oh. “And you?”
“Philly, born and raised. But relocated to L.A. for work.”
“And what is ‘work’?”
“This.”
“You mean rescuing me?”
“Yeah.”
“Did my father hire you?”
Who else would it be? I should have known Daddy wouldn’t give up on me. I’m his only child.
“He hired Tor. Tor hired me.”
“Tor?”
William jerks his head in The Bronze Man’s direction.
Oh. “Is Tor short for something?”
“Yeah. Torin.”
Hmm. What a dainty name for such a jagged-edged man. It seems so…incongruous.
I take a sip of tea, thinking. “I don’t understand. If getting me was the job…well, ‘Tor’ has been a member of the Tenth Floor Club for over a year. He supported Igor, buying and fucking the girls, having them dance in his club. None of it makes sense.”
William tsks. “You’ve got no idea the kind of pull Igor has in Moscow, do you?”
“Where would I have learned that kind of info, William? From the thick ‘Biography of Igor Gusev’ book that he reads to me at night before tucking me in?”
He grins, and it travels to his eyes. “Reuben.”
“What?”
“My name’s Reuben, not William,” he corrects. “But you can call me Ben.”
“Ah. Of course William’s not your real name,” I mutter, shaking my head.
“Tracing you from Cali to Mexico to Columbia to Russia took several weeks. Once in Russia, it took another couple of weeks to find your location. But in situations like this, it’s not as easy as busting in and dragging you out. That’s not how it works. We learned quickly that extracting you wouldn’t be easy. In fact, he went back to America and told your parents it was impossible. Life and death.
