I forced out a smile, remembering Trixie’s orders. “Thank you.”
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friends, Andrei?” asked the other man in a suit, who’d remained silent until now.
Volkov hesitated for a fraction of a second then smiled coldly.
“Where are my manners? Yveta, Galina, Ash—this is my dear colleague Sergei. He’s in charge of security.”
Sergei stood to shake hands with us. He was maybe fifty, with steel-gray hair and eyes to match.
He smiled at me, his unblinking gaze crawling across my body.
“It seems to be my lucky night. It must be fate.”
I was about to let go when he gave my hand an extra squeeze, his fingers stroking my wrist.
I pulled free, inhaling sharply, but he just smiled wider, his dead eyes shark-like as they trailed over my body in a way that was deliberate and obvious. He could also tell that it made me uncomfortable.
I’m a dancer. I’m used to people looking at my body. After all, it’s my instrument, a powerful tool—I want people to look and admire. But it’s all about the dancing. Not about people fucking me with their eyes like this asshole.
A lot of people assume that all male dancers are gay. I’m not. Definitely straight. It doesn’t bother me what other men do. Getting hit on by gay guys is an occupational hazard when you’re a dancer. Most of them back off when they realize that you’re straight.
I wouldn’t say I was close friends with them or any other dancers because it was too competitive. Except for Luka, my friends were outside the life.
I’d guess that probably six out of ten male dancers are gay, and I don’t care whether it’s ballroom, ballet or contemporary, but that means that four are straight. So I’m a minority. That gives some guys I’ve known license to sleep with as many women as they can—real wolves in sheep’s clothing. I’m not like that. I’m not a monk either and I’ve had girlfriends, but it’s usually too much drama, so I steer clear. One night stands where everyone knows the score is more my thing, but even then, not all that often. I’m always training, always taking classes. And if I’m not doing that, I’m working. Girls don’t stay around if you don’t pay enough attention to them.
My dance coach, Lelyana, always said that the drama should be on the dance floor and not in your personal life. I wanted to win more than I wanted to screw around.
But Sergei . . . I got the feeling that he didn’t care if I was gay or straight. And that could be a problem, especially if he was close to Volkov.
I moved back to my seat, trying to relax the tension in my body.
Volkov had already lost interest and turned his attention to Yveta and Galina, chatting easily in Russian.
I wondered what was going on with Marta—and where was the other girl? If she hadn’t reminded me so much of Luka’s little sister, I probably would have kept my mouth shut.
“There was a girl at the airport . . .”
A sudden silence made me feel as if a spotlight was on me, and although the room was air conditioned, sweat trickled down my back.
“With Oleg . . .” I rasped out, my throat dry despite the drink in my hand.
Volkov laughed and glanced at Sergei.
“Oleg has a girlfriend? Why did no one tell me? Should we prepare for a wedding?”
His smile was wintry.
“I’ll make enquiries,” he said without much interest.
I wanted to say more, but I was nervous. The atmosphere turned arctic and those yellow lamp-like eyes burned coldly.
The biker shifted in his seat, his hand tightening on Marta’s leg until she let out a small cry.
Sergei stared at me, his face a wax-like mask, blank and expressionless, but utterly chilling.
I felt my courage shrivel and my body screamed for me to run. Sitting still, meeting his gaze, those were the mostly insanely brave things I’d ever done in my entire life.
Ash
THE MEETING WITH Volkov had left us all shaken. It was clear that Marta wasn’t in that room willingly, and she looked terrified. The biker guy had been creepy enough, but those Russians . . . not people you messed with.
I hoped I wouldn’t see any of them again.
Trixie was waiting outside the suite. She didn’t seem surprised when she saw our shocked faces.
“Who are these guys?” I asked quietly as we rode the elevator back to the ground floor.
She gave a grim smile. “Haven’t you figured it out yet?”
I had. I just didn’t want to believe it.
“Bratva.”
Russian mafia.
It was Yveta who had spoken. Trixie stared back, but didn’t answer directly.
“It’s not always so bad. Mostly they just want to do business, you know.”
Galina gripped my hand tightly and I gave it an encouraging squeeze although I felt just as worried as her and Yveta.
“Sergei . . .” Trixie shivered and lowered her voice to a whisper. “He’s a sick bastard. Thank God I’m not his type,” and when she glanced at me, her expression was pitying. “And Oleg . . . he likes them young. Very young.”
She swallowed and looked down.
“They don’t usually come to the theater—that’s a legit business. You should be okay. Just keep your mouths shut and stay out of trouble. That’s the best advice I can give you.” She forced a fake smile. “That’s showbiz!”
I shook my head, and her smile dropped away.
“You do what you gotta do, kid. Which in this case is nothing. You’ll learn.”
“But that’s crazy!”
“Comments like that will get you killed,” Trixie snapped, dropping the ditzy blonde act.
Galina and Yveta were having a silent conversation, although both of them looked scared.
When Trixie left us in the lobby, I turned to them.
“Can you believe this shit?!”
Galina paled even further, swaying slightly.
“Shut up!” Yveta hissed at me.
“But . . .”
“Listen,” she said, grabbing my arm and towing me toward the staff area. “Those are Bratva! You don’t mess with them. You don’t make them angry. Not if you want to live.”
Galina swallowed and nodded her agreement.
“Then what the hell are we supposed to do?”
“What we came here for—we dance.”
And she marched off, dragging Galina with her. I watched them in silence, wondering if she was right.
I decided I’d talk to Gary. But when I opened the door to our room, it was empty. I waited up for him for a while, but then I remembered he had a date with one of the guys in the band.
Frustrated and disgusted with my own cowardice, I finally fell into an uneasy sleep.
My last waking thought was that I hadn’t gotten my cell phone back either.
The next morning, Galina and Yveta avoided me at breakfast. Honey raised an eyebrow.
“Lovers quarrel?”
“What?”
She sat down next to me, a bowl of fruit and yogurt in front of her.
“Why are they giving you the cold shoulder?”
I took a sip of coffee.
“How much do you know about this guy Volkov?”
“Oh,” she said, understanding in her expression. “You heard the rumors.”
She knew. They all knew.
“It’s more than that. We saw . . .”
“Look, Ash, I’ve lived in Vegas for a few years now. You hear stuff. It’s best to ignore it. Asking questions isn’t a good idea.”
“That’s what Trixie said.”
“You should listen to her.”
I rubbed my forehead. “But . . . ?”
She rested her hand on my arm and looked at me seriously.
“Ash, asking questions isn’t a good idea.”
Then she stood up and walked away.
Across the room, Yveta glanced at me briefly, then dropped her gaze back to the table.
Ela
ine worked us relentlessly all day. She’d decided to add another Latin number to the show, and as there were only three of us who were trained in mambo let alone salsa, it was slow going. We were professional dancers, but still, it’s a tricky rhythm to pick up. Salsa is a street dance with no frame, and doesn’t even break on the right count. A lot of ballroom dancers despise salsa, but I’d always liked it.
When you’re learning, teachers say you only dance three of the four steps, but that’s not strictly true. It’s a fluid, loose dance, and you’re constantly in motion.
The hip action is mostly relaxed, subtle, especially for the men, and your weight is placed onto a slightly bent knee. There are no heel leads, unlike in ballroom, so steps are taken first with the ball of the foot in contact with the floor, and then with the heel lowering when the weight is fully transferred.
Armography has to stay natural or it looks contrived and weird. You have to let your arms react naturally to body movement, and held slightly above waist level.
And there are a lot of lifts you can use in a showdance salsa. Elaine must have been trying to kill me and Gary, because it felt like she was working us through every lift she knew, and then inventing a few on top.
“Again!” she shouted. “Grace—more hip action.”
Un, dos, tres . . .
The Ricky Martin song pounded out for the hundredth time. Again. And again.
My t-shirt was stuck to my body and Gary’s face was bright red. The girls had sweated through their makeup, even though we all used waterproof cosmetics for that reason. But we’d been at this all day, not just the two hours of a show.
Un, dos, tres . . .
“Smile!” Elaine roared.
We smiled our asses off, and Honey threw me an apologetic look as I braced myself one more time to lift her into a rollerblind drop.
She wrapped herself into my right side and I caught her rising leg with my free arm, spun around twice, clamped my hand around her lower thigh and let her roll down my body, making sure she didn’t hit the floor.
My muscles were straining, and Honey’s skin was slippery with sweat. It had been a near miss the last couple of times.
Then Gary dropped Yveta on her ass and she yelled at him in Russian.
Elaine told Yveta to go ice her backside. Then she turned to look at us, all panting like racehorses. I guess she took pity on us because she frowned and shook her head, dismissing us for the day.
“Good job people,” she said grudgingly.
I couldn’t help smiling—we were on fucking fire, and the audience would be wowed. Yes, we sweated. Yes, we strained. But we smiled through every second. And I fucking loved it.
I high-fived Gary and he slapped the palm of my hand, then winced.
“I don’t know about icing my ass,” Gary whined. “I need to ice my whole body.”
“I’ve done that before,” I sighed, rolling my head to ease my neck muscles.
“Yeah, me too. We can’t get that here, but we can use the masseuses if they’re not booked by guests.”
“Really? That would be amazing.”
“I’ll call down after we’ve showered and then I’ll ask if . . .”
Gary’s words died as he opened the door to our room.
“What the . . . ?”
I stepped into the room behind him, staring at the devastation.
“Oh my God,” Gary whispered, clutching my arm.
All our clothes had been tossed onto the floor, and it looked as though someone had taken a knife to them. But as I looked closer, I realized it wasn’t Gary’s clothes that had been cut to ribbons—just mine. Everything I owned, every single thing had been shredded, even my shoes.
“I’d better call security,” he whispered.
I nodded, robbed of any words I might have said. I started to sift through the rags, searching for anything that they might have left undamaged. But there was nothing. My iPod was gone, my wallet and ID, even my aftershave had been taken. I sat on the bed, numbly wondering why they hadn’t touched Gary’s clothes.
But when security arrived, I had a horrible feeling that I knew the answer.
Sergei walked into the room, shaking his head at the mess.
“Oh dear, who could have done such a terrible thing, I wonder? But still, it’s my lucky day,” he smiled. “I get to see your bedroom.”
He smirked at me while Oleg stood watching, and I had to clench my fists to keep the anger inside.
“We’ll find the person responsible and make them pay, of course,” he said. “I do feel responsible as the head of security. But I’m sure I can make it all better.”
His eyes dropped to my t-shirt, still stuck to my body with sweat, and he licked his lips.
“If you don’t feel safe in this room, better rooms are provided for staff who show their loyalty,” he said, catching my elbow and staring at me.
He trailed a finger along my forearm and squeezed my hand.
Annoyed, I stepped back, crashing my hip against the bed frame.
“I’m not gay,” I said quickly, hoping that I was wrong and that he’d back off.
He smiled like he didn’t believe me. That pissed me off even more. And it reminded me of my father, which was one of the reasons I was here.
“So? Just think about it as making the boss happy,” and he smiled again.
I didn’t want him to know that he’d got me rattled, so I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to ignore the way he was staring at my crotch.
“Ah, Aljaž, you really should learn who your friends are.”
“What are you going to do about this?” I asked, my eyes narrowing. “Everything is ruined.”
Sergei shrugged, his eyes glinting.
“Who knows? Choices, choices.”
He paused, his eyes lingering on mine and gave a sarcastic laugh, leaning forward, tapping a finger against his thin lips.
“I can offer you somewhere . . . cozier? A little more luxury? No? Ah well, that’s a pity. I’m sure we’re going to be great friends. Think about it overnight. Let me know when you’ve changed your mind.”
And he left.
Gary wiped a hand over his face, his skin a sickly green color.
“That guy is . . .”
“I know.”
He swallowed and glanced at the door.
“What are you going to do?”
“Can I borrow something to wear? I’ve got some money saved so I can buy . . .” Then I swore. “They took my credit cards. Fuck it—I’ll have to cancel them. Can I borrow your cell?”
Gary nodded and handed me his phone. It took a while to make the calls and while I spoke to the credit card companies, Gary picked up my destroyed clothes and shoved the rags into garbage bags.
It was approaching 2AM by the time we went to bed. Gary wedged a chair against the door. It wouldn’t do much, but it made him feel better.
I don’t think either of us slept.
The next morning he loaned me some workout clothes. At least I had the dance shoes I’d used yesterday. That was something, but I needed to buy a performance pair along with, well, everything.
I planned to go shopping after work with Gary. He said he knew some discount places where I could get what I needed, and he’d loan me the money until I could get my cards replaced.
But when we got to rehearsals, Sergei was waiting for me. With Oleg.
“I just need to borrow him for a few hours,” he smiled at Elaine.
She didn’t look happy about it, but didn’t argue either. I had no choice but to go with him.
He led me through the staff entrance. It creeped me out to have Oleg walking behind me, wondering what he was going to do because he damn well wasn’t there for decoration.
At the kitchen, we halted and Sergei pointed his finger at one of the Asian cooks.
“Him,” he said. “He’s the one who broke into your room.”
The man looked terrified and started babbling in his own language as he backed away. When he tu
rned to run, Oleg grabbed him by his arm and flung him against the wall. And then he punched him. Over and over again he punched him, methodically turning the man’s face into raw meat.
The other cooks fled and I stood there, watching a man being beaten half to death.
I did nothing.
I said nothing.
I couldn’t do anything except stare in horrified silence.
Oleg dropped the man to the floor, like a carcass from a butcher’s shop, then calmly washed his hands.
For the first time in my life, I was seeing more than everyday meanness or stupidity. We all say: I could kill him for that, but we don’t mean it literally. For the first time, I was staring at real evil.
Cold fingers of fear clawed their way into my chest as Sergei smiled and heaved a fake sigh.
“Koreans—always the same. Ah well, problem solved. Now, what can we do about your clothes? Although I’d much rather see you naked.”
And he laughed.
Still shocked, my flesh crawled when he laid his hand on my shoulder, slowly stroking down to my stomach.
Appalled, I stepped back abruptly, but Conan was standing behind me and wrapped a thick arm around my neck, cutting off the oxygen with expert speed.
The pressure on my throat increased each second. I fought with my whole body, striking out with legs and arms, but it was like hitting granite.
“That’s not very friendly when I’ve done you a favor,” Sergei commented as I fought for breaths.
He grinned as he grabbed my junk and squeezed hard.
“I’m sure we’ll be friends soon,” he whispered against my ear. “Good friends.”
My vision was turning black.
Then Conan let go, and I dropped to my knees, breath rasping through my crushed windpipe.
Fury and humiliation heated my blood, but fear cooled it again. I wanted to kill the bastard, but I didn’t want to die. This is a nightmare! Please God, let me wake up.
The mix of extreme emotions was disorienting.
I shook my head, trying to get my vision back and stop my ears from ringing. Slowly, my breathing started to ease, and Conan hauled me to my feet while Sergei smiled and clapped his hands together like a gameshow host.
Slave to the Rhythm (The Rhythm #1) Page 4
