by Wild, Cassie
Two years was the length of time he expected me to stay there and dance.
When I told him that I was on an education visa and worried about deportation, he waved it off. “We have people in INS,” he told me. “Don’t worry.”
I wondered if he meant that if things got ugly and I had to go to the Russian embassy to take refuge, it would be a waste of time.
I had every hope that things wouldn’t get ugly, but at the same time, I suspected it was possible. Basilio had come by the club earlier. Although we hadn’t talked, the way he looked at me as I went through my routine had been…unsettling. To say the least.
I had no doubt he was intrigued by my reappearance. I didn’t like to think about why that might be. Up until that moment, he hadn’t shown much interest in me at all. Except for hunting me down after I supposedly assaulted the man who’d been trying to rape me.
Once Duardo had caught up with me and forced me back here, he hadn’t shown any interest. He hadn’t come by the club even once that last time, but he’d been here watching me rehearse for almost an hour.
Isabel’s words came back to me, and I remembered how frustrated she’d been when she relayed recent contact with her father, how she’d told me she had to be on good behavior because he was still pissed off at her for helping me.
Did he have some idea in mind that having me here would level things? Duardo had said the debt was settled, but that didn’t mean everything was square with all the parties involved. It also didn’t lessen the impact of what I suspected Basilio saw as a betrayal.
After her family had worked so hard to bring me back to Miami, Isabel had chosen to go behind their backs and help me.
Maybe the debt between the Castellanos family and me had been settled without me coming back here, but I suspected that Basilio still held a grudge against the interference by Isabel.
And Brooks, I imagined.
I shivered at the thought. By coming here, I had placed myself back in Basilio’s silken, dangerous web. I’d known that, but knowing it in theory and seeing the speculation in Basilio’s cold eyes was a whole different story.
Still, I had to find a way, find some sort of information that would protect not only me, but Brooks and Isabel as well.
I might have been overreacting, but there was a part of me that didn’t truly believe that Isabel was safe with her family, not now that she knew the truth. It didn’t sit well with her. What if she started to question her father, her brothers? What if she defied them again?
I really didn’t see Basilio harming her—getting pissed off, yes, but not harming her.
I couldn’t be so certain about Duardo and Marcos, though. Especially Marcos. The few times I’d met him, I’d noticed the total lack of…self in his eyes.
He was probably a complete sociopath.
“Daria.”
I heard the voice of the stage manager and looked up. A tall, thin man with mousy features stood there, beckoning toward me impatiently. Although all around me there were women in various stages of undress, he kept his focus on me. Out of all the men here, he was one of the few I didn’t feel like I had to watch constantly. He actually reminded me of some of the stage managers I’d come across when I performed in Moscow—an anal control freak who wanted everything to go as planned.
That meant when I sat here dawdling and brooding, I risked throwing his schedule off.
I rose and slid out of the robe. This one was mine, a shabby old cotton thing that I’d had for years. I’d take it over the slippery silks so many of the other dancers wore. This one was mine, as comfortable as a well-worn favorite t-shirt.
His eyes lingered on the robe with distaste as I hung it up. In this exclusive club, the people all looked as if they came from money. Even the dancers were a step up from those I’d seen at the strip club I’d gone to with Isabel the night this whole mess started.
The costumes were more finely made, although they were every bit as revealing as any other stripper outfit might be.
As I made my way to the stage, I passed by guards who wore suits that fit as though tailor-made. After being measured dozens of times for costumes I’d worn in performances, I knew the look of clothing that had been cut to fit the individual wearer. Other than costumes, though, I’d never worn anything designed solely for me.
Standing at the entryway that led to the stage, I thought about donning one of those costumes, moving in rhythm with the rest of the corps de ballet. “Pretend this is another one of those performances,” I whispered to myself as the music for the previous dancer’s set came to a close.
She came strutting my way as my music came on. My cue.
I tried to mimic the other girl’s confident swagger as I strode onto the stage.
Not letting myself look beyond the lights focused on the stage, I moved to the music. One thing that was comforting about this, even though it was an entirely different kind of dancing, I could still fall into the rhythm and lose myself in the music.
By the time the song came to a close, bringing an end to my first set, my heart pounded at a quick clip, and sweat dewed my skin. My body felt loose and warm. I could have kept on dancing, but at the right cue, I bounced off stage.
“Good job, kid,” Manny, the stage manager, said as the audience clapped and hooted.
I’d had more than a few bills thrown at me, clutching most of them in my fists now, although I had let one or two men tuck fifties and even Franklins into the thin straps of the ludicrously small panties that covered only what was absolutely necessary to keep me from being totally exposed.
Manny collected the money as I stood there. I fished the bills that had been tucked inside my costume and passed them over. There were twenties and hundreds, tossed onto the stage like candy. I counted silently along with Manny and was a bit dismayed to realize my quick routine probably earned close to a thousand dollars. He kept eight hundred and turned the rest over to me. A bit of a smile curled his lips, and he met my eyes. “You’re going to be very popular here. Might be able to work off that debt quicker than Duardo realized.”
I carefully folded the bills, surprised I had even been allowed to keep any of it. I hadn’t before. “What’s this for?” I asked.
“Your cut. If you make over a certain amount, you get a percentage.” He nodded at the cash. “That’s your percentage.”
I swallowed and nodded, then moved off down the hall, my earnings clutched in my fist.
I went to the changing room and grabbed my robe, taking time to tuck the cash into an almost empty canister of perfumed powder. Nobody else was in there at the moment, so I figured the money would be safe.
Peaches had told me that it was usually safe to leave things lying around—the dancers here had an unwritten rule that they wouldn’t steal from each other. I’d had a few things stolen from me at Burov’s, so I could easily imagine how it could be a problem. I was glad I wouldn’t have to worry so much about it, although I hadn’t really expected to be earning any money at all.
Once I’d tucked the cash away and donned my robe, I slid back into the hallway. I was dying of thirst. This club actually had a large breakroom for the dancers, one furnished with light snacks and beverages—non-alcoholic, of course.
I’d been told that I could accept drinks from the patrons when I worked the floor, but no more than one per set.
I had no intention of drinking alcohol here though. My tolerance level wasn’t anything to brag about, and I had to keep my head on straight.
As I made my way down the hallway, I tried hard not to look at anyone or anything.
At least until I heard a noise behind one door that had me pausing.
A woman’s soft cry. The terror in it tugged at me, and I slowed to a stop in front of the door. Indecision warred inside. My head told me to hurry on past and ignore whatever was happening. I knew that if I interfered, it would only cause me problems. I didn’t need any more problems. But the bigger part of me—the part beating hard in my chest—couldn’t h
elp but hurt for the despair so obvious in the first cry and the second one, louder and more plaintive.
I put my hand on the doorknob and slowly turned it.
The second I did, I’d knew I’d been right. This would cause me problems.
Peaches cowered against a table while Marcos leaned in on her.
She saw me first, and when Marcos turned to see what she was looking at, she mouthed at me, “Just go.”
I couldn’t. Not just because of the fear in her eyes, or the swelling forming on her lip. She had a dark red mark on her cheek, and I could see the beginnings of a bruise.
I shifted my attention to Marcos, and now there was another reason for my inability to move. The predatory light in his eyes made my skin crawl.
Ten
Daria
Marcos gave Peaches a rough shove. “Get the hell out of here.”
As she stumbled toward me, I held out a hand to steady her. She leaned against me for a brief moment. “Let me help you to the changing room,” I said softly.
“She can do it on her own,” Marcos said in a chilly voice. When I looked at him, he held out a hand. “Come on in, Daria,” he said, his face folding into a smile of faux warmth. “I need to talk to you.”
Peaches made a low sound of dismay and gave me a hopeless look. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“It’s alright,” I told her with far more confidence than I felt. “I’ll be fine.”
I nudged her into the hall and stepped inside.
“Close the door,” Marcos said, that voice so cool and flat. Emotionless, even.
I did so without turning away from him.
He took a step toward me, hand still outstretched. I eyed it, and I had no doubt he could see my reluctance.
“Come in. Sit.” He gestured to the bar service on one wall and asked, “Would you care for a drink?”
“I have a set coming up shortly,” I said.
“You’ve got time for a quick one. How about a martini?”
“No, thank you.” I shook my head.
“So prim and proper,” he murmured, lowering his hand.
I remained by the door, unwilling to go any deeper into this opulent, well-appointed little space. There was a bed, a TV, the bar service, and a couch. Up against the far wall was another door.
I glanced around, trying not to let my trepidation show.
“This is one of the luxury suites, set aside for only the very best of our clientele.”
Without thinking, I said, “You mean like Leon?”
A wide grin curled his lips. “Oh, compared to some of our clients, Leon doesn’t even rank.”
He moved closer and reached up.
As he trailed his fingers down my cheek, I struggled to keep my expression blank.
“Did any of your…admirers ask for a private performance?” he asked silkily.
“The music was loud,” I said. To be honest, I couldn’t remember if anybody had asked or not.
“They will.” A light glinted in his eyes. “You can make a small fortune, keeping the clientele happy in a club like this.”
“I’m fine with earning what I make on the stage.”
“Are you?” He rocked forward, lowering his head until it was on a level with mine, his fingers still on my face.
“Yes.” I clenched my jaw, and behind my back, I linked my hands, twisting my fingers into knots. I squeezed until I felt pain, letting it clear my head. “I’ve already told Duardo that I’m not interested in…private performances. He didn’t have a problem with it.”
Marcos scoffed. “Duardo doesn’t always see things as clearly as he should.” When he rubbed his thumb across my lower lip, I sank my nails into my hand to keep from flinching away. “As it happens, I’m glad you came by. Peaches was supposed to perform at a party I’m throwing tomorrow. She can’t now. Nobody wants to see a girl walking around with bruises on her face when they’re supposed to be having fun, right?”
I didn’t respond. Not a movement. Not a word.
He grinned. “You’ll take her place.”
“Is that a request?” I was surprised at how level my tone sounded.
“If it makes you feel better to consider it a…request, then do so. But you will perform.”
He reached inside his suit jacket.
In the next moment he scraped something across the V of my bosom when my robe fell open.
It looked like a business card.
“The address. I’ll send a car for you.” He smiled, the curl of his lips so predatory and cold, I knew I’d see it in my nightmares.
I could tell by the look in his eyes that he knew exactly what sort of effect that smile had.
I locked my knees and stared at him calmly. “I’ll be ready.”
“Excellent.” He rocked back on his heels, head cocked. “I’ve been waiting to introduce you to another aspect of our…business enterprises here.”
I could see his anticipation and knew he wanted me to ask what enterprises he was referring to.
I wasn’t about to give him the pleasure.
* * *
I finished my last set just after two a.m.
I left the club with almost six hundred dollars in cash. I was somewhat dismayed by the amount of money I now had in my possession. After only one night.
When I’d been here the first time, I’d been required to sleep in one of the dorm-like rooms on the second floor of the club, but Duardo had informed me that I’d earned a ‘better’ place, and now, I had in an apartment in the building across the street from the location where I now danced.
I’d been surprised by how nice the furnished living quarters had been, but then I’d learned just why I’d been given such accommodations when I’d gotten to the club for my first day on the job—or rather the first night.
On my way out of the apartment complex I’d bumped into Peaches, and she must have seen the surprise on my face. She’d offered a shrug and said most of the top dancers had an apartment there.
“It’s in case we ever get personal requests.” I understood what she’d meant, but my dismay must have shown on my face because she’d offered a sympathetic smile. “You’ll get used to it,” she’d said softly.
“I already told Duardo I’m only here to dance.”
“Maybe you’ll get lucky then.”
As I climbed the single flight of steps up to my second-story apartment, I brooded over her words.
Maybe I’d get lucky.
Because that had happened to me so often in recent weeks.
I didn’t want to feel bitter about all this, not so soon.
I still had to find a way to get whatever proof I needed so I could use it to buy my safety, as well as Brooks’ and Isabel’s.
Letting myself into my apartment, lit by the single lamp I’d left on earlier, I locked the door and leaned back against it.
I’d known this would be hard, exhausting work, and I was committed to it. But I was already tired of the shit that lay in front of me, the things I’d have to do to accomplish my goals.
“You’ll get through it,” I told myself.
Bracing my shoulders, I shoved off the door and headed toward the bedroom. I dumped my work bag on the bed. I’d been told I could leave my costumes at the club, and they would be cleaned and left at my station, but I preferred to handle it all myself. I had enough skimpy garments to last me all week, so I’d only have to do laundry every few days. My apartment had come with a small combination washer/dryer that would handle my limited wardrobe just fine.
Fishing my ‘clothing’ out of my bag, I took it to the washer and added it to the few pieces already in there. I started the load on a delicate cycle and returned to my room, stripping out of the t-shirt and jeans I’d worn to walk across the street to work.
My belly rumbled, and once I’d put on an oversized t-shirt to wear to bed, I went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. It was mostly empty, but I had jelly in there, and bread and peanut butter in the cabinet. I didn’t
have a day off for a few days, but once I didn’t have to go in to rehearse at four, then spend the next nine hours working the floor or performing on stage, I’d take the time to do some grocery shopping.
The good news was that if I was bored with peanut butter any time in the next few days, I had the cash now to have Chinese or pizza delivered. My belly rumbled again at the thought.
If it wasn’t so late, I might have checked to see if there was any place open that delivered now, but I suspected I wouldn’t be so lucky, and I wasn’t about to waste the time if I wouldn’t have any results.
So, I’d go to bed, dreaming of pad thai and spring rolls.
Tomorrow, I’d find a place that delivered Asian cuisine, and I’d pig out to my heart’s content, not giving one thought to the calories I was consuming.
That was the very least I deserved at this point.
Eleven
Brooks
An airline attendant paused at my seat, smiling down at me. “Would you like one last drink before we begin our descent?”
“I’m fine,” I said, forcing myself to smile although I’d spent the entire flight brooding and planning.
I hadn’t wanted to clue my father in on what I was doing, or that there was even anything going on, so instead of taking the family jet or my own smaller one, I’d flown first class on a public airline.
I checked the time, noting that we’d be landing within the next half hour and then made sure that a car would be waiting at the airport for me. Within the hour, I expected to be on my way to downtown Miami and the club where Daria had been taken the last time the Castellanos brothers had gotten their grimy hands on her.
She was there, somewhere, and I had no doubt she’d taken it on herself to square that stupid debt personally.
Maybe she assumed the bullet I’d taken had been fired as retaliation for interfering in the Castellanos business. To be honest, it wasn’t an idea I could completely rule out, although I wished I could.
