Doll Face

by Sadie Grubor

  "Well, now you have me intrigued," he states, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

  "You remember the death of Evgeni Volkov's wife and infant son?" I pause, allowing him to confirm.

  "The death of the Bratva Queen, their prince, and the blood bath Evgeni began is sort of a hard story to forget," he states.

  Nodding, I agree, "Yes."

  "Did you bring me here to discuss romanticized blood wars?" he asks, wearing a teasing smile.

  "No," I clip out, growing annoyed at his sarcasm. "We're here because Angelo is the one behind the deaths."

  The grin melts from his face.

  "Why would he—?"

  "Greed, power, because he could," I interject.

  "What would murdering a woman and infant accomplish? Other than to upset the truce we have with the Bratva?"

  "You're not stupid, Felix. You've seen what Angelo really is."

  Felix snaps his mouth shut. Eyes narrowing, he studies my face.

  "I'm not trying to set you up," I assure him. "There's something else too," I admit.

  His brow furrows and the muscles in his jaw flex. "What?"

  "I'm not convinced Evgeni's son died in the explosion."

  He opens his mouth, but I lift a hand to silence his protest.

  "It's not confirmed," I divulge, "but I suspect Angelo has him. Or had him. He could've disposed of him later, I suppose."

  When I reach into my jacket, he stiffens, only relaxing when I pull out an envelope.

  Lifting it up, I meet his stare and toss it in his lap.

  Opening the envelope, he pulls out three documents and looks them over. The first provides dates, locations, and times—one particular entry highlighted. The second, a copy of a time-stamped photo placing Angelo right where the first document states, and, finally, the third, a transcription of the audio file I listened to.

  "How do I know this isn't some—"

  Tossing a black recorder device in his lap cuts him off.

  He picks it up, puts in the earbuds, and presses play.

  Every emotion flickering across his face is like an out of body experience. I can almost see the moment he hears Angelo reference the loss of AJ. “Sacrifices must occur in order to make it to the winner's circle.”

  "That fucker killed his own son!" Felix shouts, yanking the earbuds out.

  "He's the reason AJ is dead yes," I correct.

  "It's the same fucking thing," Felix argues. "If he hadn't started a fucking blood war with Evgeni, we wouldn't have been ambushed that day and AJ—his own damn son, Saint—would still be with us."

  Faulting him for his anger would be hypocritical. The day we lost our cousin was hard on both of us.

  Lifting the device, Felix smashes it on the floor.

  "He treats it like just another fucking casualty in his greater picture," Felix rants, pushing out of the chair and pacing.

  His reaction is bittersweet. I know he'll be on board with my plan to deal with Angelo, but he's also struggling with the loss of AJ once again. Only, this time, it's with the added callousness of our uncle.

  "He'll pay," I vow, pushing out of my chair.

  Felix twists his head in my direction. "And how do you plan to accomplish that? Not even The Saint will come of out of something like that alive."

  Tugging on the cuff of my sleeve, I begin, "The difference between you and me, Felix," I pause, giving him my back and making my way to the door, "is I never plan on survival." Grasping the door handle, I pull it open and exit.

  When I reach the end of the long hallway, I draw back the velvet curtain leading to the central area and freeze.

  Under a golden spotlight, my current obsession caresses a metal pole with one leg, cigarette smoke swirling around her body as if she's commanding it to do so.

  Mei

  "What the fuck are you doing here?"

  Ignoring Joey's question, I lean in close to the mirror and swipe black kohl along my lash line, pretending he's talking to one of the other dancers.

  "Mei," he barks, gripping the old chair and shaking. "I told you—"

  Meeting his hard eyes in the mirror, I drop the liner.

  "You said a few days, Joe," I remind him. "It's almost been a week."

  Five days, to be exact. While the extra gym time has done wonders for my technique, I can't even stand the thought of staying locked up in my small apartment any longer. Between feeling watched every time I step out of my building, my new neighbor's midnight bedroom performances, and my dwindling spending money, getting back to work is my only choice. Regardless of the men who scared me away from the club, who had me locking myself away in fear, I can no longer cower. I made a vow, a promise to myself, and it's time to take control.

  "Barely a week, Mei," he says on an exasperated sigh.

  "I need the money," I confess.

  Surprise widens his eyes, unfamiliar with my volunteering anything personal.

  Swallowing down the anxiousness and apprehension, I continue. "And I'll need one of the main stages tonight."

  His features morph, giving me a skeptical glance.

  "You want the floor tonight?" he asks, the underlying tone making his silent inquiry clear.

  If he gives me a main stage, then I agree to work the floor and private dance rooms.

  The darkness stirs deep inside, twisting my stomach with its feverish anticipation of delving into the wickedness sure to follow.

  Keeping my mask in place, I nod.

  Joey's eyes narrow for just a moment before he licks his lips. "Fine, but I have my own conditions."

  Steeling my spine, I sit up and wait.

  "You can have stage three…" he starts, and I fight the urge to cringe. Stage three is where the regulars hang out: the sloppy drunks, gropers, and men who come in here too often for my liking. Joey isn't stupid. He's picked up on my preference for the casual visitor or passer through.

  "Or you get on stage one and put the full show on," he finishes, dropping into the seat next to me. The bustle of the dressing room quiets and I feel their eyes on us.

  "Fine," I bite out.

  "I'll let Chase know," he says through a grin.

  I start to turn back to the mirror, but he keeps talking. "Oh, and Mei, start with the sweet and innocent act." It's not a request.

  Standing, he reaches over my head. Grabbing an outfit from the wall rack, he drops it in the now vacant seat. Knowing exactly what he chose, I don't look at it until I know he's gone from the room.

  Given what I ran away from years ago, the irony of this particular outfit is not lost on me. Facing the mirror, I take a deep breath to calm the terrible desires tingling beneath my skin. Getting myself under control, I grab the outfit and set it on the table in front of me. The flesh-tone bralette and G-string are fine. It's the sheer, white babydoll mini dress that makes my head swim with unwanted feelings and memories.

  "Where is your hair?" he asks, urgency in his tone and a box under his arm.

  "It's too hot," I whine.

  "But a ragdoll has red yarn hair," he insists, scanning the room.

  Biting my lip, I twist my hands in my aproned lap. I know I'm supposed to wear the red hair with this dress. I'm expected to match Annie, my favorite doll to bring to my tea parties with the shadow in the mirror.

  "Doll," he warns, stepping so close, his shiny black shoes almost touch my tights-covered leg.

  Sighing, I reach behind me under the bed, pull out the wig, and place it on my head.

  "That's better," he praises, slipping his hands beneath my arms. Bringing me to my feet, he guides me toward the tall wall mirror.

  "Why do you have your table against the mirror?" he asks, pushing it and my most favorite of the toy dolls out of his way.

  "To have tea with my friends," I explain.

  "Your dolls?" he inquires, glancing back to the table, Annie, Penny, Teddy, Sarah, and Betty now knocked over in their chairs.

  I nod.

  He picks up Sarah, my dark-ski
nned china doll, and runs his finger over the curve of her face before touching a dark curl.

  "Do you want one like this," he holds Sarah out to me, "from daddy?"

  I nod once more, excited at the thought of a new friend in Daddy's doll room.

  "You love them more than these toys, don't you?" he asks, placing Sarah onto the small table set for imaginary tea. "They're more fun, aren't they?"

  His eyes light with excitement.

  "Oh, yes," I agree. "It's much more fun with them. When I touch them, they are warm, and they blink, and…and…" Guilt sets in. "But I love these too," I declare, making sure these dolls know I love them too, " and my shadow friend," I admit, searching the mirror for her to show up.

  But, like every time Daddy is here, she doesn't.

  He stills, hands taking my shoulders in a firm grip, eyes roaming over my face.

  "Shadow friend?" he presses.

  Before I can respond, he smiles. "Like Peter Pan?"

  I nod, grinning at the mention of my favorite bedtime story.

  Conversation about my shadow friend over, he situates me before the mirror.

  "See how perfect you are?" he says, moving against my back.

  The heat of his body adds to the warmth of the hair. Before I can step away, he clenches my shoulders, pulling me closer. More and more, his touch feels different. His stares linger, searching. Fingers tip my chin up to meet his gaze.

  "I have something for you," he informs, grinning wide.

  "What is it?" Excitement laces my question, though I know what it will be before opening the ribbon decorated package. Removing the box from under his arm, he places it on my tea party table.

  It's another stuffed doll which would be followed by a matching outfit. The dress would be in my size, and I would model it for the only friend who could move like me—my shadow in the mirror. If I twirled, she twirled. When I touched the glass, she touched it too. And sometimes, she would do something for me to repeat.

  Lingering too long on the past, I rush to get my curled pigtails in place. Fighting back the memories of the shadow in the mirror, what I decided later was just the creation of a child's imagination, I hurry out to the stage. My trip down nightmare lane means I don't have the time to look over the crowd. Tonight, I won't be able to assess them for my preferred customers.

  With a quick introduction and the sickening sounds of jewelry box music, I approach the pole and grip. The deeper beat kicks in, an innocent voice sings the lyrics about having no strings to hold me down, and I sway gently, giving my innocent act.

  After two years, I'm still not sure whether Joey is a twisted or brilliant asshole. Twisted because it's a goddamn children's movie song, or brilliant because the crowd always eats it up. There's never a sound out of the crowd or an eye anywhere but on me. He swears it's because of my youthful appearance, but I'm pretty sure any of the girls would get the same reaction.

  Hell, even I feel a reaction—an unwanted one. The dark desires begin their own dance inside me, reaching, stretching, trying to break out of the box I lock them away in.

  At the crescendo, I take a breath, calming the urges just in time for the next song to start up.

  Music with a heavy beat plays through the club and I start the roll of my body, swing of my hips, and make eye contact with a couple men scattered around the stage.

  Switching from sweet girl to crazy nympho, I lip the words and move across the stage. Unhooking the mini dress, it floats to the floor, leaving me in nude-colored lingerie covered in gemstones.

  When I remove the bralette, I barely notice the money thrown at my feet. The dark urges battle for freedom. Dropping to the side of the stage, I try to distract myself with the singles being slid against my skin and beneath my G-string. For the moment, it works, until a man grabs my thigh and squeezes.

  Gripping his wrist, I pull his hand away and shake my head with a scolding purse of my lips. Crawling away from Mister Handsy, I reach the other side of the stage. On my knees, I close my eyes and grind down toward the stage. Running my hands up my body, I slip my fingers into my hair and reopen my eyes to the one they call Saint.

  The ferocity in his eyes should scare me, but it does the opposite. The malevolence in them titillates, excites. Our eyes locked, I rise to my feet and back up against the pole. Twisting my hips, rolling my body, I'm caught in his depths, and the darkness I lock away seeps through the confines of its cage, crawling, stretching through my limbs. Every dirty, terrible urge I fight surfaces, raising each hair on my body. My nerve endings crackle with anticipation, excitement, and fear. Sucking my lip into my mouth, I bite. The metallic taste slipping over my tongue sends a throb between my legs.

  Caressing my hands over my hips, I follow the crease where my torso meets my leg. I'm one fingertip away from slipping beneath the G-String to ease my ache, when a man shouts out, breaking the trance.

  "Come here, baby!"

  Turning, I grip the pole and spin, fighting to lock everything back down inside me. As soon as the song ends, I collect the money and rush from the stage. Pushing through the backstage curtain, my bicep is seized in a rough grip.

  "Hey—" I start, but my protest is cut off with a palm pressed to my mouth as I'm dragged down the hallway and shoved into a private room. I stumble forward before finding my balance. Clutching the minimal clothing to my chest, I turn to face my attacker, and freeze.

  "If you want a dance, you need to make the arrangements with Chase," I say with a bravado I don't feel at all.

  One side of Felix's mouth quirks, though I can't tell whether it's in amusement or disgust. He settles onto a couch along the wall, resting his left ankle on his right knee.

  "We need to get a few things cleared up, doll," he says, scratching his scruffy jaw, and I stiffen at the endearment.

  "Relax, I just need to be sure we understand what happened last week." Dropping his leg, he plants both feet on the floor and leans his elbows to his knees. His eyes stay focused on me, though they peruse my body, lingering on the barest spots.

  "I don't know what you're talking about." I'm amazed at the boldness in my voice, especially with the way my palms are sweating.

  A grin splits his stern face.

  "Good girl," he praises, standing from the couch.

  With smooth, confident strides, he backs me against the far wall.

  "You look so sweet." His eyes roam my face.

  In a flash of movement, Felix grabs my wrists and yanks my arms out to my sides, my clothes falling to the floor. His light brown eyes drop to my chest and he licks his lips.

  Leaning forward, he presses his face into my neck, and whispers, "So sweet."

  His tongue runs over my skin, causing an unwanted shiver, and the urges begin to stir once more. Running his nose along my jaw, he inhales. Then, his lips are on mine, pressing, pushing.

  When I don't immediately return the kiss, his grip on my wrists tightens painfully, and I force myself to comply to his unspoken command.

  Felix releases my wrists, cupping the sides of my face and deepening the kiss. Pressings his body into mine, he gives one hard thrust as his hands slide down over my neck and collarbone, until he can palm my breast.

  "Boss?" a deep voice calls through the door, followed by three hard knocks.

  Ignoring them, Felix swipes his thumb over my left nipple, but the knock comes again.

  "Christ, Nico," he growls, pushing away from me. "What is it?" he shouts at the door.

  The door cracks open and the large man from the other night leans in. "There's a pressing matter," he rasps.

  His eyes shift to me, and to his credit, he doesn't look at my bare breasts before focusing back on Felix.

  "Angelo," is all his says, and Felix tenses for the briefest moment before turning back to me.

  "Another time, doll," he says with a grin, and the endearment makes my stomach roil. Then, he's gone, out the door with Nico.

  I collect the discarded clothing and leave the VIP room. It may be tim
e to move on, after all—a new place, new strangers, and less attention from men like him. A pair of bright hazel eyes flash in my mind, sending tingles down my spine and stirring the darkness inside me.

  Back in the dressing room, I don the black strapless bra and matching garter and panties. Rummaging through my bag, I select a pair of black, silk, elbow-length gloves. Innocent may have been the game on the stage, but naughty is the way to go when catching the eye of those seeking private time. And I can get away with no gloves on stage, but the roughness of my fingers makes the use of them essential—just as necessary as the lengths I go to make my fingerprints unrecognizable.

  "Mei." Joey's call stops me right outside the dressing room. His brow is furrowed and lips drawn tight. "Room five," he clips, looking more pissed than usual. He can't still be angry about me being back, especially since he got what he wanted on stage.

  "I haven't—"

  "You have a request," he cuts me off, not meeting my eyes. Worry starts to gnaw at my gut.

  "What's going—?"

  "No questions. Just go," he interrupts once more. "Now," he orders.

  At the rough command, I make my way down the dim hallway to the room farthest from everything. Outside the door, I pause, running my silk-covered hands up my arms. He didn't give me the client's name or any details. Damn it, I mentally curse, he's sending me in here blind.

  Opening the door, I step into the dimly lit room. Thinking they aren't here yet, I reach for the light switch panel.

  "Leave it," the deep baritone voice slices through me. I don't have to see him to know it's him—the one they call Saint. Excitement prickles my skin, anticipation kicks my heart into overdrive, and fear...the fear steels my spine and constricts my lungs. I want to run, but I'm not sure whether it's away from or toward the voice.

  "I'll catch you," he informs, and a new wave of terror slices through me. "Close the door."

  As if my body has fallen under his control, I shove the door shut behind me.

  Arms wrap around me from behind, one at my waist, the other across my chest. His rough hand clamps down on my shoulder, while the other squeezes the fleshy part of my hip. He's so much larger than me, stronger too, and his arms act as unwavering bands, confining me against his chest.