Chapter 9
brOOKLYN
I'm filled with dread when I enter the back door of The Mirage and head to the changing room. Mercifully, one of the girls mentions that Lou is preoccupied with a VIP room full of Bratva enforcers.
Guess I’m safe from him, at least temporarily.
I put my soggy sandwiches in the refrigerator in the little kitchenette next to the changing area, then stash the rest of my stuff in my locker. I flip through my various costumes before I settle on a “sexy policewoman” outfit that tears away with a light tug.
“Mmm. There’s a retirement party out there tonight.”
I turn to see Maya standing behind me, hip cocked, wearing a neon green thong bikini that contrasts gorgeously with her caramel tanned skin.
“For a headmaster at a private school.” She rolls her eyes. “I’d go naughty schoolgirl for maximum cash.”
I make a face. “Eww, gross?”
“Gotta get that money, girl.”
Truer words, my friend.
I peel off my street clothes, slip into super-stretchy, easily pulled-away panties and a matching demi-bra, then grab the schoolgirl outfit from my costume rack.
“So, that guy who was looking for me…?”
Maya winces. “I didn't mean to scare you by putting it that way. Like, yeah, I got weird vibes, but just because I wasn’t expecting someone like that.”
I arch a brow. “ Someone like that ?”
“Like I said, hot as fuck ,” Maya grins. “I’m not even joking. He looked rich, too. Had that air about him, and he was dressed really well.” She taps her chin. “Smelled nice, too.”
My brows knit. “Was it Roman?”
Maya frowns. “The big cute confused one who comes in sometimes?” She giggles. “No, not him.”
“Weird.”
“Don't stress about it. Like I said, he was probably someone from your lawyer.”
I’m at the vanity doing my makeup when my phone dings with a text from a friend, asking if I’d like to grab a drink after my shift's over.
Me
You have no IDEA how necessary that is today. Call u later.
Months ago, I was in a pretty bad situation. I mean, it’s not like I’m in a terrific place now, but that was definitely a low point. I was a few months into living in Pearl, perpetually sleep deprived, hungry, and money was really tight.
It wasn’t my proudest moment, but I found myself starting an OnlyFans account. I never thought I'd be on a site that almost exclusively skews toward adult content where followers can “subscribe” to a creator for pay-per-view content or certain custom photos or videos, but you do what you have to.
I figured I was already stripping, so why not? I made sure I never showed my face, never even did anything really explicit—mostly just “erotic” photoshoots with dramatic lighting, lingerie, a few partial nudes.
Eventually, it felt way too much like I was doing porn, so I stopped. No shame or judgment to the people who use it to make a living at all . It just wasn’t for me, and it was sending me spiraling me into a negative place.
That spiral hit its lowest point about nine months ago.
Evelina’s older brother Roman was throwing a party at their father’s house, which he does fairly frequently. A bunch of us from the Zakharova went, but while most of my friends just came to have fun, I came to medicate .
To numb the self-loathing and dull the sensation that my life was spinning out of control.
Eventually, I told my friends I was leaving.
But instead, a few drinks in, I snuck upstairs to Mr. Nikitin’s master bathroom.
He obviously wasn’t home, and desperate, semi-drunk me thought that the Bratva pakhan’s ultra-luxurious marble and glass bathroom would make the perfect backdrop for some pics for my OnlyFans account.
But then I started scrolling through some of the stuff I’d posted recently on the site and actually reading the comments.
“Slut.”
“What a whore”.
“10/10 would rape.”
The spiral plunged into a nose-dive that night. It was like months of feeling like complete shit about myself as a person all distilled down to one moment where I just sort of…gave up.
Stopped caring. Stopped trying to fight the overwhelming odds against me.
I remember looking out the bathroom window with tears in my eyes and seeing my friends heading out in a group as the party wound down.
I’d already told them I was going home, so they weren't abandoning me or anything, but it made me feel so fucking alone in the universe and just shone a huge light on the differences between their lives and mine.
That’s when I found Mr. Nikitin’s prescription bottle of oxycodone and took one.
Then two more. Then another three, before tucking the bottle into my pocket. I decided that that night was my cue to exit. To stop fighting. I didn’t care if I lived anymore.
That was the rock-bottom lowest of the low points.
But right after that, sitting slumped in the empty porcelain claw-foot bathtub, I happened to turn and glance out the window at the pool in the back yard below where the party had been raging earlier.
…And saw someone floating in it.
Seeing what could literally be a dead body sobered me up and slapped me back into reality. I instantly rushed to the toilet and made myself throw up the pills, staggered downstairs, and hurled myself into the pool.
Somehow, I managed to drag the man to the shallow end and lug his considerable weight up the steps and out onto the decking.
That’s when I realized it was Roman , Evelina’s older brother.
I don’t really know proper CPR, but miraculously, pounding on his chest and screaming at him to wake the fuck up brought him back to consciousness before he rolled to the side and vomited up chlorinated water and booze.
“I puked,” he’d grunted in a daze, before turning and gazing at my hoodie. “Shit, did I get you?”
“Nope, that’s all me.”
He’d grinned a lazy, haggard smile. “That kinda night, huh?”
That was when two things happened: I pulled off my hoodie to wring the water out of it, and the oxycodone bottle fell out between us. Then Roman yanked his phone out of his soaked pocket to let it dry on the pool deck: a phone that was open to…well, something interesting.
He awkwardly grabbed the phone, I awkwardly blurted something about not knowing where the Oxy came from, and we’d looked at each other sheepishly.
We’ve been secret friends ever since, in a weird but comforting way, and we never, ever , talk about that night.
“Brook.”
Roman raises a hand as he calls my name from the back of the bar…as if I could miss his six-foot-five frame.
Everyone knows I go by Brooklyn, and hate being called “Brooky”. But Roman calls me “Brook”, and for some reason, I have zero problem with it.
“Hey, big guy,” I smile as I sidle up to him and give him a hug, grinning when he wraps his thick arms around me.
“How was work?”
Because of the strange way we became friends, Roman and I can pretty much tell each other anything. Okay, not anything —he doesn’t know about my current living situation, or the extent of my money issues. But he and he alone knows about The Mirage.
“Sleazy,” I sigh. “There was a retirement party for a private school headmaster.”
Roman makes a face. “Lemme guess, schoolgirl outfits?”
“ Alllll night.”
“Someone should probably search that motherfucker’s computer.”
I snicker as Roman beckons the bartender.
“What are you drinking?”
“Eh, I might just stick to water.”
Roman, who’s clearly already had a few, rolls his eyes. “I’m buying, Brook. What are you drinking? For real?”
He doesn’t know all my financial woes. But he gets that a drink out is a stretch for me.
“I’d love a Pilsner, please,” I smile at the bartender. When he slides it in front of me, I turn and clink my glass to Roman’s. “Cheers. Thanks for the drink.”
“Any time,” he grunts, downing a few huge gulps of his beer before he frowns into it.
“So…” I glance at him. “Anything in particular you wanted to chat about? Or just looking to hang?”
Roman sucks on his teeth, twirling his beer on the bar in front of him.
“That…uh…” He clears his throat. “That night we don’t talk about…”
“We can continue not talking about it,” I say quietly.
Roman grimaces. “There’s…” He pauses and takes another big swig. “I don’t know if Evie told you, but Dad’s been talking about setting me up with someone.” His mouth twists as he quickly looks at me. “A girl, obviously,” he grunts.
“Yeah, obviously…”
He clears his throat again and glances at me. “That night… I mean, I was pretty fucked up…”
“Tell me about it,” I grin. “I think we’ve also established that I was too.”
He gives me a half-smile before he turns back to his beer. “There may or may not have been some…I dunno…weird shit on my phone…”
I’m going to go out on a limb and assume he means Grindr, the gay casual hookup app, that his phone was open to when he pulled it out of his soaked pocket.
“I don’t think I remember anything in particular,” I lie, shrugging.
Roman shoots me a cagey but somewhat grateful look.
“Well, this girl my dad found… I’m probably going to be marrying her.”
My brows arch. “Woah. Con…grats?”
Roman nods slowly, looking into his drink. “And…whatever you may or may not have seen that night…” He frowns and turns toward me. “I’m not gay.”
I smile gently. “Sexuality is fluid, Roman.”
“Not with me,” he grunts firmly. “I’m straight, Brooklyn.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“I am ,” he insists.
“Say it again and maybe it’ll sound truer.”
He turns to glare at me. “How’s taking your clothes off for money going?”
“Okay, cheap shot ,” I mutter with a grin, raising a middle finger as he chuckles.
This is part of our strange dynamic. We’re each other’s secret-keepers. I haven’t wanted to tell anyone about my stripping, but I’ve told Roman because I guess I just know I can .
Roman sighs. “Fuck, that was low. Sorry, I don’t know why I said that.”
I lift my shoulders. “All good.”
We end up having one more drink each, then he offers to drive me home. I ask if he can give me a lift to the Mercury instead, claiming I left some stuff there.
I hit the ladies' room before we head out, and groan at the text from Diego.
Diego
Talked to the new forensics guy. He’s actually $17k, and he’s booking up fast. If we want him, I need to get him half his fee in the next couple of days.
Ugh.
I decide to file that under “shit I’m not going to deal with right now” and step out of the restroom. Somehow, in the four minutes I was gone, Roman’s managed to get some drunk, giggly girl on his arm.
“Brook, this is Sandy.”
“ Mandy ,” the girl laughs, turning to slap his firm chest playfully.
I give Roman a “Seriously?” look. He just shrugs.
“Look, why don’t you guys hang out,” I smile at them. “I’ll grab my own ride?—”
“Nah, c’mon.”
Roman insists on driving me to the theater. The only reason I agree to get in the car with him is that even though he’s had some drinks, he’s also huge , and doesn’t seem intoxicated at all.
I slip into the back seat of his Mercedes G-Wagon, with Mandy-or-Sandy up front, nibbling on his neck the whole drive there.
“Thank for the lift,” I say after I get out at the theater, talking to him through his window.
“Any time, dude,” he grins.
I arch a brow, looking past him to where Mandy is taking selfies in the passenger seat. I exhale slowly. “Be…true to yourself, Roman.”
I couldn’t have Roman drive me to a parked car. But I also wanted to come to the Mercury because I definitely need to shower, and I didn't want to at work because Lou was giving off extra predatory vibes.
Also, I've sobered up enough and wouldn’t mind getting some extra practice in. I’m shortlisted with the Imperiya Korona , and have my callback in a month or two with Liliya Rostova and Ivan Yelchin when they come back to New York.
I quickly rinse off, change into dance clothes, and head to the studio.
I keep the overhead fluorescents off, only flicking on the low floor lights around the perimeter, bathing the room in a warm glow.
I sink into a stretch on the floor, trying to clear my mind completely. Then I stand and approach the barre.
“You don’t work a temp job in that building.”
I almost jump out of my skin, a choked gasp sticking in my throat as I whirl toward the dark figure standing in the doorway.
Heat pulses in my core as Kir slips into the room, his eyes locked on mine.
“That’s the last time you lie to me, Ms. Ellis.”