Chapter 9
ALINA
T he only thing worse than nighttime patrons of a strip club were daytime patrons of a low-rent dirty strip club.
Nighttime patrons were frat boys on college student allowances.
They were out partying with their bros. Sometimes they were douchebags celebrating a bachelor party by harassing women, pretending that they weren't still going to be back there every Friday night for a "boys' night. " Or celebrating their first job.
The girls called them budget ballers.
They were loud, obnoxious, and hell to deal with, but they had an energy that was sometimes infectious.
Those men were there for a specific reason; they were there to have fun.
They were there to let loose, to party, and maybe pay a little extra for the birthday boy or bachelor to get more than a lap dance in the champagne room.
According to the girls, most of them paid for more but when it came down to it were too shy, embarrassed, or drunk to get it up .
Mostly, they were relatively harmless. Annoying, but fairly harmless.
Daytime patrons were an entirely different beast.
There were two types of men who came to a cheap, crumbling strip club for lunch.
The shady businessmen who got off on the power trip of demoralizing women in a way the other clubs wouldn't allow, and they couldn't afford, anyway.
And the men who used to be those businessmen, now retired, divorced, their kids refusing to speak to them. They came here because they had nowhere else to go.
There was something seedy, almost demoralizing about them.
Those older men weren't there to party, they weren't there for a night of debauchery and fun. They were there out of habit, routine.
They watched the women and made lewd comments, but behind their eyes they were dead.
We called them the zombies.
Going through the motions of life, but despite their animation, they were soulless, rotting corpses.
It was almost like they were trying to grasp a sliver of what the night patrons had but which was just out of their reach.
It would have been depressing and I would have pitied them, if they didn't work so hard to grab my ass every single time I walked past them.
There were only so many times an old man could call you a bitch for refusing to show him your tits or blow him in the bathroom before you lost all sympathy .
The zombies were all old men, who stank of alcohol, sweat, and a life of regret.
As for the shady businessmen, we called them vampires because they sucked every ounce of the will to live from the girls and gave nothing in return.
They were young, hungry, and always out to make a quick buck.
These assholes would talk big like they were high rollers but then visited low-end strip clubs, maybe cashing in ten-dollar bills for ones.
They would talk like they were spending big money, and about how much they were going to make by selling counterfeit bonds or threatening some low-level senator.
They came to celebrate over lunch and to degrade the dancers. It made them feel big and powerful to boss around women with their tits out, or to put their hands on my thighs while ordering expensive whiskey and then leave a two-dollar tip.
As if two dollars made up for the way they treated me or the girls.
They thought that two dollars meant we owed them something. Like they were being magnanimous, and we needed to fall all over ourselves, display our gratitude on our knees.
Fuck them.
Those two-dollar tips didn't mean shit, and they knew it. They weren't really here to spend money, they were here to be treated like big shots as cheaply as possible, while bragging about the money they made taking from “suckers and losers.”
If the FBI ever wiretapped this strip club, they were going to be in a lot of trouble. But the FBI would never come here. The men on their radar would be at any establishment other than this one.
These men were criminals that not even the feds cared about.
Whether it was the vampires or the zombies, they were all like roaches creeping out of the walls when the city wasn't looking. The worst of the worst who, despite the shit they did, the lack of value they added to society, just never died.
Even if someone — or liver failure — killed one, another would take their place. And it was my job to make these assholes feel like men, like they had a shot so they would keep giving the club their money and I could keep taking home pennies on the dollar.
I pushed through the door of Velvet Dreams, the weight of exhaustion already dragging at my body. I needed more sleep, but in order to get sleep, I needed a roof over my head, so I needed to work.
The dim interior smelled like cheap perfumes, stale beer, and regret.
I made it two steps inside before my boss, Lou, clocked me, giving me an angry scowl as he lumbered over to me. I was hoping Chad would be in today. Lou was harder to manage.
"You're late," he barked.
"Not now, Lou," I said in a sickeningly sweet voice.
Bile rose in the back of my throat. I hated using that voice. It was demeaning, placating this man. Acting like he was doing me a favor made my stomach roll. "I had a really rough night. "
He didn't give a shit.
He never did, but by putting on that sweet, almost childlike voice, he wouldn't fire me.
Instead, his beady eyes dropped to the denim shirt I had thrown over my corset, and he gestured toward it like it was insulting him personally. As if I could ride the Metro and the bus across town in my uniform without getting arrested for indecent exposure or solicitation.
"Take that off when your shift starts."
I gritted my teeth, then plastered the fake smile on my face.
"You got it, boss."
"I mean it, Alina," Lou said, narrowing his eyes at me.
My sugary sweet act must not have been as convincing as it usually was.
"Don't make me tell you again. Our guests like to see some tit from the girls serving their beer. If you don't give them what they want, they will go somewhere else, and you are out of a job."
Guests.
The way he said it—like the drunken degenerates and washed-up losers who came here at noon were some kind of elevated clientele—made me want to roll my eyes.
Lou knew exactly the kind of men who came in here, he counted on it. Especially since today was two-for-one-on-the-first-round Wednesday. He wanted everything perfect. As if these degenerates would ever spend their dollar bills anywhere else.
Still, I really needed this job right now.
So I plastered on my fake smile. "Sure thing, boss man. I'll keep them happy. "
I bit down on my frustration and turned toward the bar, setting up everything for the oncoming rush. Every muscle in my body was wound tight with nerves, and no matter how hard I tried to put it out of my mind, I was sure I was going to flinch every single time someone came into the place.
Was someone coming for me?
What would happen if Pavel found me?
Would he find me?
Could he find me?
The thought made me nauseous, and I had to constantly remind myself that he did not have my address. Yet. He only had my name. There should have been no way that he could find me.
Just like the FBI, there was no way that a man like that would even think of looking in a place like this.
Still, once we opened, every single time the door opened I would be looking up, expecting to see him.
My skin crawled, my stomach twisted, and bile burned at the back of my throat. That I could understand. I could live with terror.
What I couldn't live with was what was underneath it.
Under that terror, something worse lurked.
A dark, shameful heat.
I shoved it away time and time again, burying myself in prep work, scraping the mold off of the fruit garnishes, rinsing the glasses and polishing them enough to look clean, watering down the fresh bottles of liquor for the few well drinks our patrons ordered, and even switching out the kegs under the bar.
I kept myself distracted, busy so I wouldn't think about that dark forbidden heat that burned in my core every time I thought about Pavel walking in.
Part of me wanted him to come in and take me from this hell.
Common sense told me that if he came in here to find me, it wouldn't be to save me.
It would be to kill me. But then why did my stomach drop at the thought he wouldn’t come at all?
Ignoring everything, I lost myself in the tediousness of preparing for my job.
"Alina," Lou called, venom dripping from his voice. I looked over and he tapped his watch. It was just a few seconds till noon.
I nodded and with a deep breath, I slipped my denim overshirt off and tucked it away under the bar.
The cheap satin corset was a size too small, which was intentional to make my tits almost spill out. The ribbon lacing had broken a few weeks into working here, and Lou not only refused to fix it, but docked my pay.
A shoelace was in its place. The rest of my uniform consisted of black shorts that did not cover my ass and fishnet thigh highs with non-slip strips that were holding on for dear life.
Soon they would have to be replaced, or I would have to figure out how to adhere more of that non-slip rubber myself. Would hot glue work?
I fluffed up my hair and adjusted my corset to push my tits up even further, and Lou gave me a single nod of what I was sure he considered approval. Then he opened the door, and the first wave of creeps stumbled in.
The usual hollow-eyed zombies had a bit of a pep in their step today, knowing that they could get two beers instead of their usual one. Most of them were already half drunk and their fingers twitched on the bar top as they watched me move.
I focused on my work, filling beers, sending lunch orders that consisted of little more than grilled cheese and fries back to the kitchen.
I ignored the pangs of hunger in my stomach, the last echoes of my hangover throbbing in my temples, and the fear that made the hair at the back of my neck stand on end.
I poured beer after beer, delivered greasy fries, and avoided grabby hands as I stared at the clock like it was a countdown to freedom.
Six hours in this shift, then I was off to find a new second job.
I'd been working almost an hour, losing myself in the familiar rhythm of pouring drinks and riding the line between flirting and being professional with the patrons, when Lou came barreling out of the back room. "Take a bottle of vodka to the champagne room. Now."
"Brand?"
"Whatever is on the top shelf," he said, then stopped and walked over to me, his meaty hand grabbing my arm, squeezing hard enough to make me wince as his thumb caressed my breast.
Lou pulled me closer to him, so he could whisper in my ear, my nose curling at his wretched breath. "Go to the back and grab a bottle of the good shit, not the stuff that we've already watered down for the zombies and vampires that don't know any better."
"Yes, boss," I nodded.
Delivering to the champagne room was not my job .
But I didn't argue.
The faster I got it over with, the sooner I could go back to pretending I was invisible.
Just the woman behind the bar that served their drinks while they stared at the women dancing on the center stage.
I grabbed the bottle and walked toward the private lounge, pushing past the curtain.
Where I froze.
He was waiting for me.
Pavel sat there, dressed in a black suit that was probably more expensive than anything that had ever stepped foot in this establishment. He was lounging in a leather chair, all cocky power, like he owned the fucking place.
Dark.
Dangerous.
Arrogant.
A knowing smile pulled at the corner of his lips.
He'd been expecting me and was enjoying seeing me shaken.
My stomach dropped.
I hadn't seen him come in.
How had I not seen him come in?
My body moved before my brain could catch up.
I took a step back toward the curtain, ready to drop the bottle, turn and run.
I barely took half a step before his arm shot out and grabbed my hand, stopping me.
With a rough yank, my balance shattered and suddenly I was tumbling forward, colliding with a wall of muscle .
A sharp gasp poured from my throat as I landed in his lap.
His firm hands locked around my waist as I tried to scramble up.
A low rumble of laughter vibrated from his chest as he leaned forward to whisper in my ear. "It seems I've trapped a little kitten."