Chapter Three
~ Iren ~
Tuesday again, which meant the main stage and the amber-violet split that made everything look a little more expensive and a little less real. The club’s lights cycled with intent—never random, always programmed, even when they tried to fake a sense of chaos.
I hit my mark, which was a literal tape X tonight because one of the managers wanted more “precision” from us, and if you wanted to keep the good shifts, you did not step off the X.
The music was mid-tempo pop with all the bones sanded out, so I just let my body do the thing. I could always tell when I was actually in it versus when I was only pretending.
Tonight it was more the latter, but I faked it well enough that nobody in the crowd cared. Tips hit the stage in steady ones and fives, except for one guy who liked to flick coins at my ankles, which should have been grounds for removal, but was apparently now just a Tuesday tradition.
At the far end of the floor, on the raised owner’s platform, sat Vadim Miroslav. If you didn’t know him by reputation—which I did—you’d have known him by posture.
He wore his suit like it was made of chain mail and he was just waiting for someone to try their luck. Both hands were flat on the tufted burgundy table, elbows wide, not a drink in sight. Some men made a show of relaxing, but Vadim didn’t.
He was the show.
I clocked him during the third rotation and felt the ripple up my back even before my brain had finished the ID. By the fourth, I’d already looked again.
I told myself it was a safety check—scan for problem customers, rule one—but it was a lie. I could feel his attention as clearly as stage light.
He didn’t smile, not once, but there was a micro-tilt of the head when I caught him watching, and I felt the heat rise in my face and then hated myself for it.
My left hand’s nail polish was chipped—last week’s color, which was closer to the burgundy of the club curtain than the new shade I’d been meaning to reapply.
I only noticed because I looked at my own hand, then at the curtain, then at the man whose existence made both seem incidental. I filed the glance as “bad idea,” along with every other glance in that direction.
The set ended and I could finally stop pretending not to care. I made my bows, scooped up the money, and retreated to the hallway behind the stage, where the air was less breathable, but nobody looked at you unless they were about to insult your shoes.
Backstage, Carmine was scrolling his phone, still in full makeup, towel draped over one shoulder. “You looked tense up there,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said. “I was going for ‘emotional withholding,’ but maybe I overcorrected.”
Carmine snorted, then leaned in to pluck a sequin off my cheekbone. “You got a watcher. Owner’s in the booth.”
“I noticed,” I said.
“He’s a freak,” Carmine said, a little too loud. “But, you know, not in a fun way. More like a ‘disassembles toasters to see how they work’ kind of way.”
I shrugged. I liked to think I was immune to intimidation, but Vadim’s attention did things to my sense of self-preservation. Not all of them bad, which was the problem.
I changed out of the mesh shorts into tighter mesh shorts—subtle distinction, but the regulars would know—wiped my face with a baby wipe, and debated whether to bother with the reapplication of glitter. The answer was always yes.
If you had to be seen, you might as well be seen all the way.
I should have gone home. I should have at least left the floor to the next shift, but the tip jar looked promising, and more than that, I needed to know if Vadim was really watching or if I’d imagined the entire thing.
So I worked the room.
First table: two men, both with wedding bands. They were here to cheat on their wives with the idea of a man, not an actual man, so I gave them what they wanted and collected five dollars for my trouble.
Second table: three college kids, one of whom was recording on his phone until the manager told him he’d be out on the street if he didn’t delete it.
I liked the manager for that.
I took the long way around the satellite stage, killing time, hoping that the urge to “just say thank you” would wear off before I had to act on it.
It didn’t.
If anything, the compulsion grew louder with every orbit.
I stopped at the bar and asked for water, which was code for “stall me,” and the bartender obliged by telling a story about his dog’s dental surgery that made my stomach hurt.
Finally, I ran out of plausible detours and walked the length of the club toward Vadim’s booth. The velvet rope was not just for show, but I could have hopped it if I wanted.
Instead, I waited for the eye contact. Vadim saw me, raised one eyebrow, and gave the smallest of nods.
That was the invitation.
I stepped past the rope, feet hot and tingly from the attention of everyone on the floor who had just registered what was happening.
The booth was bigger up close—enough space for a full party, but Vadim sat alone.
Except for the man in the corner, half in shadow, with the resting murder face of someone who really didn’t care for the club scene.
I didn’t look at the shadow man. I focused on Vadim. “You wanted to see me?” I said, and was annoyed that it came out as a question.
He didn’t answer for a second. Just watched me, eyes unreadable, then nodded to the seat across from him. I sat, but only because I was already tired. It wasn’t like I had anywhere better to be.
I meant to say thank you and leave. I really did. But the second I was in the booth, the script vanished, and all I could do was stare at the way his shirt fit his shoulders and the gold on his wrist.
Vadim did not move or speak. He waited for me to break the silence.
I cleared my throat. “So, uh. You run on Tuesdays?”
He didn’t smile, but there was a glint. “I run on every day.”
I laughed, because that was either a joke or a threat.
I’d take either.
The shadow man in the corner adjusted his position, just enough that I could see the line of a knife sheath under his jacket.
The air between me and Vadim got tighter, not in a scary way, more like the moment before you exhale after a cold plunge.
“I’m Iren,” I said, just to fill space.
He already knew, but he nodded anyway. “Vadim.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, which was a lie but seemed necessary. I ran out of lines after that. I could feel the stare from the floor, but I ignored it. I could feel the stare from Vadim, and it was impossible to ignore.
I was not going to leave until he told me to.
Vadim let the silence do half the work. It felt like a test, and I was failing it on purpose just to see how long he’d let me squirm. The answer was: exactly as long as he wanted.
Eventually, because I have a low tolerance for being out-stared, I broke. “Was there something you wanted, or is this just the part where you remind me you own the place?”
He said nothing for a second, then, “Sit.”
Which was redundant because I was already sitting, but I sat up straighter anyway, like there’d be a quiz. There was no “please.” I made a mental note to be embarrassed about my compliance later, in the privacy of my apartment, maybe while re-watching episodes of RuPaul.
He didn’t even bother to look at me when he said, “Your Tuesday problem. He bothers you every week.”
He didn’t say “Parsons,” didn’t say “the guy who’s been writing you little post-coital Bible verses on business cards,” but I knew exactly what he meant.
“Yeah,” I said. “He’s nothing if not consistent. It’s probably the only religious thing about him.”
That got a ghost of a reaction. Not a smile, but Vadim let the line hang for a second longer, like he was adding it to a collection.
Then he turned his head, just a shade, and said two words in Russian to the man in the shadows.
I recognized the tone, but not the words.
The shadow-man left so quietly it took me a second to realize he’d moved at all.
Vadim’s attention returned to me, and the booth felt tighter, as if the air pressure had doubled. The glass in front of him, still untouched, caught the amber light and lit up the table like a crime scene photo.
I watched the empty space where Yuri had been, then risked, “What did you just say to him?”
Vadim splayed his fingers against the table. “You won’t be bothered again.” He said it with the effect of a guy announcing the bus schedule.
“Right,” I said, “but what does that mean?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
The bass from the main floor vibrated up through the seat, making it impossible to sit still without looking like you were trying to make your thighs into maracas.
I pressed my knees together, hands tucked under them so I wouldn’t start fidgeting. Vadim noticed, of course, but gave me the small mercy of not commenting.
“Okay,” I said, “I’m not going to say thank you because I get the feeling that’s not what this is about.”
He tilted his head. “You think I want gratitude?”
I shrugged. “Most men like to be told they’re a hero, even if the cape’s just for show.”
He considered this. “I don’t wear capes.”
“Could have fooled me,” I said. “You ever try leather?”
Another ghost of a smile. Then, “You’re not afraid.”
It was not a question, and it wasn’t quite a compliment.
I thought about it. “I’m tired of being afraid,” I said. “It’s boring.”
Vadim looked at me like he was looking for a lie, then decided he didn’t need one. “You understand there’s a cost.”
“Protection isn’t free, I get it.” My voice didn’t shake.
I was proud of that.
He placed both hands flat again. The veins on the back of his hand looked like they’d been drawn with a ruler. “A dance,” he said. “In private.”
I let that sit. “I don’t sleep with customers.”
He didn’t blink. “I’m not a customer.”
“Oh, right,” I said, “you’re the owner. So that makes it—what, a corporate retreat?”
He didn’t react, but he didn’t back off either. “You’re quick.”
“Thank you?” I said, uncertain if it was safe to be snarky.
He leaned in, close enough that I could smell something expensive and dangerous, like aftershave mixed with gun oil. “You will dance for me.” It wasn’t a question, and it wasn’t up for debate. But it also wasn’t a threat. It was more like gravity.
I considered my options and came up empty. “I won’t sleep with you, either,” I said, just to see if the world would end.
He nodded, once. “If you do, it will be because you want to.”
That hit me in the gut, but I pretended it didn’t.
We sat there for a few more seconds, the silence charged and weirdly companionable. I watched the way the light traced the side of his face, and he watched me watching, like he had all the time in the world.
“Tomorrow night,” he said. “After close.”
I almost made a joke about time clocks, but thought better of it. Instead, I said, “Okay.” I didn’t say thank you. I didn’t need to.
I stayed put, hands folded, letting the memory of the exchange linger. Most silences made me want to claw out of my skin, but this one felt—what’s the word—companionable. Like the pressure in your ears after a flight, weird, but not intolerable.
I ran my thumb along the seam of the cushion, staring at the place his glass.
I was still vibrating from the conversation, and I realized it wasn’t fear.
It was something closer to the adrenaline you get at the top of a rollercoaster, the half-second where you realize you can’t get off until the ride is finished.
I told myself I was deciding to go through with it, the dance. That it was my choice, not his. He wanted power; I wanted autonomy. Maybe we could split the difference.
I stood, knees wobbly. As I turned to leave, I felt the sudden grip of a hand around my wrist, not hard but definite, and before I could process the motion I was pulled backward and down, landing in Vadim’s lap with a jolt that realigned every nerve in my body.
My first instinct was to struggle, but his arms were heavy and warm and absolute, holding me in place. My spine snapped upright, and I could feel the heat of his thighs under me, the ridged muscle, the electric hum of his presence. My pulse relocated itself from my chest to my throat.
I turned my head, expecting a threat or a joke, but he just looked at me—close, so close I could see the gold glint in his irises. He didn’t smile. He even didn’t blink.
His hand came up and tucked a loose strand of my hair behind my ear, slow and methodical, like he was committing the motion to memory. The whole thing took maybe three seconds, but it played out in my head like an hour.
When his fingers brushed my cheek, I stopped breathing altogether.
He spoke, low enough that it wouldn’t carry past the curve of the booth. “You don’t have to wear the costume for me.”
I had no response to that. Nothing clever, nothing bitchy, not even a token sarcasm to armor myself. My mouth opened, then closed.
He let me sit there for a beat longer, then shifted his grip from my wrist to my thigh, anchoring me, before finally letting go. He angled his head toward the exit.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
I nodded, and this time it wasn’t performance. I peeled myself out of his lap and walked backstage on legs that weren’t fully under my control.
In the dressing room, Carmine gave me a look. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, “just low blood sugar.”
He tossed me a juice box. “Take care of yourself, kid.”
I did. I packed up, counted the tips—better than average—and changed into my street clothes. My hands shook as I tied my shoes.
When I crossed the floor, I didn’t look at the owner’s booth, but I knew he was still watching. I could feel the burn of it, the same way you can sense a storm rolling in through a closed window.
At the back exit, I paused and looked over my shoulder.
Vadim was there, hands splayed on the table, gaze locked on me like he could will me back into the seat if he wanted. Maybe he could. I left, but the feel of his hands stayed on my skin all the way home.
And for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t bored.