Slave to the Rhythm (5 page)

After showering and taking my workout clothes to the staff laundry, I went with Gary to meet the girls for drinks. It looked as though they were several margaritas in already.

Yveta poured herself onto my lap as soon as I sat down, while Honey and Grace exchanged amused glances. Gary sighed loudly and rolled his eyes.

I had to hold Yveta’s hips firmly to stop her grinding on me. The attention was fun and she was hot, so I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it. Affairs between dance partners were common, but I also knew how they could negatively affect the dynamics of a performance if the relationship went bad, and Elaine had hinted at a larger role for us in the future. I couldn’t fuck this up just because I had a chance of getting laid.

Yveta sighed into my neck, her warm breath bathing my skin. I shook my head, reminding myself that life was complicated enough right now.

Unfortunately, my dick wasn’t paying attention to anything except the sexy woman snuggling against my chest and sitting with her hot pussy over my crotch. It had been a while.

Carefully, I shifted Yveta from my lap and gratefully took a sip of the cold beer that a waitress brought.

“Fine,” huffed Gary. “I’ll pay for one beer, Mr. Hot-pants, then the bitches can buy your drinks.”

“You’re the biggest bitch,” laughed Honey.

“I’ll drink to that,” Gary said, raising his glass.

It was so damn easy to sit in a bar and have a few drinks and talk about dance. It made the easy hours pass too quickly and it was time to go and meet Volkov. My mellow mood slipped when Yveta told me that the new boss’s surname translated as ‘Wolf’.

Gary raised his eyebrows.

“I’ve worked here four years and I’ve only met the boss once. I wonder why he wants to meet you?”

His glance was speculative, but I saw concern there, too.

I shrugged, trying to hide the fact that my heartrate had kicked up a couple of beats.

“I don’t know. But as long it’s not that creepy bastard Oleg, I don’t care.”

Gary pressed his lips together but didn’t say anything else.

Yveta was a happy drunk, but at nearly six foot, she wasn’t the lightest weight to prop up. She sobered slightly when Galina reminded her that we had an appointment, but giggled all the way back to our hotel, wobbling dangerously in her high heels, until I clamped my arm around her waist and steered her through the early evening crowds with Galina’s help.

Galina’s English wasn’t as good as Yveta’s, but she told me that they’d met at a dance academy in St. Petersburg and had been friends ever since. It was Yveta’s dream to be a Las Vegas showgirl.

She was silent for a moment, glancing at me nervously.

“I don’t like it here.”

Then she lowered her voice, even though we were on a noisy, crowded street.

“Where are those other girls, the ones who arrived with us?”

“I don’t know.”

“But it’s strange, yes?”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

Her lips trembled and she looked as if she might cry.

When we arrived back at the hotel, I waited outside the ladies’ bathroom while Galina tried to sober up her friend some more.

Trixie saw me leaning against the wall and hurried across, her high heels click-clacking on the marble floor.

She stared critically at my chinos and plain white shirt, then gave a sharp nod. Her eyes narrowed as Yveta and Galina exited the bathroom.

Yveta seemed a lot more sober when she saw Trixie’s grim expression, throwing a nervous glance at Galina, who looked as if she was about to pass out.

Without a word spoken, we followed Trixie to the elevator, watching in silence as she keyed in a private code for the Penthouse.

“Don’t speak unless Mr. Volkov asks you a question, give yes and no answers, and smile.”

She’d missed her calling as a cheerleader.

When the elevator doors swept open with a soft thwump, we were facing two heavy-set men with dark suits and emotionless faces, guarding a pair of thick oak doors with ornate handles.

They ignored the wide smile that Trixie sent their way.

“Mr. Volkov is expecting them,” she said, sweeping her arm toward us.

The bodyguard with pale icy eyes held the door open so we could pass inside. He could have been Oleg’s twin: not a reassuring thought.

I’d been expecting an office for a business meeting, but instead we were standing in an expensive suite with thick carpet and muted lighting.

The air was heavy with cigar smoke and I could smell weed, too.

Squinting through the clouds, I counted three men and a woman, all lounging on the wide Italian sectionals, drinking champagne.

One of the men was out of place in the classy room. He was heavily tatted and bearded, with a leather vest over a black t-shirt, and heavy biker boots on his feet. He also had a massive hunting knife in a sheath at his waist.

The other two men wore suits. I was no judge, but they looked expensive.

Then beside me, Yveta gave a soft gasp and I turned to look at her.

“Marta,” she whispered.

The woman sitting on the couch was dressed in a plunging tank top and short skirt, heavily made up, and wearing stripper heels. I wouldn’t have recognized her if Yveta hadn’t said anything.

But then the biker guy laughed and clapped his hand on Marta’s thigh, making her jump and spill her drink. That made him laugh harder as he gripped her leg.

Yveta’s smile froze and she bit her lip as she glanced at me worriedly.

“Ah, my young dancers,” said the man in the center of the room.

I didn’t need to have ESP to know that this was Volkov—the Wolf.

He was well named, with thick gray hair like a mane around his large head and yellow-hazel eyes. He was lean and rangy like a wolf, but it was the way he exuded power that told me he was the man in charge.

“Sit, please,” he said, but it was an order.

I sat on the section furthest away from him, trying to ignore Volkov’s amused expression.

He waited until the girls were seated before he showed his teeth in a wide smile.

“Sit a little closer. You’re so far away over there.”

So we all had to stand and shuffle forward awkwardly until we were seated next to our host.

“That’s better,” he laughed. “Shy showgirls—and boy—who would have thought it?” And he laughed again.

“Now, you must be Yveta,” he said to Galina, although I suspected he knew exactly who was who.

It was obvious that he was enjoying playing games with us. The thought put me even more on edge, although I tried to hide it. But at least Oleg wasn’t in the room. The relief was short lived.

“And you are Aljaž, of course. I believe you like to be called Ash.”

I nodded, and thanked Marta as she handed me a drink without looking at me.

Yveta and Galina were worried, exchanging nervous glances.

“I’ve heard good things about you,” Volkov said, directing his eerie gaze to me. “Elaine is very pleased with rehearsals. She says you’ll be an asset.”

I forced out a smile, remembering Trixie’s orders. “Thank you.”

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friends, Andrei?” asked the other man in a suit, who’d remained silent until now.

Volkov hesitated for a fraction of a second then smiled coldly.

“Where are my manners? Yveta, Galina, Ash—this is my dear colleague Sergei. He’s in charge of security.”

Sergei stood to shake hands with us. He was maybe fifty, with steel-gray hair and eyes to match.

He smiled at me, his unblinking gaze crawling across my body.

“It seems to be my lucky night. It must be fate.”

I was about to let go when he gave my hand an extra squeeze, his fingers stroking my wrist.

I pulled free, inhaling sharply, but he just smiled wider, his dead eyes shark-like as they trailed over my body in a way that was deliberate and obvious. He could also tell that it made me uncomfortable.

I’m a dancer. I’m used to people looking at my body. After all, it’s my instrument, a powerful tool—I want people to look and admire. But it’s all about the dancing. Not about people fucking me with their eyes like this asshole.

A lot of people assume that all male dancers are gay. I’m not. Definitely straight. It doesn’t bother me what other men do. Getting hit on by gay guys is an occupational hazard when you’re a dancer. Most of them back off when they realize that you’re straight.

I wouldn’t say I was close friends with them or any other dancers because it was too competitive. Except for Luka, my friends were outside the life.

I’d guess that probably six out of ten male dancers are gay, and I don’t care whether it’s ballroom, ballet or contemporary, but that means that four are straight. So I’m a minority. That gives some guys I’ve known license to sleep with as many women as they can—real wolves in sheep’s clothing. I’m not like that. I’m not a monk either and I’ve had girlfriends, but it’s usually too much drama, so I steer clear. One night stands where everyone knows the score is more my thing, but even then, not all that often. I’m always training, always taking classes. And if I’m not doing that, I’m working. Girls don’t stay around if you don’t pay enough attention to them.

My dance coach, Lelyana, always said that the drama should be on the dance floor and not in your personal life. I wanted to win more than I wanted to screw around.

But Sergei . . . I got the feeling that he didn’t care if I was gay or straight. And that could be a problem, especially if he was close to Volkov.

I moved back to my seat, trying to relax the tension in my body.

Volkov had already lost interest and turned his attention to Yveta and Galina, chatting easily in Russian.

I wondered what was going on with Marta—and where was the other girl? If she hadn’t reminded me so much of Luka’s little sister, I probably would have kept my mouth shut.

“There was a girl at the airport . . .”

A sudden silence made me feel as if a spotlight was on me, and although the room was air conditioned, sweat trickled down my back.

“With Oleg . . .” I rasped out, my throat dry despite the drink in my hand.

Volkov laughed and glanced at Sergei.

“Oleg has a girlfriend? Why did no one tell me? Should we prepare for a wedding?”

His smile was wintry.

“I’ll make enquiries,” he said without much interest.

I wanted to say more, but I was nervous. The atmosphere turned arctic and those yellow lamp-like eyes burned coldly.

The biker shifted in his seat, his hand tightening on Marta’s leg until she let out a small cry.

Sergei stared at me, his face a wax-like mask, blank and expressionless, but utterly chilling.

I felt my courage shrivel and my body screamed for me to run. Sitting still, meeting his gaze, those were the mostly insanely brave things I’d ever done in my entire life.

Ash

THE MEETING WITH
Volkov had left us all shaken. It was clear that Marta wasn’t in that room willingly, and she looked terrified. The biker guy had been creepy enough, but those Russians . . . not people you messed with.

I hoped I wouldn’t see any of them again.

Trixie was waiting outside the suite. She didn’t seem surprised when she saw our shocked faces.

“Who are these guys?” I asked quietly as we rode the elevator back to the ground floor.

She gave a grim smile. “Haven’t you figured it out yet?”

I had. I just didn’t want to believe it.

“Bratva.”

Russian mafia.

It was Yveta who had spoken. Trixie stared back, but didn’t answer directly.

“It’s not always so bad. Mostly they just want to do business, you know.”

Galina gripped my hand tightly and I gave it an encouraging squeeze although I felt just as worried as her and Yveta.

“Sergei . . .” Trixie shivered and lowered her voice to a whisper. “He’s a sick bastard. Thank God I’m not his type,” and when she glanced at me, her expression was pitying. “And Oleg . . . he likes them young. Very young.”

She swallowed and looked down.

“They don’t usually come to the theater—that’s a legit business. You should be okay. Just keep your mouths shut and stay out of trouble. That’s the best advice I can give you.” She forced a fake smile. “That’s showbiz!”

I shook my head, and her smile dropped away.

“You do what you gotta do, kid. Which in this case is nothing. You’ll learn.”

“But that’s crazy!”

“Comments like that will get you killed,” Trixie snapped, dropping the ditzy blonde act.

Galina and Yveta were having a silent conversation, although both of them looked scared.

When Trixie left us in the lobby, I turned to them.

“Can you believe this shit?!”

Galina paled even further, swaying slightly.

“Shut up!” Yveta hissed at me.

“But . . .”

“Listen,” she said, grabbing my arm and towing me toward the staff area. “Those are
Bratva!
You don’t mess with them. You don’t make them angry. Not if you want to live.”

Galina swallowed and nodded her agreement.

“Then what the hell are we supposed to do?”

“What we came here for—we dance.”

And she marched off, dragging Galina with her. I watched them in silence, wondering if she was right.