Page 10 of The Last Dance

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.