Page 3 of Brutal Secrets

There’s nothing wrong with her Russian accent, but she’s muddled up the verb. Instead of telling everyone in the room that she loves them, she’s telling one person how she feels. For one blistering second before the lights go up and she leaves the stage, it’s as if she’s talking to me.

Then the lights come on, and she’s gone.

Chapter Three

The red-roped VIP section empties out as Antonov plays the part of the Pied Piper and leads a parade of girls and drunk hangers-on down the stairs. One girl stumbles on her heels and he catches her, picking her up like a trophy and passing her to one of his friends. To him, she’s a thing and not a person.

She doesn’t object. The Night Governor has broken her in and trained her well. It makes my skin crawl, but it’s not my job to worry about these things. I’m here to provide security tonight, and anyway, teenage girls aren’t my preference. Not anymore. Nothing good can come from hanging out with someone that naïve.

I scan the room once more and find nothing out of the ordinary. Dima, Sasha, and Sergei patrol the other three corners of the VIP deck. Sasha catches my eye as he prowls toward our boss. My best friend always moves like a jungle cat, padding across the room like he’s one move away from springing on someone and ripping out their throat. He waves at me to signal that I’m in the clear.

Time to make a move. I’ll walk the rest of the club. Check the corridors. Clear the exits.

I rise from the bench, and a painful twinge sparks through my right knee. Damn fighting. I can still feel it in my muscles as I stalk toward the fire exit. I push the bar attached to the door, knowing I’ll have to loop through the club and come back up the stairs and step into the darkened hallway.

Once I’m away from the main stage, the illusion of glamor falls away. Lighting and scantily clad teenagers make up the façade in the front of the house, but back here it’s just plywood and dust.

Sticky carpet clutches my boots near the fire exit, likely from the spilled champagne and vodka that have soaked in from the club. Then the last evidence of parties fades to dusty gray fibers. The soles of my shoes slide against the surface as I open each door to check for people I don’t recognize, anyone who’s in a place they shouldn’t be, or packages I haven’t seen before.

Brooms and cleaning products wait behind door one. Door two leads into an empty conference room. A fluorescent-lit whiteboard smeared with the remnants of black writing dominates the back wall. Giggles float beneath door three, and I stand outside, listening to the sound and checking for my knife and gun before I open it a crack. Dancers move around the room and defer to Oksana, an auburn-haired stripper I sometimes sleep with when we both need to scratch an itch. Nothing to worry about here.

I open the door wider, and she grins at me. “Vadim, honey, have you come to pay us a visit?” she says, leaning back in her chair, her thigh slung provocatively over the side. The sight is tempting when I’m off duty, but not when I’m working.

Around Oksana, dancers pull off their lingerie and stalk naked around the room, looking for sweats and sneakers as they journey back to normal life. One girl becomes a headless vision as she wrestles a sweatshirt over her bouncing, pink-tipped tits. Oksana catches me watching and offers a sly smile, but I shake my head and keep my hand on the doorknob. She winks as I close the door behind me and return to the gray corridor.

The girls’ voices fade as I make my way past empty rooms, listening at doors for anything untoward. I’m about to head back to find Sasha and check in with our boss when voices with an odd rhythm catch my attention. They sound more American than Russian.

It’s none of my business because she’s not likely to be a threat, but curiosity propels me past the next few rooms in the hope of catching another glimpse of the little songbird. As I near the end of the corridor, I’m certain it’s her voice. She has a southern accent that sounds like honey, and I tell myself it’s not really eavesdropping as I lean against the wall and listen to the rise and fall of each word she speaks. I close my eyes and let the sound wash over me, but the thud of heavy male footsteps approaches the bend in the corridor, putting me back on alert. Alive to a possible threat, I slink into the shadows.

Chapter Four

There’s no hum from the crowd to lift me up and keep me buzzing as I return to the dressing room, and I have nowhere else to go. I don’t speak Russian, so I can’t just head off into the night. Wearing barely anything, I’ll soon be trapped in this room with a man who wants to suck my talent dry before he starts on the rest of me.

I sit down at the mirror and begin removing my makeup, pulling away the heavy greasepaint to reveal the dark circles under my eyes. I was hoping to hang out with the other artists tonight. I’d heard Amy Vinelli is playing too, and I thought maybe the two of us could knock back a few drinks and talk about a duet. My music is just fast-paced party tracks to get the crowd dancing, but I like her blues style and would love to explore that. Combine a bit of her 60s vibe with a bit of my country roots. We’ve both got the vocal range to do it.

If I can ever get out from under the men managing me. I wonder if she’s also controlled by someone who can’t wait to sell her to the highest bidder. Jimmy got a clear million for tonight. He’s thrilled with himself, so I hope he’ll be in a softer mood and let me go to bed without pushing for more.

I steel myself as the doorknob turns and he walks in.

He smirks, strolls to the wine fridge, and produces a bottle of chilled vodka. I’ve heard the billionaire who hired me tonight has a vodka distillery. The wall behind the fridge is stacked with bottles reflecting the harsh strip lighting.

“Great gig tonight. The crowd loved you,” he says.

“Did they?” I skeptically raise my brows at him as I pause with the makeup sponge in mid-air. He walks over and puts his clammy hands on my shoulders. I remain as still as possible and try not to flinch away from him.

“Well, I met a booker who has a round of similar gigs lined up for the summer. Most of the Russian oligarchs summer in Italy or Cyprus. In six months, we could be on yachts with the wealthiest men in the world, playing as you perform at their birthday parties. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He catches my eye in the mirror and grins before he tosses back the shot and pours himself another.

“You would,” I say grimly, staring back at his reflection looming behind my shoulder. “I’ll probably see as much of Rome and Cyprus as I’ve seen of Moscow.”

“Don’t be churlish.Moscow is a shithole, but that’s not the point. There’s so much money to be made at these gigs. These guys will pay top dollar for whoever is at the top of the charts, so we’ve got to strike hard while you’re still hot.” He bends down and puts his head on my shoulder, then looks at himself in the mirror before his eyes dart down the front of my dress.

My nose screws up as the sour smell of his breath reaches it, and I flinch as he moves closer, but that doesn’t put him off. He’s not reading my signals. Or worse, he’s getting a kick out of ignoring them.

His fingers dig into my shoulders. I try to shake him off, but he meets my eyes in the mirror and grins at me. It’s not a nice smile. His hand tightens and slides down my arm, gripping hard enough to bruise. My mouth twists in disgust, which only seems to please him more.

“You are still hot, baby,” he says, sticking his tongue into my ear. It feels like a slug, and I lean away, which only moves me closer to his other hand.

He reaches to grab my breast, squeezing hard enough to send a shock of pain through the sensitive skin before turning his attention to my nipple and pinching it like he’s tuning a radio.I flinch and gasp. If this is his idea of foreplay, then it’s no wonder he has to resort to harassing teenage girls under his employ.

---