Page 135 of Dance of Devils
“We should do this more often, then,” I shrug. “For real, you know, hang out just to hang out. Not just because one of us is spiraling or in the dumps.”
He frowns. “I never spiral.”
I exhale. “You know what I mean.” I smile wryly and reach across the table to pat my hand on his. “Sorry for only ever calling when I’m feeling fucked up.”
He grins and shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. But I guess you also just admitted that youaren’tokay.”
Fuck.
“No I didn’t,” I protest, wanting to change the subject. “Hey, how’s that secret club thing of yours? You ever still looking for dancers?—”
“Brooklyn.” Roman’s face is darkened and tense as he shakes his head. “You promised you’d never bring that up again.”
Months ago, at a fundraiser thing that some of us from the Zakharova were performing for, a man pulled me aside and told me he represented “an organization” who were always looking for dancers like me for their “functions”.
He didn’t say who the group was, or what these functions were. But it paidfive fucking thousanddollarsfor about four hours of my time and did not involve taking my clothes off or doing anything sexual. Just dancing.
“Just dancing” ended up being “just dancing…in an elegant if revealing costume, a gold Venetian mask over my face, under which I was blindfolded.”
We—myself and the other girls I saw in the changing room at the venue we’d been driven to that night…also while blindfolded…wore earpieces, too, through which a voice guided us through the evening.
We each danced in our own cage, to music piped into our earpieces, whilesomething—I don’t know what, because I couldn't see or hear—happened around us. But I guessed some sort of swingers club, or a high society orgy, given the level of secrecy, the money we were paid, and the overall vibe.
I did the gig a few times and even pulled in Lyra from the Zakharova once when she was really struggling—this was before she married Carmine. But then the calls from the unknown number stopped, and I assumed the gig was over.
It was a night a lot like this one, where I was down on myself and having drinks with Roman, when I mentioned that I’d had thisgreatside gig dancing for this strange party, but the work had dried up, and I missed the cash.
Roman was pretty drunk that night, so I didn’t really understand him when he slurred something about not being “in charge of the entertainment for Black Court sessions”. But when he patted my shoulder and told me he’d “talk to Matteo about getting me hired again”, we both sobered up at the same instant.
He’d told me he was talking out of his ass and to ignore everything he’d just said. Then, when I kept joking about it, he gotsuperserious—more serious than I think I’ve ever seen him—and made me swear we’d never talk about it again. He almost looked worried, which isalsosomething I’d never seen in him before.
“Sorry,” I mumble into my drink as I take another sip. Then I glance at him. “Youreallyaren’t hiring dancers?—”
“Stop it,” he growls. “I’m dead fucking serious. You can’t talk about that shit, B. Ever. It makes me nervous, foryou.”
I frown. “Hang on. Did the job go away because you and I hang out??”
When his mouth thins, I groan.
“Seriously, Roman?”
“Trust me.” He shakes his head. “You don’t want that gig.” He cocks a brow. “Besides, I don’t think you actually need it anymore.”
I frown at him. “Meaning?”
Roman smirks, rubbing a hand over his Abercrombie-and-Fitch-model jaw.
“C’mon, B. The new clothes? Jewelry? The fact that I saw you get dropped off here by a private driver in a Range Rover?” He grins. “I’m guessing you’re not pulling shifts at The Mirage anymore, either.”
I shake my head, looking down. “Well…no.”
“So, which is it: did you win the lottery, or is there someone new in your life with alotof money that he likes to spend on you?”
I glare at him. “It’s not likethat, if that’s what you’re implying.”
Roman shakes his head, holding his hands up. “That isn’t what I was implying at all. I just meant a guy in your life who was more than a little well off.”
I glower into my drink.
