She says personal like it’s a dirty word, and in here, it is. We don’t pass around a sharing stick in the dressing room. This isn’t a goddamn therapy session. No, we bury our issues deep, where it can turn our souls black, numb us from the inside out, like any other self-respecting stripper.
“I’ll talk to him,” I say, because it seems like the fastest way to make her stop.
“Thank you,” she says, relief evident. “I’ll owe you one.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, stalking past her. I hadn’t planned on talking to Ivan tonight. He will definitely notice my shaky hands. And with his bruisers reporting my every move, he’ll know why.
The crowd is decent tonight, a teeming mass I have to fight my way through, pushing and shoving just to stay upright. I get off on this—the noise, the people. The looks men give me as I pass them by. It’s why I loved this place the moment I stumbled into the club, wide-eyed and terrified. It’s why I begged and pleaded to be allowed onstage, back before I was quite legal—the lone nameless, underage girl in his otherwise legitimate enterprise.
And it’s why I put up with what happens in the basement. Not sex. God, nothing as pedestrian as that. Ivan could get sex from any of the girls in Tanglewood. For all I know, he does. It’s something different he wants from me, though.
Luca stands watch at the stairwell, face impassive. “Evening,” he says.
I smile, enjoying the challenge. I’ve gotten to know Luca Almanzar pretty well since we first met. And he can be pretty fun, except when he’s on duty. He’s like one of those guards outside the palace, a tall hat and an unbreakable stare.
Pressing myself close, I run my hand down his chest. I’m an inch away from him when I whisper, “Good evening to you too, handsome.”
He stiffens at my touch, at my words, but he doesn’t break formation. “Do you want to get me killed?”
“Buzzkill,” I say, leaning back.
One dark eyebrow rises. “I want to live,” he says drily.
It makes me laugh, and I poke him in his rock-hard abs. Of course it does nothing. He’s like a damn statue. “You’ve gotten more serious since I met you.”
“And you’ve gotten less.”
I freeze. Direct hit. “Is that so bad?”
He sighs. “No, it’s good. I’m glad you’re happy, Candy. If you’re happy.”
What the hell was happiness anyway? An orgasm? A pill? I’d mapped out almost every pleasure known to man and still hadn’t quite found mine. Years of dancing, of drinking. Years of being watched by Ivan, wondering if he’d pounce. The only thing I knew for sure was that I couldn’t keep going like this.
“I need to talk to him,” I murmur. An afterthought, even though Ivan is anything but.
He’s my first thought when I wake from a bender. My last before I take a hit.
“He’s in a mood,” Luca says.
When is he not? I don’t bother asking. Luca wouldn’t have an answer. No, I make my way down the stairs. I’ll just have to hide my trembling hands and shaky legs. I’ll have to hide how dry my mouth feels.
Hide how badly I want a drink.
It’s been three years since I first walked down these steps. I spent the first year locked up in his house, barely touched, barely noticed, left with books and music and dancing all alone. I finally convinced Ivan to let me dance in the Grand. He even got me my own apartment. But through it all, Ivan has always been there—directing my movements, picking my clothes, watching me. Waiting for me to make a mistake so that he can punish me.
I can’t keep going this way. Not even for Ivan.
Chapter Seven
It’s cold in the basement, without the body heat and the spotlights. Cold and damp. I wonder how Ivan’s desk can survive the moisture in the air, how it doesn’t rot, but the old carved wood continues to stand, incongruous and proud.
Ivan doesn’t look up when I step into the room. He knows Luca would guard that damn door with his life—or at least knock and announce the visitor if it’s club business.
Except for me.
I can come down here whenever I want. That’s the only thing that’s up to me. Because as soon as that metal door clangs shut behind me, I’m sealed in. Ivan’s in charge of me now.
And he wants me to wait.