I'm not thrilled with leaving Zion behind at the house, but Hannah and Madisyn insisted that they could watch him while I work. He seemed plenty excited to play with Kira and while she's younger than he is, he didn't seem bothered by her age.
"I'm going to drop you off at the club," Nikita says as he drives me to work.
"Don't you have to be there?" I ask. My stomach tumbles at the thought of this all being a setup. No, Nikita wouldn't do that. He vowed to protect me. "Who is going to train me?" It's not like I can't handle carrying drinks around and serving the guests, but I thought he'd keep an eye on me while at work.
Nikita's hands tighten on the steering wheel as he shoots a glare in my direction. He's not the least bit happy about my questions. "I'm sure you can figure out how to take drink orders. I'm not having you bartend. Besides, I have something else more pressing that I need to handle."
He doesn't elaborate.
Nikita drops me off at the back entrance. He doesn't wait for me to enter through the door. He's smart enough to realize this time, I'm not running off. My son is at their house. Leaving isn't an option.
Music pulsates through the club. There are a handful of patrons, but the place isn't crowded, not like when I was here the last time and bumped into Nikita.
I head down the hallway, and another man, Russian, grabs my arm. I recognize him from the house. I've seen him around, but I don't know him, other than I think I can trust him. He's not with the mafia.
"You need to get ready," he says and leads me to the dressing room, opening the door where a handful of girls are getting undressed and putting on their uniforms. While the club isn't a strip club, it does flaunt its dancers in G-strings and bikini tops that barely cover their nipples.
"Nikita has me waitressing," I say, making it clear that I'm not here to dance.
"Two of our dancers called in sick. A third one quit. I don't need a waitress. I need a dancer," he says, glancing me up and down. "You'll do."
"No, I won't."
"I'm not asking," he says and grabs a silver sparkly outfit from the rack, tossing it at me. "Get ready or get out."
I'd rather get out, but Zion is back at the house with the bratva. Is there a choice? I relent, undressing, and am relieved when the Russian stalks out of the dressing room.
"It's not so bad," one of the girls says as she applies thick eyeliner, accenting her baby blues. "The tips make it worth it, and most of the guys are pretty nice. I'm Ava," she says.
"Most of them?" I croak. My heart is pummeling my ribcage. "I've never danced before."
"A virgin," the other girl says and grins. "Don't tell the guys; they'll be vying for your attention all night, and we'll lose out on our tips."
"Don't listen to Bailey," Ava says. "She's just jealous that Anton hand-picked you to dance. That's quite the compliment."
"It doesn't feel like one," I mutter. I'm not the least bit comfortable in my ensemble, the silver G-string, and triangle-top bikini. It does cover my nipples, but there's plenty of side boob showing, not to mention the rest of my boob straining against the material.
Are both girls willingly working at the club?
I don't ask. It's better not to know. Besides, I don't want to put their lives in danger because of my mistakes.
Bailey and Ava head out of the dressing room. My feet are practically glued to the floor. I don't want to move, and I sure as hell don't want to dance for men ogling me, staring at me like I'm a piece of meat. I've never enjoyed being the center of attention or in the spotlight.
This goes well beyond my comfort zone into something else entirely. But what choice is there? I need to protect Zion, and if that means playing by the rules, I'll do what I have to.
Did Nikita plan this charade? Get me to work at the club and force me to dance. Maybe he didn't want to admit that he wants to see me in little more than a thong and convinced his buddy Anton to order me around.
If Nikita wanted me to dance, he'd have outright told me that was my job. The man doesn't evade the truth, not when he wants something. He's forceful, brash, and not the least bit apologetic. I don't fault him for who he is. He's bratva. At least he knows what he wants.
Me?
I just want to survive and protect my son at all costs.
Anton shoves his head into the dressing room unannounced. "Come on, new girl. Get your ass onto the center platform."
"Excuse me?" Did I hear him correctly? There are multiple posts and dancing spots within the club, but the center platform is the heart of the club and the focal point. He grabs my arm and thrusts me out of the dressing room, letting me see the stage where I'm expected to dance. "Shouldn't that be reserved for Ava or Bailey?" I ask.
The platform is twice the size of the other dancing posts. There's a table positioned around the center platform, with chairs for patrons to watch and be entertained.
I don't want to dance, least of all wearing this tiny ensemble that covers very little and leaves almost nothing to the imagination.
"Get on the platform," Anton bellows at me, yanking my arm and dragging me onto the stage.
There might not be many patrons, but it doesn't matter. Everyone in the club is watching me. Anton has humiliated me. My cheeks are hot, and I want to stomp my feet and throw a temper tantrum to get out of this disaster that I've found myself buried in.
The music plays through the speakers, pulse-pounding and making the platform floor vibrate. They've given me stilettos to wear, and while they're a size too small, at least I won't kick my shoes off at some guy's head during a dance.
Then, again, maybe I should consider a little hostility when I perform—anything to get forced out of here. I'd rather be back at the house, cooped up inside, than giving a show to horny men.
"Dance!" Anton shouts when I don't move from my position on the platform. I feel like a wet noodle. I'm not the least bit graceful or sexy. Well, I don't consider myself to be sexy. I've got hips and curves. A kid came out of me, and I never got back to being a size two. Those days are long gone.
I swing my hips to the music, and a group of guys whistle and catcall at my moves. I don't like the attention, but Anton doesn't give a shit about what I want. He grabs the microphone, intent on humiliating me further. "Give it up for our virgin on the dance floor, Layla."
Do all the girls have fake dancer names? It's not the worst idea. Me dancing on stage, however, is.
A handful of guys hoot and clap. Everyone's attention is on me, including Bailey and Ava's. Both girls are shooting daggers at me, along with a handful of other dancers I haven't met, all female, all wearing similar attire and practically naked.
Each song gets easier, dancing, swaying, gyrating my hips, and accepting tips from drunk men looking for a bit of pleasure. I don't hate it as much as I thought, not as the night grows louder and rowdier.
I may be center stage on the central platform, but not everyone's attention is on me. It's a welcoming relief to dance and pretend no one is watching.
But they are staring, gazes lingering longer than they should, eyeing every ounce of my bare skin.
I glimpse at Bailey as she lowers herself on the platform, allowing the men to reach her G-string and insert a wad of cash.
I imitate her as if she were a piece of art and mimic the maneuver. A man with a sharp nose and thin, graying hair smacks my ass as he puts a one-dollar bill in my panties. "How much to buy you for the entire night?" he asks. His voice is rough and sends a disturbing chill down my spine.
"She's not for sale," Nikita seethes, grabbing the man by the lapels and landing a punch square across his jaw before shucking him out the door.
When did Nikita get here?
The club is crowded, and with the spotlight rotating between the platforms, it's hard to see more than a few feet in front of me. I suppose that's on purpose. They want me to pay attention to the customers willing to tip.
Nikita stalks back in a fury, his face red as he approaches the platform but stands on the ground below me. "My office, now!" he snaps.
My breath catches in my throat, and he offers me his hand, helping me down from the platform. He doesn't look the slightest bit happy to see me. Does he think that I'm not cut out as a dancer? Was he unhappy with my performance? I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask for any of it.