Walking back through the club is like moving through a dream. It’s busier now, the music louder, the lighting darker as the night shifts into full swing. Servers weave through the crowd carrying trays of drinks. They’re all women, and they’re all beautiful.
Velour doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what it is. A place designed for male pleasure, male comfort, and male fantasy.
I find Oksana behind the bar.
“I owe you an apology,” I say, raising my voice so she can hear me. “You stuck your neck out for me, and I threw you under the bus. I’m sorry. I know that wasn’t cool.”
“No, it wasn’t.” She pins me with a steely glare. “What the hell were you thinking, marching up to Kirill Baronov and demanding a job like that?”
“It was impulsive, I know.” I lean against the bar, trying to look appropriately chastened. “I figured he couldn’t say no if I was right in front of him.”
She shakes her head while sliding three martinis across the bar to a waiting server. “Then you clearly don’t know the Baronovs very well. Not only would they say no to your face,they’d have no trouble making you disappear if you piss them off. That was reckless.”
“All’s well that ends well, right?” I give her a weak smile. “Kirill offered me a job … not as a dancer though, as a server.”
“Good for you,” she snaps.
I sigh. “Look, I know what I did was shitty, but I need this job. I promise I won’t be a pain in the ass anymore. I’ll do everything you tell me to.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.” The hard set of her mouth softens. “How did you know they were the Baronov brothers? You’re new to New York.”
“I did my research about the owners of Velour, not to mention the brothers are popular in the society pages.”
“That they are.” She reaches under the bar and pulls out a business card, scribbling something on the back. “Text me tomorrow, and we can set up your training shift.”
I nod and take the card, tucking it into my purse. “Thanks again. Really.”
She waves me off with a flick of her wrist.
I leave Velour and walk without any real destination in mind. My apartment in Brooklyn is miles away, but my legs need to move, need to burn off the adrenaline coursing through me.
Manhattan pulses with life. People spill out of bars, couples press against building walls, taxis honk at nothing.
I walk until the buildings give way to open space, until the Hudson stretches out like black glass under the glow of streetlights. The viewing area is a strip of concrete with a railing and a few benches that have seen better days. I stop here and stare out at the water.
My mother loved water.
It’s one of the few things I remember clearly about her. Most of my early memories are blurred at the edges, softened by time and a child’s limited understanding of the world. But I remember the way her face would light up whenever we were near water. Rivers, lakes, even fountains. She’d stop whatever she was doing to watch it.
“Water is freedom,milaya,” she told me once, crouched beside me near a fountain in Gorky Park. I was maybe five, young enough that her words felt like magic. “It goes where it wants. No one can hold it.”
I close my eyes and let the memory wash over me.
Her voice. The way she laughed when I splashed her with fountain water, shrieking with delight. The feel of her hand wrapped around mine, warm and solid and safe.
She loved me. I know she did.
Called me her precious girl, doted on me the way mothers do when their children are the center of their world. And I thought she loved my father with the same fierce devotion, which is why it never made sense that she left us.
The dreams started six months ago. They were vivid and visceral, like a movie, and they were always the same.
I’m six years old, waking up to shouting in the middle of the night. Men’s voices, harsh and angry. Voices I don’t recognize. I creep to my bedroom door and peek out to find my mother with two strangers. She’s crying, pleading with them in a way that makes my stomach twist even now. One of them grabs her roughly, but all I can see is the tattoo on his forearm. Three cathedral domes in black ink.
That image still haunts me.
When I was young, my father told me my mother had to go back to her family, that they needed her more than we did. It was only when I was older that he shared the truth.
He was working late that night as he often did, coaching a young middleweight in a late-night bout.
