Maybe she doesn’t hear me. Maybe she does.
Leonid stands, and suddenly he’s much closer than before. His kindness is still there on his face, but now I see it properly. It’s not kindness. It’s patience. The kind a person has when they already know how something ends.
“You’re very nervous,” he says. “That’s all right. First nights are difficult.”
“I’m fine.”
“No papers, yes?”
My breath catches before I can stop it.
His eyes brighten faintly.
Stupid.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“There’s no need to be scared,” he says. “Girls like you can make better money than this. Much better. There are private rooms upstairs. Richer men.”
“No.” I say it too quickly.
His expression doesn’t change. “You haven’t heard the offer.”
“I said no.”
The man blocking the gap smiles wider.
Behind Leonid, one of the others takes my empty glass from the table and pushes another drink toward me. I didn’t order it. I didn’t see anyone pour it.
I don’t touch it.
The room seems louder now. The music presses against my ribs. Smoke burns the back of my throat. All those shadowed booths suddenly look like places where girls disappear for ten minutes, twenty minutes, forever, while everyone pretends not to count.
I duck around the man who blocks my exit, and I move away from these men as fast as I can. Only when I turn the corner near the service door do I let myself breathe properly.
That’s the last of it, I tell myself. I’m done.
I don’t care how much money Marina said I could make. I don’t care how badly I need cash. I’m ending this shift, changing out of this awful dress, and never stepping foot inside Venera again.
The club feels different now that I’m frightened. The red lights look uglier. The smoke feels thicker. Men who seemed drunk and harmless an hour ago now look like shadows with teeth. Every laugh makes me flinch.
I look for Marina near the bar, but she isn’t there.
Neither is Nika.
I spot the narrow hallway that leads to the dressing room and head for it, pulling the hem of my dress down as I walk. My heels stick slightly to the floor with every step. Somewhere behind me, the music rises, bass shaking through the walls.
The hallway is almost empty. Too empty.
The noise from the club fades behind me, muffled by the walls. A single bulb flickers above the back exit, throwing weak yellow light over cracked paint and a row of stacked crates. The air smells like spilled beer, cleaning fluid, and damp concrete.
I should turn around.
The thought arrives one second too late.
A hand closes around my upper arm. I spin, but Leonid is already there. His pleasant smile is gone. “You got lost,” he says.
My stomach drops. “Let go of me.”
