Page 11 of The Last Dance

Vadim let the silence do half the work. It felt like a test, and I was failing it on purpose just to see how long he’d let me squirm. The answer was: exactly as long as he wanted.

Eventually, because I have a low tolerance for being out-stared, I broke. “Was there something you wanted, or is this just the part where you remind me you own the place?”

He said nothing for a second, then, “Sit.”

Which was redundant because I was already sitting, but I sat up straighter anyway, like there’d be a quiz. There was no “please.” I made a mental note to be embarrassed about my compliance later, in the privacy of my apartment, maybe while re-watching episodes of RuPaul.

He didn’t even bother to look at me when he said, “Your Tuesday problem. He bothers you every week.”

He didn’t say “Parsons,” didn’t say “the guy who’s been writing you little post-coital Bible verses on business cards,” but I knew exactly what he meant.

“Yeah,” I said. “He’s nothing if not consistent. It’s probably the only religious thing about him.”

That got a ghost of a reaction. Not a smile, but Vadim let the line hang for a second longer, like he was adding it to a collection. Then he turned his head, just a shade, and said two words in Russian to the man in the shadows. I recognized the tone, but not the words. The shadow-man left so quietly it took me a second to realize he’d moved at all.

Vadim’s attention returned to me, and the booth felt tighter, as if the air pressure had doubled. The glass in front of him, still untouched, caught the amber light and lit up the table like a crime scene photo.

I watched the empty space where Yuri had been, then risked, “What did you just say to him?”

Vadim splayed his fingers against the table. “You won’t be bothered again.” He said it with the effect of a guy announcing the bus schedule.

“Right,” I said, “but what does that mean?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

The bass from the main floor vibrated up through the seat, making it impossible to sit still without looking like you were trying to make your thighs into maracas.

I pressed my knees together, hands tucked under them so I wouldn’t start fidgeting. Vadim noticed, of course, but gave me the small mercy of not commenting.

“Okay,” I said, “I’m not going to say thank you because I get the feeling that’s not what this is about.”

He tilted his head. “You think I want gratitude?”

I shrugged. “Most men like to be told they’re a hero, even if the cape’s just for show.”

He considered this. “I don’t wear capes.”

“Could have fooled me,” I said. “You ever try leather?”

Another ghost of a smile. Then, “You’re not afraid.”

It was not a question, and it wasn’t quite a compliment.

I thought about it. “I’m tired of being afraid,” I said. “It’s boring.”

Vadim looked at me like he was looking for a lie, then decided he didn’t need one. “You understand there’s a cost.”

“Protection isn’t free, I get it.” My voice didn’t shake.

I was proud of that.

He placed both hands flat again. The veins on the back of his hand looked like they’d been drawn with a ruler. “A dance,” he said. “In private.”

I let that sit. “I don’t sleep with customers.”

He didn’t blink. “I’m not a customer.”

“Oh, right,” I said, “you’re the owner. So that makes it—what, a corporate retreat?”