“You’ll find out,” he replied dismissively.
He led us out, stepping past the unmoving body of the cook, ignoring him like he was trash. I glanced down, but I couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not.
Outside, Oleg climbed into the driver’s seat of a limousine. And for the next two hours, we shopped. It was a lesson in submission, and I knew it.
I watched, stony-eyed, as Sergei paraded me through a number of upscale boutiques, choosing the most expensive clothes for me to wear. Each time he’d sigh and raise his eyebrows.
“Oh, dear. Such a debt you owe me. But don’t worry: I can be a very generous friend.”
He licked his lips slowly and suggestively, as if licking an ice cream . . . or a dick. I wanted to vomit.
And everywhere was the silent, looming presence of Oleg, his flat eyes shifting continuously, the bulge under his armpit showing that he was armed.
During the entire shopping spree, my mind was whirring, thinking, taking in the spread of Las Vegas, trying to hatch an escape plan.
But Oleg was watching, subtly moving his body to block every exit.
I knew that I had to escape. But I had no phone, no money, no ID. And no contacts—nowhere to turn for help outside this damn city.
Luka was on tour, and my father—he’d made it very clear that he didn’t want anything to do with me.
My heart rate rocketed when I saw two men in the uniform of city police. But Oleg’s hand moved toward his gun, a clear message, and Sergei edged closer, his stinking breath hot on my cheek.
“That wouldn’t be sensible,” he chuckled. “And it would be very unfortunate for those pretty girls you dance with.”
My body was rigid. I already felt guilty for what had happened to the Korean. I couldn’t be responsible for anything happening to the girls.
I forced myself to stay still, but inside I was begging the police to turn in my direction.
When they disappeared from view, Sergei laughed derisively.
“Not the hero you think you are.”
He was right. I did nothing. I was a coward.
My shoulders slumped in defeat.
Then Oleg’s phone rang and I heard him say the name ‘Volkov’ as he handed his cell to Sergei.
He spoke rapidly in Russian, but still I felt his greedy eyes on me. The way he kept glancing in my direction made me think the conversation was about me.
My head dropped into my hands.
What the hell do I do now?
People were beaten to bloody rags, and people were held hostage, and we shopped.
It was sickening.
Sergei ended his call and uttered a string of instructions to Oleg while we drove to another store. But this one sold dance supplies and I felt a small surge of hope. The familiar scene, the smell of leather, of coconut foot lotion—it reminded me that there was a world beyond this nightmare.
Oleg didn’t enter but left us at the entrance, nodding at something Sergei said to him.
I didn’t understand what was going on. I knew it was all a game, but if they were just going to kill me, why go through this charade?
It was all mind games, to get inside my head, to break me. I knew Sergei wanted to fuck me. No way. Over my cold, dead body. Although he’d probably enjoy that.
Trying to ignore his hungry stare, I chose a pair of Latin shoes with the regulation two-inch heel, and a pair of patent ballroom shoes—the tools of my trade.
Ballroom shoes look like ordinary men’s dress shoes, but instead the soles are suede and they’re super light in weight, even with the central steel-shank support and extra cushioning.
I chose the best because cheap shoes can cripple a pro dancer.
My last must-have purchases were a pair of Latin pants and a plain black, long-sleeved shirt with a built in dance-belt. Americans called them mantys—man panties.
But my gut twisted again at the fascination on Sergei’s face while I bought what I needed. He was staring at the built in dance-belt which looks kind of like a woman’s teddy. It’s only strange when you first start wearing them. We all use them: they hold your dick and balls in place, and give a clean line—no shirt hanging out of your pants when you dance.
But he was still staring at me.
And I was worried.
As we left the dance supplies store, I sensed a shift in his mood.
The casual mocking, the insinuation, the sexual comments had given way to something darker.
I’ve seen every kind of petty meanness as a pro dancer. I’ve seen costumes slashed, shoes suddenly gone missing. I’ve seen people deliberately blocked-in or boxed during a competition so they’re squeezed into a corner by other competitors and can’t complete their routine. I’ve seen spite and jealousy and every kind of backstabbing you can imagine. I thought I’d seen it all. But looking into his eyes was like looking into Hell.
Oleg opened the limousine’s door and Sergei slid onto the plush leather with a gratified sigh. Then he patted the empty seat next to him, and my eyes widened.
“Come sit,” he ordered. “Daddy wants to play.”
He spread his legs and grinned up at me.