Wicked Brute

Chapter One
Natalia

I never really thought I’d look good as a brunette.

The cheaply dyed sheen of it in the mirror does nothing to convince me. It’s no artfully layered and balayage salon job, that’s for sure. I manage well enough with my own two hands and a box from the store that it doesn’t look entirely flat and fake. Still, it’s a far cry from my days as a natural version of what I hear they’re calling expensive blonde these days.

Of course, dyed hair–even the cheaply done kind–isn’t strange in this place. Which is part of why I’m here. It’s easier to blend in.

Even if a few months ago, I’d never have been caught dead in a place like this.

“Athena! I didn’t know you were dancing tonight!”

Ruby's sharp, crowing voice–not her real name–reaches me from all the way on the other side of the room as she bursts in, dressed in shorts so short that they’d almost count as stage lingerie and a crop top that barely covers her breasts. She’s curvier than I am, and the clothes cling to her like a second skin, accentuating every swell and curve of her bust and hip. Combined with a narrow waist, huge blue eyes, and dyed red hair, she drives all the men who come to the club absolutely wild.

We all have our strengths. Mine is being an actual, trained dancer, once upon a time. In a place that prioritizes lewd gyrating over real skill, I bring something to the table that the customers here rarely see. 

They’re not exactly the types to hold season tickets to the Moscow ballet.

“I picked up a shift.” I lean forward, brushing eyeshadow over one closed lid. My look is always the same, and I don’t deviate from it. The most important part is that it looks nothing like what I used to do with my makeup. Before, I was a devotee of a bare lid, a clean face, a sharp wing, and a red lip. Now, I’ve learned the art of a smoky eye, thick liner, and faux lashes to make my blue eyes look wider than normal and how to apply contour and blush to accentuate my sharp cheekbones and delicate features. 

The red lip, though, stayed. I’ve learned that men–the type of men who frequent this club especially–like brightly colored lipstick on the dancers. It encourages them to spend more, to take us back to the inaptly named champagne room, where they can more intimately imagine us leaving traces of that same lipstick on their cocks.

It’s not something I’d ever entertain the idea of, but plenty of the girls do, and I can’t fault them for it. Tips aren’t the best in a place like this, and a girl’s got to get by.

“You need to take a day off.” Ruby plops into the chair next to mine, unzipping her clear makeup pouch as she pulls it out of the huge tote bag that she always carries with her. There are more things in there than I’d ever dared guess at–I’ve seen her pull all sorts of items out over the span of time I’ve worked here. Lingerie, tampons, makeup, a curling iron, a dildo, a lunchbox full of snacks, water bottles of vodka–I’m pretty sure it’s less a purse and more a bag of wish fulfillment, as if Ruby is some kind of particularly benevolent genie. “I don’t think there’s been a night that you haven’t been here in weeks.”

I shrug, peering in the mirror as I carefully apply lash glue just above my actual lashes. I hate wearing falsies–they feel thick and heavy and as if I have a creature glued to my eyes–but they’re a must. I made it precisely one shift at the club before Ruby whipped out a spare set and showed me how to apply them, lecturing me thoroughly on why I could never go out on stage without them ever again.

She’s been the closest thing I have to a friend ever since.

“Gotta pay rent,” I say casually, tapping my nail against the lash as I let it dry. “It’s criminal, what they’re charging for that shithole I’m living in.”

“That’s why you need to take me up on my offer and move in to my place.” Ruby glares at me playfully. “I have a spare bedroom and everything. We could split the rent and have girls’ night every night. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s a hell of a lot better than where you’re at now, from the sound of it.”’

“And you know I’m never going to take you up on it, as much as I appreciate the offer.” I grin at her as I glue on my other lash, trying to soften my words. “I like my quiet time.”

I can’t tell her the truth, of course, which is that I lay awake some nights wishing that I could take her up on her offer. As much as I really had enjoyed my personal space and quiet in my old life, I crave company now, to not be alone with my thoughts, especially in the dark. I’d give anything not to live alone.

But I can’t. It would put her in too much danger, and Ruby doesn’t deserve that. She’s been nothing but a good friend to me, even if she is loud and abrasive at times. 

Ruby rolls her eyes playfully. “Well, you can at least come over after our shifts next Saturday. I’m throwing a party.”

“After we get off work?” On Saturday nights, closing the club means staying until two in the morning, even later sometimes if there are enough paying customers still spending. The thought of partying after a long night of dancing at that hour makes me feel exhausted before this night has even begun–which makes me feel much, much older than my twenty-five years.

Ruby wrinkles her nose at me. “We’ll sleep when we’re dead,” she declares, getting up and shimmying out of her shorts as she starts to change into her lingerie for the night.

It’s just a turn of phrase, but a shiver runs down my spine anyway, an echo of the one I felt earlier tonight as I walked to the club. The neighborhoods that I live and work in aren’t really ones that a young woman wants to be on foot in, but I hadn’t been lying when I said that I picked up a shift because money is tight. Getting a cab is a luxury I can’t afford. 

I nearly did tonight, though. The letter I found shoved under my door this morning when I padded out to my tiny, cramped kitchen to brew coffee is buried deep in my garbage can now, under potato peels and coffee grounds, but it doesn’t matter. I can still see the words stuck to it, cut out and glued to the standard-issue sheet of printer paper.

It should have been laughable. It was something straight out of an early 2000s serial killer movie. Hardly original–the nondescript paper, the mismatched words from magazines and newspapers, as if the person who wrote it and left it had done so after reading a copy of Terrifying Young Women for Dummies. I should have crumpled it up and thrown it away without a thought instead of standing frozen, staring down at it for long, ticking seconds with my blood turning to ice in my veins before I finally shoved it down into my trash can and dumped the old contents of my coffee filter over it.

But it wasn’t funny. Not just because of my present situation, but because I’ve known the kind of men who do these things. I grew up around them. 

I can’t help feeling that whoever left it wanted me to think they were stupid. That they’re just some obsessed customer from the club who’s watched too many Netflix documentaries and thought it would be funny to scare a stripper into thinking she was being targeted.

They want me to let down my guard and assume it’s just some idiot. To not take it seriously.

The alternative, of course, is to take it seriously. Which is bad in its own way.

There’s no going to the cops. The Russian police are a joke anyway, as terrifying to an ordinary citizen as to an actual criminal. Even if I thought they could or would help me, all I’d be doing is turning myself in. The politsiya would love to get their hands on me.

I walked to work anyway. When faced with a stalker or giving up precious rubles… I opted to take my chances. 

I distinctly felt as if there were eyes on me the entire way, crawling over me, making me pick up my pace more than normal. Usually, I try to walk slowly, casually, as if I belong here, and no one should think twice about it. Hurrying, rushing, in neighborhoods like these indicates that you’re not supposed to be there.

That you’re afraid.

I haven’t often felt afraid in my life. It’s possible, actually, that I’ve experienced too little fear, and that’s what landed me in my present situation. But tonight, as with many nights since I came back to Moscow, I felt that stinging chill of fright.

Even now, ensconced in the brightly lit dressing room of the club, I can’t shake that feeling of being watched. 

Of being followed.

You’re just being paranoid, I tell myself as I swipe my red lipstick on, picking up Ruby’s curling iron to add some wave to my hair. You’ve done an excellent job of covering your tracks. 

No one would expect you, the daughter of a once-powerful Bratva leader, a former prima ballerina of ever being within a dozen blocks of this place.

I picked this club for that reason precisely. The Cat’s Meow is one of the seediest strip clubs on a street of seedy clubs, lit up on the exterior with neon lights and figures of naked women, guarded by bouncers so muscled and huge that they span two of me. Anyone looking for me–the me I used to be–wouldn’t come here. They’d assume I’d die before ever stepping foot into this place as a bystander, let alone as a dancer.

The same goes for my apartment, a tiny, leaky studio in another rundown neighborhood with broken stairs, broken furniture, broken faucets–and sturdy locks. I rented it precisely because it’s the kind of place that would have made me gag before, back when I was accustomed to thousand-thread-count sheets, caviar for breakfast, and designer clothes shipped to my door.

The letter has to have been from some infatuated customer. Who else would know you dance here? Who else would look for you here? It makes more sense that someone followed you home from the club.

The alternative–that someone linked to my father in some way has found me–is far more terrifying. I’d rather deal with an entitled, horny incel from the club any day over the Russian Bratva.

Ruby wiggles her hips next to me, reaching for the curling iron. “Hand it over,” she demands playfully. “Besides, you’re the first one out tonight anyway.”

I wince at that as I stand up, moving away a few steps to trade out my tattered sneakers for heels. It’s hard to hide ballerinas’ feet in the type of shoes that a dancer here wears, but I try to avoid drawing attention to them all the same. I keep my toenails painted now, at the owner's request, after he was horrified by the lingering bruising on my toes from years of being crammed into pointe shoes. Nothing can change the way they look beyond that, but the polish helps, and I always choose heels with wide straps over the toes.

If Ruby or any of the other dancers have ever noticed, they haven’t said anything. There’s a code here, it seems, that no one asks too many questions. I’m certain I’m not the only one hiding something. Even Ruby, as outwardly verbose as she can be, sometimes has a secretive look in her eyes, as if she’s holding something back too.

It’s a generalization to say that no one ends up working at a place like this by choice, but it’s one I’m willing to stick to.

“What are you wearing tonight–ooh, that one! I love that.” Ruby flutters her eyelashes to me as I wiggle into the gold lace bra I brought for the stage tonight. Gold or silver lingerie has become something of a staple for me, building on the stage name I’d chosen–Athena. It stands out in a sea of jewel and sweets-themed stripper names, but I don’t mind.

For the first time in my life, I’m afraid more often than not. Having a goddess’ name with me on stage, especially the goddess of war, feels like the sort of shield I need. 

“You’re going to kill it.” Ruby flashes me a thumbs up as I hear the cues for my stage music start to come up, and I stride towards the door, feeling my heart somersault in my chest.

In all my years as a ballerina, I can’t ever recall being nervous. I danced from a young age with a confidence that had catapulted me to the heights of the Moscow ballet, earning me fame and accolades–and a reprieve from the unwanted marriage that would have ensnared me much earlier if I hadn’t brought my father so much prestige from my position. I stepped out on stage every time as if I belonged there–because I unequivocally believed that I had.

This stage doesn’t particularly feel like one I belong on. Though I’ve conquered it every time, I always feel nervous when I step out. Tonight is no different.

The club is crowded. I see throngs of men around my stage–three, four, five deep in places, all watching and cat-calling as I stride out, swaying to the music. I feel a momentary flash of fear that I’ve never had before on stage, a chill down my spine as I remember the letter.

What if whoever pushed that under my door is here tonight? What if he’s looking at me right now? Watching me, imagining…

I remind myself that it doesn’t matter–as my heel hits the slick, hard surface of the stage. There are more terrifying things out there than men who clip words out of magazines and glue them to paper to scare a woman who won’t sleep with them. There are bigger things that go bump in the night. Worse things that can happen than a scary letter.

I know because I’ve seen them, heard them. My father was one of those terrifying things.

If I can conquer that, I can conquer anything.

I can feel my softly curled dark hair brushing against my shoulders, swinging back and forth, the scrape of the cheap lace of my lingerie against my skin. I let the music wash over me, calling back the old immersion techniques of my days in ballet.

Hear. Touch. Smell. Feel. Become.

I focus on the sound of the music, the slick surface of the pole beneath my hands, the feel of the cool metal against my body, and the rigid texture of the stage. I desperately try not to smell my surroundings. I’ve become mostly numb to the miasma of alcohol, sweat, perfume, and cologne that fills the room, but it’s still unpleasant.

I become something else. Someone else, someone I’ve never been.

I give myself over to the alter ego I’ve created, to Athena, and I dance.

The music fills me, twisting my body, spreading me open, turning me into a thing of lust and desire, created only to please the men surrounding the stage waving bills at me. I forget who I was, who I am, and focus on this.

The thing that might save me, if only because no one who knew me before would ever dream that I would be here, doing this.

That I would have fallen so far.

I spin down the pole, landing in a split on the stage. The crowd approvingly shouts as I push my ass up in the air, legs still spread as I bounce on the hard surface, my back arched deeply as I slide upwards, sinuous and graceful, onto my hands and knees. I grab the pole, throwing one leg out as I spin to my feet, and just as I rise up again, I see him.

A man in the very front row, directly in front of me. I freeze for a split second, startled.

Sandy blond hair falls into a sharp, chiseled masculine face, the faintest of stubble on his strong jaw. He’s wearing a black shirt open at the chest with the sleeves rolled up, showing muscled forearms covered in tattoos–including one of an eagle at his wrist.

He’s handsome. Gorgeously, inordinately so. 

So few men who come here are. They’re portly, unkempt, balding, unhygienic, or some combination of all of those, more often than not. But this man is none of those things.

He doesn’t look like the kind of man who would leave a letter like that under someone’s door.

But then again, he doesn’t look like he belongs here, either. He looks too clean, too polished, too expensive. Like the kind of man whose credit card doesn’t have a limit. The type of man who drinks better liquor than even the best served at this place. 

The kind of man who would never set foot in a club like this without reason.

His eyes are ice-blue–and they’re fixed on me with an intensity that none of the other customers here can claim. It sends another of those cold shivers down my spine, because the way he’s looking at me is more than attraction, more than lust, more than desire.

He’s looking at me as if he knows me.

As if he’s here for me, specifically.