Slave to the Rhythm (11 page)

Ash looked nervous, his glance flicking between my friends and the bouncers by the exit. He started backing away, his hands held out from his sides.

“I just asked her to dance, that’s all. I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

Jo threw him a disbelieving look and stood with her hands on her hips.

“Do you want to go back to your room now?” Vanessa asked.

I nodded silently as Jo continued to glare.

Vanessa walked behind my chair and handed me the pashmina that had been hanging on the back. Then she unlocked the brakes on the wheelchair and pushed me away from the table.

Ash’s mouth dropped open.

“Still think I’m pretty?” I asked him, as my eyes filled with tears.

Ash

I PUSHED AWAY
from the table, burning with humiliation and shock.

She was pretty, the girl in the wheelchair. Natural, not fake like so many of the girls I saw in Vegas. Her hair was a warm, honey blonde that had been left straight and shiny. She’d worn a little makeup, but, only mascara and some lip gloss.

I’d been attracted to her even though I knew that she wasn’t the type of woman who’d be interested in a guy like me. Not anymore.

I thought about the kind of man I’d become—nothing better than a fucking prostitute. Although I still got to dance.

And then if my evening wasn’t bad enough, I saw Sergei pushing through the crowded lobby toward me, Oleg in his wake.

I turned and disappeared into the river of tourists.

Two weeks. That’s all it had taken me to be persuaded to turn tricks for money. I disgusted myself.

It had happened after rehearsals one evening. He’d sent another note, demanding money, demanding to meet.

I knew what a meeting would mean: he’d never made any secret of the fact the he wanted to fuck me to clear the so-called debt.

He’d started by leaving messages with Trixie and once with Gary, saying he wanted his money . . . or ‘a dinner date with my favorite dancer’.
No fucking way!
But the money I’d saved from my meager pay was a fraction of what he was asking for—and the amount increased daily. It was extortion—and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. It was so fucking frustrating knowing that I had
€
5,000 sitting in a Slovenian bank, but I had no way of accessing it, despite my best efforts so far.

I’d been avoiding Sergei, but I didn’t have the money and time was running out. Gary offered me a loan, but I could tell from the fear on his face that there would be repercussions. I’d thought about it and thought about it, losing sleep over what I had to do.

That first time, I’d gone to a bar far away from the hotel, wanting nothing more than to be left in peace, to drink until I couldn’t feel anymore.

But I hadn’t been seated at the bar for long when a woman came up to me.

“Drinking alone?”

I looked up, surprised, and realized that she was talking to me.

“Yes,” I said, staring at the nearly empty beer that I’d drunk and wishing I could afford more—but not with Sergei’s threat dangling over my head, suspended by razor wire.

The woman settled herself onto the stool next to me, her short skirt sliding up her legs.

“Girlfriend stand you up?”

I shook my head.

“Boyfriend?”

That made me look up, my glance sharp and annoyed.

“No!”

She gave a predatory smile and rested her hand on my thigh with a gentle squeeze.

“Just checking. Whiskey? Or another beer?”

This time I really looked at her.

She was attractive, older, perhaps as much as forty, but she took care of herself and smelled good. I remembered what Volkov had said about earning ‘tips’.

I closed my eyes against the memory and breathed in deeply. The woman’s subtle perfume filled my nostrils and when I opened my eyes again, she was staring at me, a small frown on her face.

“Are you okay?”

Her concern was touching. Yveta and Gary avoided asking me questions like that because they were afraid that I’d answer, saying things they didn’t want to hear.

No, I wasn’t okay. I hadn’t been okay since my plane had landed in this gateway to hell.

“Sorry. Bad day,” I answered. Then I forced a smile and watched her eyes light up. “I’m Ash.”

“Melissa.”

We shook hands and Melissa waved at the bartender for two whiskeys.

“To new friends,” she said as we clinked glasses. “Cute accent, by the way.”

I savored the quick burn of the whiskey and glanced at my new ‘friend’, not responding to her comment. I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to encourage more questions about me. So I turned it around.

“Are you on vacation?” I asked politely.

“God, no!” she laughed. “Convention—for business. I wouldn’t come here by choice.” Then she glanced at me. “Sorry, that was rude. But I prefer the beach. What about you?”

“I work here.”

“Really? What do you do?”

“I’m a dancer.”

Once I’d have been proud to say that, but not now. My voice was empty of emotion.

“Oh, I should have guessed,” Melissa smiled, eyeing my body with easy familiarity, a covetous glint darkening her gaze.

After that, it hadn’t taken her long to invite me up to her room “for a drink in private.” Less than 20 minutes.

She’d been upfront, businesslike, not offering any reason for hitting on me. Maybe there was nothing to explain: she was a single woman picking up a guy in a bar and offering him a good time, no strings.

I swallowed as I tried to get the words out, to ask for money. But then a sliver of doubt made me hesitate. Could she be an undercover cop? Gary had told me that they did this, waiting for the girl or guy to solicit money.

I smiled at the irony: if she was a cop, she was exactly what I needed; if she wasn’t, it wouldn’t make any difference.

But when we reached her room, there was nothing undercover about Melissa.

The moment she was through the door she shimmied out of her dress, attacking the zipper on my pants before I’d turned the lock behind me.

Melissa was attractive, but a sort of horror that I was prostituting myself kept getting in the way and my hard-on was fading fast.

“How much did you drink?” she huffed, rubbing my soft cock over the material of my briefs.

Humiliation and anger made me push her away.

Not enough for this
, I thought.

I forced my mind past my problems and remembered the ultra-hot fuck I’d had with Yveta the night before. That worked, and my cock started to stiffen. I cupped myself over my briefs and stared at Melissa.

She licked her lips and walked toward me as I shrugged out of my shirt and kicked off the pants that were pooled around my feet. When she was near enough, I unhooked her bra and tossed it to the floor and played with her tits which were real enough and heavy in my hands.

I fucked her on the bed, my eyes closed the whole time, trying to keep the picture of Yveta in my mind, her long muscled legs wrapped around my waist as I’d plowed into her backstage at the theater after everyone had left.

I had just enough awareness to make sure that Melissa came before I did something stupid like call her by the wrong name.

Her nails dragged down my spine as her back arched and she quivered around me.

I pulled out immediately, although I hadn’t come. I don’t think she noticed.

She smiled at me sleepily, her skin flushed, her eyes sated.

“You can see yourself out,” she yawned. “There’s money on the table.”

I bowed my head and dressed hurriedly.

There was a small pile of money on the table. I scooped it up and left the room as quickly as possible.

Outside the hotel, I paused to count the money: $145. Plus five one-dollar bills.

I’m surviving
. That’s what I told myself.

After that first time, it became easier. I was better at picking my targets and charged more.

Three or four times a week, I’d head out and find a woman to pick me up.

My mistake tonight had been to get lost in the dance. I’d been so focused on the music, on the rhythm, that I’d missed the obvious fact that my dance partner was struggling, unable to keep up.

And then that girl, the one with the sad eyes—God, I’d wanted to dance with her, to feel like myself again, to dance with a woman because I could. It had been a shock when I saw her wheelchair. I was really off my game tonight.

I thought of Sergei, his notes and growing impatience, and even though the night was warm enough to send a trickle of sweat down my back, I shivered.

I knew what he really wanted: he wasn’t going to get it. Ever.

Sighing, I slipped out of the hotel and made my way along the Strip. I needed to find another woman. The thought turned my stomach.

As I strode down the street, dodging the wide-eyed tourists, my mood darkened further.

And I hadn’t been able to find out anything else about the girl. No one had seen her. No one knew anything. Even Yveta and Galina had refused point blank to talk about her. Marta wasn’t mentioned.

After the evening with Volkov, they’d kept a wary distance from me for a couple of days, but soon they were back to their usual behavior with Yveta hitting on me. She was hot and I needed what she was offering—which led to the backstage sex. Galina was persuaded to disappear for the rest of the evening so we could use their room to fuck some more. And for a few hours, I was able to forget. When Yveta came, it felt like validation—I was a man and needed to feel like one. How fucking pathetic was that? But so much was out of my control. I needed Yveta right now, and the way she clung to me, her breath hot on my neck, told me that she needed me . . . this . . . too.

But Sergei’s notes and little ‘gifts’ had started to arrive more frequently—sometimes several times a day—hints that I could escape his debt by attending a ‘private party’ or ‘dancing for friends’. I’d ignored them all. Then the threats had started.

Which is your favorite finger?

That’s what yesterday’s note said.

Strangely enough, Gary had become the one person I could talk to, but even he refused to help me speak to the police or find the girl.

And so I fucked tourists for a few hundred dollars.

A wash of shame settled in the pit of my stomach.
So fucking cheap
. That’s how I’d felt, but then I did it again and again.

Gary suspected, but said nothing. Yveta was oblivious, talking about ‘going on a date’ and happily making plans.

I glanced up at the flashing neon lights, the gaudy welcome that Vegas offered every tourist.

I was in the middle of a crowded American city, and I’d never felt more alone.

To the people passing by, I was just another guy out on the streets looking for a good time. But there was a dark underbelly to Las Vegas, and it had me by the balls. Any day, I could wind up dead . . . or wishing I was.

And then I saw a face in the crowd.

“Marta!”

She blinked, confused, then an expression of shock, hope, and fear brightened her dull eyes.

I saw her glance around, her face tight, then duck into an alley between an adult video store and a fancy boutique.

“Marta?”

She blended into the darkness, and the only thing that stood out was her pale face, eyes heavily ringed with makeup.

“I remember you.”

“Yes! The first night at the airport—you were with that young girl.”

“Have you seen her?”

I nodded slowly. “Yes, once.”

“Is she okay?”

“I don’t know,” I said, reluctantly lying through my teeth. “What about you?”

“I’m so scared,” she said, her voice shaking. “I think I could die here and no one will know.”

Her hand gripped my arm and her eyes were begging me to help.

“They give me drugs and make me sleep with their friends. They said I owed them the price of my plane ticket. They said if I tried to run away they’d catch me and kill me. I think they would—they all carry guns. Girls have disappeared. Two since I came here.”

It was exactly what I’d thought—worse, maybe.

“Can you go to the police?”

I asked the question, already knowing what the answer would be.

She shook her head quickly, glancing over her shoulder at the bright lights behind us.

“I’m scared,” she repeated.

I reached into my pocket. “I have $430. You could take this and . . .”

Marta shook her head again, her thin arms trembling and her teeth chattering as she continued to dig her nails into my skin.

“They’ll catch me!”

The too familiar rage and frustration boiled inside. I stared at the happy tourists streaming past, seeing only the light ignoring the shadows. I imagined their appalled expressions if I ran out and begged them for help. I knew what they’d say. I could almost smell their fear and confusion, their compassion fatigue, their reluctance to be involved. So much easier to walk on by.

And that’s what sickened me the most—I was just like them.

But I also knew that if I’d tried to stop Oleg that night, I’d be dead now. Sergei would have pulled the trigger and I’d just be another immigrant who disappeared.

Marta shivered in the hot desert air and I realized that it wasn’t just from fear. Her thin arms showed track marks on the inside of her elbow. The healthy dancer’s body of just a few weeks ago had shrunk and decayed.