Slave to the Rhythm (7 page)

“Where are we going?” I asked, my voice an expressionless monotone.

I’m not sure what I was thinking. Maybe that if I talked normally to the psycho, he’d . . . I don’t know . . . behave normally? I didn’t want to die in this miserable hotel kitchen.

“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.

Oh shit!

My feet refused to move, disgust and dread locking me to the spot.

From behind, Oleg launched a kidney-punch, and fierce pain knifed through my whole body. I gasped, collapsing into the back of the limo, my face inches from Sergei’s crotch.

“Perfect!”

He laughed, gripping the back of my head and forcing my face against his zipper. He was hard and I gagged, trying to turn my face away.

“So ungrateful,” he laughed again.

There was a soft metallic click, and something cold pressed against the base of my skull. I knew it was a gun—knew it although I couldn’t see it. I froze, my heart pounding painfully.

“No one can see you through these tinted windows,” he said conversationally. “No one can hear you. And guess what? No one will care. Just another faceless, numberless, insignificant immigrant.”

He pressed the barrel of the gun so it dug into my flesh as it was dragged down my spine.

“All those pretty clothes I bought for you. Well, now I want you to thank me nicely,” he said pleasantly. “It’s not much to ask. Is it?”

The pressure was removed from my neck and I sat up cautiously, muscles bunched, ready to run.

Sergei smiled slyly.

“The doors are locked, but feel free to try them. Oh, you’re shaking. Poor boy. I’ll do it for you,” and he rattled the limo’s door handles. “See, locked.”

He leaned back against the seat, the gun still in his hand, his eyes trained on me. He was enjoying every part of this. He was sick in the head, getting off on the power trip. I thought I was going to die.

“Unzip my pants.”

My mouth was dry. I wanted to shout, but all that came out was a feeble croak.

“Fuck you!”

“That’s the general idea. Let’s start with me fucking your mouth.”

Ash

ALL I COULD
do was glare at him, show him my disgust and hatred. My heart raced as the urge for fight or flight screamed inside me. Sergei huffed with impatience, then grabbed my hand and pinned it against the door with the gun.

“If I have to ask you again, I’ll break a finger. I’ll keep breaking them until you do what you’re told. Or maybe I’ll break your feet. You’re a dancer: tell me, Aljaž, how many bones are there in the human foot? I know it’s a lot.”

I shook my head, breath hammering in my throat.

“Fuck you!” I said again, louder this time.

He slammed the gun barrel against my hand, snapping the bones of my pinkie finger.

White hot pain slashed through me and I shouted out, trying to pull away, but he slammed the gun again, and a loud crunch was the sound of my index finger breaking.

“I am not a patient man¸” he growled, unzipping his pants and pulling out his straining cock. “Suck it!”

“I’ll bite off your fucking dick and spit it at you!” I shouted, my vision dipping with the agony from my shattered hand.

I was concentrating on trying not to pass out as I slumped into the corner, my eyes blazing with hatred. I was close to breaking, launching myself at the evil bastard. Only the black barrel of the gun pointing at my stomach stopped me.

I was panting, breaths fast and ragged, lips pulled back in a snarl, wishing I had the gun, wishing I could kill him and take this evil out of the world.

He sighed, pressing a button that lowered the panel between the backseat and the driver.

Sitting in the front was the girl from the airport, the young one, the one whose name I never learned. Tears streaked her face and one eye was swollen shut. Purple bruises colored her arms and neck, and her expression as she stared at me was pleading, desperate. Her mouth moved wordlessly.

Instinctively, I leaned toward her, but Sergei slapped my face casually, bringing my attention back to him.

“Suck me off and do it with a smile . . . or I’ll let Oleg finish her this time.”

Oleg put his massive hand around the girl’s neck and started to squeeze. Her eyes bulged, small blood vessels popped, turning the whites of her eyes red, but still fixed on me, still staring, begging me to save her. Her tiny hands clawed at Oleg, but the hulking man just laughed.

“Running out of time,” Sergei sing-songed.

“You sick bastard!”

I punched the back of the seat, impotent and furious.

“So my mother tells me,” he smiled. Then he glanced at the girl, and his smile widened. “Oh dear, she’s turning blue. I don’t think she’ll last much longer.”

The girl went limp in Oleg’s hands, but he didn’t let go. If anything, his massive fingers tightened around her slim throat and her body jerked.

Vomit burned in my throat, and the musky scent of his dick was putrid in the enclosed space.

The girl’s body jerked again and I cried out, but Sergei simply smiled and gestured at his bare cock with the hand that held his gun.

I squeezed my eyes shut so I didn’t have to look at the girl. Tears of outrage burned behind my lids.

I leaned forward, taking his dick in my mouth. If I didn’t look, it wasn’t real.

But I could feel him, smell him, taste him. He thrust hard and I gagged, then felt the roots of my hair rip as he gripped hard, tugging painfully.

“Hmm, I think you’ve done this before,” he purred.

Let the girl live. Let her live . . .

My eyes watered as his small dick pumped into my mouth. He was getting off on this, I knew it. His dick twitched and when he came with a soft sigh, salty cum pulsed onto my tongue.

I reared back, unable to control the retching as I vomited onto his lap.

He screamed with rage and slammed the gun’s barrel against my temple, knocking me backwards so my head bounced against the window.

Stars danced in front of my eyes and I was close to passing out.

“You’ll pay for that!” he screeched, then shouted something in Russian.

The car shuddered to a halt and a moment later, pain exploded through me as Oleg grabbed my broken hand, dragging me from the car.

I’m going to die.

The thought was clear and exact. I can’t explain, but it was a relief.

My knees hit concrete and I knew that I was drawing my final breath. I spat at Oleg’s feet, hatred burning through me as I lifted my head and stared into his eyes. It all seemed so pointless now: all my dreams, everything I’d worked for—it all crumbled to ashes in front of me, and I was going to die on a dirty concrete floor.

A pair of shiny shoes stepped in front of me and the click of a gun’s safety being released drew my gaze upward again. I stared at the barrel of Sergei’s gun, waiting for the shot, waiting for the explosion of light that would end in darkness. His finger tightened on the trigger and our eyes locked. He frowned, his finger trembling as we stared at each other. My stomach clenched, waiting for the bullet.

But it never came.

And then he was backing away and the car was moving. I blinked, shocked, suddenly viscerally aware. The girl! I scrabbled to my feet, trying to see if she was alive, but the tinted windows did their job, and I was forced to watch as the limousine gathered speed.

I collapsed onto the ground, the concrete cool against my face and hands. I was too tired to move. My eyes closed. I was close to unconsciousness, and I think that would have been a blessing.

But then the memories surged back, and my stomach revolted again, heaving up acid as I spat cum onto the floor. My vision swam and I felt blood trickling through my hair from where Sergei had slammed the gun into my head.

I retched again and again, but my stomach was already empty, I was doing nothing more than spitting phlegm onto the concrete. My eyes streamed and every part of my body hurt, my broken fingers twisted like twigs.

Slowly, I sat up.

I’m alive
.

I laughed. And I cried. I don’t remember, but I sat there having a complete fucking breakdown.

When I was finally able to stop my stomach from climbing up my throat, I kneeled up shakily and gazed around, blinking in the dim light of an underground parking lot. My bags from the shopping trip were scattered around me. I touched my head with my good hand, and the fingers came away dripping bright blood. The other hand throbbed relentlessly and I held it against my chest, wondering if I could use something to make splints and a sling.