21. Chapter 21

21

Wren

T he bass pounds through The Gentlemen's Club, rattling my fucking teeth. Neon lights turn everything sickly, like we're all trapped in some twisted funhouse. I tug at my G-string, the sequins itching like a bitch. Another shitty Thursday night in paradise.

I scan the crowd, telling myself I'm not looking for him. For D. But my eyes keep searching, hoping to catch a glimpse of that mountain of muscle and grumpy face.

Fuck. This isn't me. I don't do… whatever the hell that was with D. And I sure as shit don't get hung up on anyone. It was just a thank you fuck, right? For saving my ass from those Russian goons.

Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Wren.

I shake my head, trying to focus. The laptop. Think about the laptop. Thanks to D scaring off those Petrov assholes, I still had the cash to get Lenny that computer he's been begging for. Kid's only twelve, but he's already talking about programming and app development like he's the next Steve fucking Jobs. I don't understand half of what comes out of his mouth, but if it gets him out of this cesspool, I'll support whatever the fuck he wants to do.

The music changes, some auto-tuned garbage that makes me want to stab my ears. There's maybe five sad sacks out there nursing watered-down drinks. Not worth the effort of a dance. I hop off the stage, ignoring the weak-ass catcalls from the few dipshits near the rail.

I push through the heavy curtain to the back, sighing as the cooler air hits my skin. The dressing room's a mess of glitter, discarded clothes, and cheap perfume. Trixie and Candy are huddled in one corner, bitching about some john who stiffed them on a private dance.

"I swear to God, if I see that fucker again, I'm gonna shove my heel so far up his ass he'll be tasting leather for a week," Candy snarls, waving her cigarette for emphasis.

Trixie nods, her massive fake tits jiggling with the movement. "Fucking deadbeats. Why even come to a strip club if you can't afford it?"

I snort, grabbing a water bottle from the mini-fridge. "Same reason they come here instead of getting laid for real. Delusions and desperation."

They both cackle at that, Candy offering me a drag of her smoke. I wave it off, collapsing onto the ratty couch in the corner. My feet are killing me; these fucking stilettos are instruments of torture.

As I sit there, my mind drifts back to D. The way his hands felt on my skin, how he seemed to know exactly where to touch, where to—

Stop it, Wren. He is off-limits in every fucking way.

But even as I think it, I know it's bullshit. There was something different about him. Something that got under my skin in a way no one has in a long, long time.

What the fuck are you doing, Wren? I ask myself. You've got bigger things to worry about than some Russian beefcake with a God complex.

The creak of the door cuts through our bitching session. Candy's mid boob adjustment, shoving her tits back into a top two sizes too small, when Brick steps in. Yeah, his name's actually Brick. Built like one, too—all muscle and no neck.

Brick's face is set in its usual scowl, but there's something extra tense about him tonight. His eyes dart around the room, landing on Jojo, who's touching up her lipstick in the mirror. That shade of red should come with a warning label.

"Boss," Brick grunts, shifting from foot to foot. "We got a situation out front."

Jojo's hand freezes, the lipstick hovering an inch from her mouth. Her eyes narrow in the mirror's reflection, zeroing in on Brick. "On a fucking Thursday? Christ on a cracker, what now?"

Brick clears his throat. "Some Russians. Say they just need information."

My heart stops. D? No, it can't be. Why the fuck would he come here?

"Information about what?" Jojo demands, spinning around to face Brick. Her leather pants creak ominously with the movement.

Brick's eyes flick to me for a split second before he answers. "Someone who was in the VIP room last week. Wants to talk to some of the dancers."

My stomach drops. Last week in VIP? That was the night I… Fuck.

Jojo makes a sound like an angry cat. "Who the hell do they think they are, coming in here making demands? This ain't the KGB, for fuck's sake."

"They're… insistent," Brick says, his meaty hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Said they'll make it worth our while."

Trixie perks up at that. "How worth our while we talking?"

"Shut it," Jojo snaps. She turns back to the mirror, applying her lipstick with quick, aggressive strokes. "Alright, fine. Let ‘em in. But if they try any funny business, I want them out on their asses faster than you can say ‘ dosvidaniya' , got it?"

Brick nods and lumbers out. The room erupts into a flurry of activity—girls touching up makeup, adjusting costumes, preening like they're about to go on stage.

I stay frozen on the couch, my mind racing. Who are these guys? What do they want? And why the fuck do I have a feeling it has something to do with me?

Candy flops down next to me, elbowing me in the ribs. "Earth to Wren! You gonna get dolled up or what? Could be some big spenders out there."

I force a smirk. "Please. I look hot as fuck already."

She rolls her eyes. "Cocky bitch."

"You know it."

But inside, my guts are churning. Something's off about this whole thing. My instincts are screaming at me to get the hell out of dodge, but curiosity's got me by the throat. I need to know what these Russians want.

The door swings open again, and this time, it's not Brick. Two men step in, looking about as out of place as a couple of penguins in the Sahara. They're both wearing suits that probably cost more than I make in a year, with bulges under their jackets that sure as shit ain't their wallets.

The taller one, a salt-and-pepper type with a face like it's been used as a punching bag, scans the room. His eyes land on me, and I swear the temperature drops ten degrees.

"You," he says, his accent thick as molasses. "Wren, yes? We have some questions for you."

Fuck me sideways. This is not good; they know my name.

Jojo steps between us, all five feet nothing of her bristling like an angry chihuahua. "Now, hold on just a goddamn minute. You don't come in here making demands. You want to talk to my girls, you go through me first."

Punching Bag smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Of course. We simply wish to ask about a… mutual acquaintance. Perhaps we could speak in private?"

Jojo's eyes narrow. "Fine. My office. Now."

As they file out, Punching Bag's partner, a younger guy with a nasty scar running down his cheek, lingers. He gives me a once-over that makes me feel like I need a shower.

"Don't go anywhere, krasotka ," he says with a wink. "We'll be chatting soon."

The door closes behind them, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

Candy grabs my arm, her nails digging in. "What the fuck was that about? You in some kind of trouble?"

I shake her off, plastering on a smile that feels as fake as Trixie's tits. "Nah, probably just some mix-up. You know how it is with these Russian types. All mystery and melodrama."

But even as I say it, I know I'm full of shit. This is bad. Really fucking bad. My first thought is Dad. The worthless bastard's been MIA for a week now. But this doesn't feel like his usual bullshit. No , I've got a sinking feeling that my little encounter with D has something to do with it.

Fuck's sake, Wren.

No more getting mixed up with those suit-wearing pricks or tatted-up thugs. Last thing I need is to wake up in some warehouse with my fingers cut off.