Page 9 of The Bronze Garza
Simone and I are prodded into the waiting car first, then Oleg and Viktor get in on either side of us, sealing us in. In the front seats are Dimitri and Pavlov, another two of Igor’s trusted men.
The car merges into traffic and all four men proceed to gab in Russian. I gaze out the windows at the passing lights, at the buildings, at the moving cars with new appreciation. Should, by some miracle, I survive this, I will never, ever take my freedom for granted.
The drive isn’t long. In about fifteen or so minutes, we’re in the parking lot of an establishment. A wide, rectangular building lit up with neon-pink light all around. Above it, a glowing sign reads: High Scores Gentleman’s Club.
My heart falters, and my neck heats.
A strip club.
Oh.
Oh.
This ishisclub.
He’s chosen me.Finally. And I don’t know if I should be excited, or terrified. What Idofeel is pathetic that “excited” is even a consideration. I’m losing my goddamn mind.
The car parks and Simone and I are all but dragged out of it. Dimitri and Pavlov get out as well, and Oleg and Viktor get in the front seat, then back out of the parking lot, leaving us.
We’re grasped by the elbows and urged toward the building. The wide, black door swings open and a tall, half-handsome, half-menacing man in a pinstripe suit steps out.
Holding the door open, he scowls at the men. “They’re sixteen hours late.”
His accent is British.Hmm.Not Russian.
Dimitri shrugs. “Igor is, how you say, in a mood.”
“I don’t care about his mood,” the English snaps. “This isbusiness.”
A derisive snort from Pavlov. “Let your boss take it up with our boss, yes?”
“That I will do,” the English mumbles under his breath as he steps aside to give us pass.
“Move it,svin’ya.” I’m shoved roughly through the door, as if it’s my fault Igor’s in a snit. But I don’t complain, because I’m desperate to get out of this biting cold in this skimpy ass dress.
We pass through a narrow entrance, which spits us out into a large club. The lights are dim, and the chairs are turned upside down atop the tables and stage. A graying woman in blue overalls is mopping in the far back.
“Take them upstairs,” the English orders.
“We do not work for you,” grumbles Pavlov. “We are here to keep watch over our girls, not to take orders from you.”
“Bloody fucking hell with you two grumbling wankers,” the English growls. “How has Igor kept you fucktwits around for so long? You wouldn’t last adaywith me.”
The two men huff with indignation, but escort us up the stairs. Metal stairs. The unsafe kind with huge gaps in between.
We’re then lead down a hall of red doors, a left turn, and a few shuffled steps later we’re in front of a paint-stripped metal door.
Pavlov produces a key and unlocks the door. Then he bangs it open and shoves us in, barking at us for no goddamn reason except to be an asshole.
Inside the room is decorated quite nicely with pinks and purples and has two plush-looking full-sized beds with thick comforters and fluffy pillows.
It’s two occupants sit up in bed and rub their eyes.
Kate and Zoey.
“Zoey,” Pavlov barks, “you will tell them how it works, yes?”
With that, we’re pushed into the room and the door is slammed behind us, followed by the telltaleclickof the key in the lock.
