Deceitful Vows (Marital Privileges #2)

40. Zoya

40

ZOYA

T he loud chatter of the crowd displays why the dancers at Le Rogue are more family than competitors. Mars could have steered me wrong when I asked her advice for getting a favorable outcome for a first-time performer.

She could have pushed me to dance on a Tuesday so her tips weren’t reduced further than the long spell in the strip club circuit most dancers face. She didn’t because her job description doesn’t change who she is.

She is a good person, and so am I.

The remembrance clears away the last of my nerves and has me reared up and ready for my first, but not guaranteed last, performance.

The euphoria is addictive, and the energy is thrumming.

I haven’t felt this alive since…

Mercifully, I am cut off by Mars this time instead of guilt. “Are you ready?”

I jiggle my chest before jerking up my chin. “As ready as I will ever be.”

With a devilish grin, Mars flickers the lights on the stage, announcing to the patrons that my show is about to begin.

It doubles the muttering and sets my belly ablaze with untapped excitement. Even if I only earn one quarter of Mars’s predicted revenue, I will have plenty of funds to pay for Grampies’s unexpected in-home health visit, and perhaps add a little garnish to the items I’ve purchased over the past two weeks for the two women who mean the world to me.

As I approach the wings of the stage, I take in Le Rogue from a new vantage point. Just like Vixens, Le Rogue isn’t much to look at from the outside. Its outer shell is old and rundown, and the neon lighting at the front flickers more than the doorman’s flashlight when he checks the patrons’ IDs upon entry.

The insides of the brick-and-mortar building on the outskirts of town are far more elaborate. The stage is made from a pricy wood you can only import on the black market, the bar is stocked with whiskey that costs as much per nip as an entire bottle at a corner store, and the stage lights are the best money can buy.

Rich clients come here, hence my unexpected nerves.

I squint when the lighting crew switches on the stage’s main lights. When I collect the money men toss onto the dancer’s feet during each performance, the lights are switched off, so I’ve never faced the full intensity of their warmth. I’m not complaining. It’ll be easier to prance around naked since I’ll only be subjected to the heat of multiple ogling stares instead of seeing them directly.

Also, with the temperature reaching roasting, I’m more than ready to remove my first piece of clothing.

“Give them another thirty seconds. The hungrier they are, the better they’ll tip.” Mars wiggles her brows.

Nodding, I drag my sweaty palms down my pleated skirt. I went for the naughty secretary skit. Mars said it produces the best tips because most of the men who visit Le Rogue work in a corporate setting and fantasize about fucking their secretaries.

The glitter on my chest sparkles under the stage lights when the curtains are drawn, and I’m encouraged on stage by the vocal cheers of the dancers who should see me as competition but don’t.

I feed off their energy and burst onto the stage like I was made to perform.

I was. Just not in the way most people think.

As Mars predicted, the crowd goes apeshit when they realize I’m not on the regular schedule. They holler and shout, and before my hands can move for the buttons on the business shirt I tied midway on my stomach, several bills of multiple denominations land at my feet.

They’re not close to the amount I’m seeking, but they are a great start.

I move in sync with the music, my set as choregraphed as the lie I told Gigi this morning when she busted me garnishing the savings in Nikita’s box with the leftovers of my second paycheck.

My shirt falls to the floor with timed perfection. The crowd eats up the hot-pink bra my plain white shirt couldn’t conceal before they chant for me to lose it.

I wiggle my finger at them, sending them into an uproar about my inability to follow orders.

More bills float to my feet as I prance to the pole in the middle of the stage. I work it for barely thirty seconds. I don’t have the skills to incorporate it into my routine like Mars and the other dancers do, though the crowd of mostly men don’t seem to mind. They shout and holler before promising to rain the stage with cash once I lose my skirt.

I can’t help but oblige. It isn’t that I’m a person who jumps on cue. I merely refuse to miss a timed-to-perfection beat. This routine was devised fast, but that doesn’t mean I won’t act as if it was choregraphed by Shakira herself.

I’m having so much fun that it takes longer than I care to admit to notice the dulling of the crowd’s chants the longer I perform. The occasional shout hollers between hip thrusts, though they’re far and few between compared to when I started.

Desperate to unearth what the hell is going on, and too curious for my own good, I move toward the edge of the stage. Perhaps the lights bouncing off the sequins on my bra-and-panties combination are too reflective for the clubgoers to take full advantage of the provocativeness of my performance.

My stomach gurgles when my vision clears enough to see the first row of chairs. The number of people filling the seats is thin. Barely a backside fills a chair, and the ear-piercing whistle of my shocked sigh loses me the last of the stragglers as well.

“Keep going,” Mars encourages when I peer back at her, seeking assistance.

After rolling my shoulders back and sticking out my ample chest, I strut to the side of the stage still in view of half a dozen patrons.

I barely jiggle my bra-covered breasts before the paltry number of guests remaining slim further. They practically sprint for the exit, racing through the doors like recently pronged cattle burst out the gate.

Within minutes, the club is empty.

Not even the male bartenders remain.

Yet my confidence climbs out of the trenches instead of seeking a safe place to hide. The stage is littered with bills, and I have someone so desperate for a private show they’ve scared off the other admirers.

This may be my biggest payday to date.

I shoot my eyes to the side when a deep, booming clap breaks the quiet. The stage lights hide the man’s face from view, but even with his features hidden, my intuition switches my excitement to unease.

Something feels wrong.

Very wrong.

This isn’t how my first performance is meant to go.

Artic-blue eyes break past the shadows first.

Then a malicious smirk.

Although they’re the same features that find their way into my dreams every night, the lines bordering them keep my heart rate at a leisurely jog instead of a sprint.

It isn’t Andrik as my heart is endeavoring to convince my head.

It is his father.

“Brilliant. Wonderful. Keep going.”

Ellis moves to the front of the stage before he spins around a chair and straddles it backward. He’s so close to the action hotspot that every breath he releases batters my scarcely covered vagina.

When I remain frozen, he assumes my lack of motivation is because he hasn’t paid for the honor. With a smirk that is as condescending as it is sickening, he pulls a thick wad of bills out of his wallet before tossing five at my feet.

He tilts his head to hide his smirk when I step back from them like they’re covered with the blood of his firstborn son.

“Not enough?”

He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He removes another three bills from the stack before holding them out in front of himself. Their denominations are larger than their predecessors, but not close to the amount he’d have to pay to convince me to finish my performance.

He could offer me millions and I still wouldn’t take his money.

I have class—it’s just hard to demand respect when half your ass is hanging out.

An annoyed huff commences his barter. “Come on, Zoya. I know I’m not the man you were hoping to see tonight, but any money is better than none, right? And you won’t get a single penny from him after the stunt you pulled last week.”

It takes everything I have to walk away, but he continues to push like I’m not seconds from ramming my fist into his face.

“Two thousand, and you can keep your panties on.”

I continue walking.

“Five thousand.”

Mars looks set to jump on stage and do my routine for me when the bids keep coming in. “Ten thousand… Twenty thousand… Thirty thousand, and I’ll make out to Andrik that not the slightest bit of disappointment crossed your face when you realized he doesn’t care enough about you to respond to you selling parts of your body for money… again .” He snickers his last word like being on the verge of starving to death isn’t a valid excuse to get drastic with your attempts to earn some funds.

I shouldn’t bite at the bait he is dangling out, but haunted memories are making my emotions too askew not to. “Dancing and selling your body are two very different things.”

He looks smug that he forced me to respond, so it is only fair I strive to wipe it off his face.

“I figured you’d know that better than anyone since I doubt a single person has volunteered to slip between your sheets without expecting a payout for the injustice.”

I’m lying. Ellis is handsome. He just rubs me the wrong way, and the frustration it instigates has me acting out as if he is the father figure I never had growing up.

He scoffs before hitting me where it hurts. “Doesn’t make the truth any less honest.” He leans over the chair, freeing his face from the shadows. “You’re only ever on his mind when you’re directly in front of him.” He screws up his face like he vomited in his mouth. “And even then, the attention is fleeting.” His arrogant grin hackles the last of my nerves. “You were in a club designed for sex and sensuality, yet he left after only the briefest brush of your clit because you tried to force his hand. That never ends well.”

“He emptied the club with gunfire because he was jealous.” I don’t need to correct his misinformation on how far our exchange went. That will remain between Andrik and me because it involved Andrik and me.

Ellis’s laughter is haunting. “You think that was him?” He slaps his thigh like he’s at a comedy club, its crack echoing in the empty club. “That was Mikhail playing another trick on his brother. He’s always riling him. Your inclusion in their lives merely offered them a couple of weeks of bonus ammunition in the game they’ve been playing since they were kids. That’s it. Nothing more.”

When I remain quiet, too annoyed to think of a comeback, Ellis pulls his phone out of his pocket.

“If you don’t believe me, I can show you. I’ve got footage from multiple angles.”

I can’t see the footage he plays, but I hear gunfire, which is quickly followed by Mikhail shouting for people to clear out.

I’m glad Mikhail stopped me from making a mistake I couldn’t take back, but the knowledge it was him also fills me with a ton of confusion.

And anger. So much anger.

I act out when blindsided.

“One hundred thousand in cash, delivered to me, in person , by close of business tomorrow night.” Ellis tries to speak, but I cut him off. “If you can achieve that, I’ll stay away from your son.”

With my terms nonnegotiable, I tilt my chin high before exiting the stage with a spring in my step someone who was duped out of a possible ten thousand dollars shouldn’t have.