Archive of Our Own ^beta

1

March

Ani's new here, and she supposedly has a reputation for trouble, but Kelli likes her. Or at least she hasn't had a reason to dislike Ani so far, and she doesn't seem territorial about the custies. In fact, she's got this regular who almost always gets a dance from a girl or two while he waits for her. They've got some kind of thing going on, Kelli's got no clue what. Melody says she gets pimp vibes, but Kelli doesn't agree. Her first guess would be boyfriend, but there's this... there's no other word for it than wall between them, even though Ani's given the guy more than a few thorough dances in the public couch area that Kelli's seen. 

He's not handsy. Pays some attention and compliments Kelli in his cute little accent now and then, but if Ani's anywhere in view, that's where his eyes drift back to, whenever Kelli gives him a dance. Honey says they've got a sister/brother vibe going on, which is gross, and Kelli says so. She used to feel a little bad whenever the gossip would churn about a new dancer, but better to be in the loop. Some bitches are crazy, and according to some, Ani's fucking crazy. 

And she could still be crazy. She's only been dancing here a few weeks, and Kelli's only overlapped three shifts with her. But she seems cool, and when Kelli checked in with her before giving her cute Russian regular a dance Ani graciously told her, "I appreciate you asking, but please. Be my guest. The more the merrier." And she was a total pro for a two girl dance with one of Kelli's regulars who got weird in the middle of it. So it's probational, but Kelli likes her. And she's chill about sharing food. 

All of which is to say, Kelli doesn't mind swinging back here to hand off the Wendy's bag. Ani drops the large fries on the table for Kelli, whoever really, to pick at. Unties her top to let it rest on her lap, and eats the burger bare chested. "Your boyfriend's here," Kelli coos. 

"More like stalker," Melody adds from the other side of the room. 

"I figured," Ani says, mouth full, pointing at the bag. 

Kelli's boyfriend's sister texts her with some family drama about the other sister's dog and by the time she looks up, Ani's reapplying her lipstick. She's left half the nuggets and makes a go on geture when Kelli eyes them. After she leaves, Amber turns to her and says, "Is that her ex-husband?" 

"What? I don't think so. I don't know." 

"She married a Russian guy, right?" 

"She married some boy," Jasmine looks up from scoring the bottom of her new light-up Pleasers. Melody thinks they're tacky. Kelly thinks they're pretty and they'll go great with her fairy themed outfit. "Star was there." 

"She told you?" Kelli glances in the direction of the door to the main stage. "This one's definitely not a boy. And," she tsks at Melody, "He's nice. Why do you call him a stalker?" 

"Check out how he looks at her, when she's not looking." 

Kelli laughs. "Man falls in love with stripper. News at eleven." 

"Nah. More like, does he want to have her babies, or does he wanna kill her and wear her skin?" 

"What's wrong with you, you're gross." 

"What can I say, Russians creep me out. I don't like his vibes."

"That's racist." 

"I'm not fucking racist against Russians. You can't be--" 

Kelli interrupts and turns to one of the veterans here. "What do you think about him, Savannah?" 

Slow, sly grin, then, "Raw. Next question." 

"Yeah, but you're fucking nasty." Melody snips.  

Savannah swings slowly to stare at her. "What did you say?" 

"You fucking heard me." 

In the corner, Rob, who is on his break eating Takis and fucking around on his phone doesn't look up when he says, "Ladies. Please." 

Melody says, "Eat my whole ass, Rob," lifts one cheek off her stool, and farts, audibly. 

Everyone including Savannah bursts out laughing. When she catches her breath, "I got a guy who keeps asking for that, you think you can teach me?" Melody comes to sit by her to impart her lessons, and the tension in the room is released. 

Kelli takes a bite from a nugget and strolls over to Rob, lays a hand on his massive shoulder and rests her chin on it. She asks the thick-necked man, "What's your read on him?" 

Rob still doesn't look up from his online Poker. "Guy shows once a week, behaves himself, drops a G and then leaves. What the fuck else do you ladies want from him?" 

"Fair enough," Kelli says. She eyes his Takis, bats her eyelashes at him and sticks out her tongue. 

He rolls his eyes and puts one in her mouth.

2

Two hours later

Igor waits in the car, heat on full blast, attention split between the door of the club, a little up the street from where he's parked, and the hockey updates that he keeps refreshing on his phone. The game is also playing on the car radio, but the English is very fast. The Admirals had a rough start to this season, but they've been on a hot streak since early December. They're down by one at the end of the second period, but he believes they will rally tonight. 

He glances up to see Anora already halfway down the block, and he puts his car into drive. Waits until she turns the corner to pull out and follow. Normally, he stops at the end of that block and opens the passenger side door for her, but in that spot, the soot dusted, snow encrusted snow berm that lines the block rises into a mountain of half melted, then frozen, then snow-covered, then a little melted and then frozen again old snow. 

She hits an ice patch, arms windmilling but manages to catch her balance. He pulls up and stops a few feet ahead of her, swings open the passenger side door. "Come on, it's cold." 

"No shit." She pulls her coat tighter and eyes the corner, then the little hill between them. Sighs heavily, then awkwardly climbs over the waist-high mound, only half-falling once. There's a very light dusting falling, has been all day. "You need help?" he calls

She ignores him, climbs in with a huff, shivering as she settles in. She holds her hands in front of the heat vent, toasting the front and back. Her nails sparkle in the thin amber light from the nearby streetlamp. 

"You need gloves." 

"I fucking had gloves. Savannah forgot hers, and I'm still kissing ass in there so I said have mine, I got an extra pair." 

"Do you?"

"Does it fucking look like I do? Why aren't we driving?"

"Seatbelt." 

"What the fuck? It's like five minutes."

"The roads are very slippy."

She yanks it on with a scowl. Then she turns off the radio. 

He turns it back on. 

She huffs and pulls out her phone, for the rest of the ride she's thumbing it, half turned toward her window. The blueish light from below frames her face, which has been scrubbed clean of her work makeup. One strand of hair escapes her knit winter hat, and the tinsel in it sparkles every time they pass a streetlight. 

When they get to her block, he parks four houses away, like usual. She pulls a few folded bills out of her puffer coat pocket and hands it over without looking up from her phone. 

He takes it and eyes the uneven sidewalk, which in some patches has not been shoveled since Saturday's more substantial snowfall. "I can get closer?" 

She gives him a what the fuck are you talking about look and pulls the door handle, gives the door a shove with her shoulder so it will open, and climbs out of the car. 

"Thursday?" He asks.

"Yeah," she says leaning in to get her bag but not looking at him. 

"Wait." He reaches over and pops open the glove compartment, pulls out the red dollar store gloves with the tag still connecting them. He bought them two days ago, after the last time she lost her gloves. He yanks them apart, breaking the little plastic tag, then he picks the little pieces of plastic out of the cuff and holds them out for her. 

"What the fuck are those?" 

"For your hands." 

"I know they're for my hands, dipshit. They're gloves." 

"Then why do you ask what they are?" 

She searches his face, as she has many times before. Perhaps looking for ulterior motive, perhaps she just likes looking at him. He has no way of knowing. Finally she takes them and pulls them on. "Thanks." 

"Don't mention--" 

The door is slammed shut on the rest of words (it is necessary for it to close, he does not read mood into it), and then she's picking her way up the sidewalk toward her home.  

He watches her until she gets inside. He keeps watching until the light in her second floor room comes on. Then he tucks the money in the cup holder and shifts the car into drive.

3

Five weeks earlier

It is just after sunrise when he gets the text from the unknown number. He has been awake for an hour or so, because his grandmother is not quiet when she cooks breakfast. Sometimes she forgets she is not making breakfast for all of her children, and this was one of those mornings. He is doing the dishes for her after packing up the extras for his lunch when the chime comes. 

What are you doing this morning?

He was planning to go to church with her as he does most Sundays when he does not have a job to do. This mystery person does not need to know that, though. He replies, Who is this?

The girl you fucking kidnapped.

He smiles, at first just the corner of his mouth, then with all his teeth. Hello. He had put his number her phone while she slept at the mansion, under 'Gopnik'. 

You free?

That word has many meanings in English, but he knows which one she uses. Why?

Mirage at 10? 

He has not heard from her since that January morning when she left him covered in her tears in his car. 

He has thought of her. Often. 

He replies with a thumbs up emoji.  

*

Her hair's pulled back in a dark, messy bun, no tinsel sparkle. When he stands in front of her booth, she eyes him. She looks tired. "You gonna stand there like a retard, or would you like to join me?" She's got a plate of scrambled eggs, home fries, and sausage links that look nicely browned. She shovels in some eggs and chews, watching him as he gets settled. "First off, I want them to know I haven't tried to contact him, and I'm not gonna."

"I know." 

"Oh, you know?" 

"I think if you did that, they would ask me to visit you." 

"Visit me." 

He looks at her. 

"You mean beat the shit out of me." 

"No." 

"You saying someone wouldn't beat the shit out of me?"

"I would not." But someone might. 

"Great. Anyway." She looks both ways, then leans forward. Under her breath, she asks, "Do they know about the ring?" 

He shakes his head. No one even asked. If Toros remembers, he does not want the trouble or the blame that would come from bringing it up. And if Garnik remembers anything clearly from that day, Igor would be genuinely surprised. "I have heard nothing." 

Her shoulders drop and relief melts across her lovely, naked features. "Thank Christ." She takes a few more bites of the potatoes and chews, studying his face. The waitress comes and turns his coffee cup over, fills it, and takes his order, the challah french toast sandwich with Nutella. Anora gives him a look. 

After the waitress leaves, he asks, "What?"

"That's pretty gay."

"It's good." He waits for her to speak. 

Finally she says, like it pains her deeply to get the words out. "I've got a proposition for you." 

She goes on to explain that she got the ring appraised and it's worth a little over 200k. But she'd much prefer to sell it in a way that doesn't raise attention with the family, or with the IRS. She believes she could probably handle the second thing, but she doesn't know which jewelers might be connected, and she's sure whoever it is is gonna try and rip her off, which is a fair guess. "So I thought you might like, know someone. Or at least know who to avoid. I'd give you a finders fee, of course." 

He can think of a couple who wouldn't raise a flag, and would give her a fair deal if he brought her. "Okay." 

"Just like that?"  

"Yeah." 

"Why?" 

"Why do I help you?" Because he wants to. And because it means they will spend more time together. But he gives her a third, also true reason, that she will accept more easily. "If they have questions about you, they have questions about how you got the ring, which means they have questions about me." 

"That's right," she says, pointing at him. "Okay, okay. Good." They eat in silence for a while, long enough to get their coffee mugs refilled. She asks for a strawberry milkshake, then sits back and drums her nails on the table, tappity tap. Tappity tap. "Okay. You know what? Fuck it, I got another proposition for you." 

"Proposition?" 

"Let's say I get the cash. I can't just put it in the bank."

"Not more than ten thousand in one day." 

"Yeah no shit. Even then. Looks fucking dodgy."

"You need to wash the money." 

"Yeah." 

"There are ways."

"I know that. But I already got a way." 

"You work in cash business."

"Yeah." 

"Okay. So, what is your proposition."

"Proposition is, and this is just for a little while, until I figure something else out, okay?" 

"Okay." 

"Don't get any fucking ideas."

"No ideas. Got it." 

"So I got two problems. I mean," she laughs sharply. "I got a few more than that, but we're talking what you can help me with. Number one, the cash, once I get it. And number two, after all the shit that went down, my reputation is kind of," she makes a thumbs down gesture and blows a raspberry. "Fucking Diamond has more friends than a rancid cunt like her deserves." 

"The one you fought." 

"Yeah." 

"She was kind of a bitch." 

"She's a walking fucking cold sore. Anyway. So, what if I have this new regular who likes to spend. And if he sometimes gets dances with other girls too, look at me, being super cool and chill about it." 

"Okay." 

"I give you cash every week, you visit me at a couple clubs, I earn money on the books, all you gotta do is you sit there and let some hot girls rub their asses all over your hard on. And I'll pay you. Just for like a couple weeks. All I can get right now are shit shifts at shittier clubs. I start getting on the good side of the right girls, prove I'm a just a no drama hustler and Diamond is full of shit, I start earning some fucking money." 

"You would dance for me?" 

"You think you can fucking handle that? Cause I know how fucking gay you are." 

"I am not gay." 

"Sure. Whatever. But what do you think?" Her voice is casual but her face is not. 

He sets down his fork and folds his hands on the table. Her gaze flits to the brown, healed scrapes on the knuckles of his right hand. This is probably a bad idea. He does not think the family would care if he started seeing this stripper. The ring, maybe, but it is chump change to them, more or less. The cost of getting rid of their problem, and he thinks he could convince them it was worth it to keep her quiet. 

The real problem, he thinks, is that the feelings he had toward her had quieted down mostly. Even on the trip over here, he'd convinced himself that what he felt was pity, kindness, and a sort of solidarity over the way they are both used by these carelessly, monstrously wealthy people. But even over the course of this this short breakfast, it has become clear that he was kidding himself. He still feels drawn to her by a single, aching point that tugs at his chest, like there is a fish hook that is piercing his heart. 

Having her dance for him will probably not soothe this ache, and they will probably have to see each other outside of the club, with her bare faced and a little mean to him, which will be even worse. It was a big leap, he thinks, to ask this of him. There is a little desperation in her, but he thinks she had other options. He thinks, perhaps, she wanted to see him too. 

And that feels dangerous. 

But he knows there was never a chance that he would say no to this, and even though it will probably get messy, he chooses to tell her, "Okay."

"Okay to which?" 

The waitress, a woman with two inches of solid grey at the roots of the burgundy hair that is tied into a severe bun at the top of her head, drops off his food and asks Anora, "How's your sister?" 

She breaks into a warm smile. "Looking for love in all the wrong places." 

"Tell me she--" 

"What do you think?" 

The waitress shakes her head. 

"He's better than fucking Spencer."

"Your lips to God's ears." She eyes Igor curiously. 

"This is Igor."

"That make you the Bride of Frankenstein?" 

"I think I'm cooling it on the whole marriage thing for now." She grins. "Tell Sherri hi for me." 

"Mm-hmm." She eyes Igor again, then looks at Anora.

She rolls her eyes. "As if." After the waitress leaves, she turns to Igor. "Anyway where were we?" 

"Okay to both your propositions. I know someone who will be fair and keep his mouth shut. And yes, you may use me to make friends. And also launder the money." 

"Just like that?" 

"You want haggling?" 

"No, I don't want fucking haggling. Eat your gay ass sandwich." 

4

Slightly later March

The bouncer recognizes him by now and waves him in. Igor gives him a respectful nod as he enters the dark, throbbing club. He does not immediately spot Anora, so he slips off his jacket and sits at a small, out of the way table a little back from the main stage. 

It's not long before one of the girls, a sweet-faced blond with a nose ring who Anora has become friends with, approaches. "Hello, Kelli," he says. 

"Hey, handsome." She kisses the top of his head then parks her plump bottom on his knee. "She just went in VIP, but if I see her, I'll let her know you're here." 

"Thank you. How is business for you tonight?" 

"'For you,'" she says, imitating his voice. "God, your accent is sexy." 

He would lay money on her saying this to every accent, but he does not mind. "You have jewels on your eyelashes." 

"You like?" She bats them at him. "They feel super fucking weird, but they look classy, right?" 

"They make you look expensive." 

She grins. "Good. You wanna drink?" 

"Yes, a beer in a bottle. I don't care what kind. And get something for yourself." He hands her two twenties. "Tell them to keep the change. And this is for you." He folds another twenty in half and tucks it under the complicated strap of her iridescent white top. "And when you get back, I would like a dance, if you are free?"

On the couch in the public area, she gyrates in front of him, then on his lap, and he smiles appreciatively at her, but he cannot help that his eyes keep returning to the stairs. If Kelli notices, she does not care, or she does not care to comment. When the song finishes, he thanks her and returns to his table to nurse his beer and scroll on his phone. A few girls approach in the meantime, and he declines most of them, only saying yes to the auburn-haired older one with the massive chest, the other one Anora has told him to curry favor with. 

Finally, he spots her sparkling dark hair as she leads an older man down the stairs. He leans close to tell her something, and she laughs, then tucks the soft-looking black curtain behind her ear. She takes the folded bill from him and kisses his cheek, then gives him a heartbreakingly sweet smile as she waves goodbye. The moment his back is turned, her face slips back to neutral. She meets the gaze of Kelli, who is sitting on the lap of a business man, and rolls her eyes. Kelly nods in agreement then over in Igor's direction. 

When Anora's eyes meet his, he lifts his beer and gives her a nod. She nods back, disappears into the door to the employees area, and it's another ten minutes or so before she joins him. In that time, Kelli walks by and whispers in his ear, "She'll be happy to see you." 

He understands what she means when Anora sits on the seat beside his and picks up his beer, finishes it a few gulps, and gestures toward the bar for another round. "You know," she starts, "There's a way to ask a girl to call you Daddy that's not creepy. And then there's that fucking guy." 

"I'm sorry." 

She makes a disgusted little, "Ugh. Seriously, be a perv, just don't be a fucking asshole about it, you know? Oh, oh and get this." 

He thanks the cocktail waitress and takes their drinks. "Yes?" 

"They fucking fixed the VIP room cameras. Fucking Fiona, out here with extras left and right, straight up fucking blowies at three in the afternoon. When Yasmin is on duty. How fucking stupid is that." 

"Very," he agrees. 

"Now Yasmin is double up our asses, and I've been trying to beat this level of Candy Crush all day, and I fucked up my ankle a little, and I was looking forward to--" She pauses, holds up both hands, and takes a nice deep breath. "Gratitude. I am overflowing with gratitude." She closes her eyes and blows out through pursed lips. "Anyway. Hey. How's your grandma?" 

"She likes that show you told me to tell her about. I watch it with her, and she has not laughed so much in a long time." 

"You like it?" 

"It's funny. I like the old lady neighbor." 

"Yeah, you would like a show about a girl getting kidnapped." 

"No, it's about her being free. She is so hopeful, I like that." 

She smirks. "Gay. Speaking of, you wanna go put on a show for Yasmin and her creepy fucking nephew?" 

"Which one is her nephew? Artie?" 

"Fucking Lewis." 

He shakes his head. "We don't like him." 

"Twice, I've walked in the manager's office and he's got his nasty little dick out. 'On accident.' Does your dick ever accidentally fall out of your pants?" 

"Never." 

"With his fucking aunt in the next room. Anyway." She rises gracefully and holds out her hand. "Ready?" 

But the VIP room is already occupied, one of other girls tells her before they get to the stairs. So she steers them over to the communal couch, parks him on it and begins the routine he's got memorized by now. She is as beautiful as always, but his mind is on a trip he and Toros will be making to Paramus tomorrow. One of the importers of the tile that the Mrs. wants for the upstairs bathroom in the Central Park place is making noises about tripling the agreed upon price because of some customs issues. It is a question of reputation, not of cost, and Igor is not concerned about the persuasion he'll be doing so much as he hates driving in that part of New Jersey. He knows that whether he chooses the Lincoln Tunnel or the GWB, he will regret his choice, when it comes to traffic. The tunnel takes him through less of Manhattan, but it also makes him feel a little claustrophobic and--

"Am I boring you?" 

"What?" He brings is attention back to her. 

"You look fucking bored. It's weird." 

"I am not." 

"You're definitely fucking weird." She climbs on his lap facing him, and lets her hair fall forward like a curtain. Partially obscured from view, she pops open the front of her top, spilling her breasts out inches from his face. She arches her back, throwing her hair back and spreading her knees to get closer. Her fingers dig into his shoulders as she gyrates, still off center from his cock as usual. Another body roll, and her nipple nearly grazes his nose. He turns his head and watches the dark-skinned woman in a sky blue thong, he is pretty sure her name is Foxy, spinning on the pole and receiving bills from a gaggle of young finance-looking bros. 

She grabs his chin and pulls him to face her. "Hey. Act normal and watch the titties that are in front of your face, got it?" 

He nods. "You want me to look at you." 

Her eyes shift to something wide and limpid, mouth softening, and the simpering purr that rolls out of her mouth then is familiar to him, but she does not often aim it at him. It is too sweet and bland, like white sugar. "Mm, yeah, I want it so bad. It feels so good, turns me on so much baby, my pussy is so wet." Then she makes a little porno moan.

He raises his eyebrows. "So no then?" 

She dips forward, mouth at his ear, voice crisp and annoyed, "I want you to act like you want it. It's not that hard, I do it all night long. Can you maybe fucking manage for five minutes when we're in front of everybody? Act like you think I'm worth the money you're dropping." 

She leans back and smiles softly at him, but he knows there are teeth behind it. He pulls his wad of cash out of his pocket and tucks a couple bills in her g-string, and then says fuck it, allows himself to look at her like he wants. Not roaming her body with it, but staring into her eyes and they stay like that for longer than she usually allows.

She looks disconcerted. "Not like that, Jesus. You look like a pathetic simp. You look like you're fucking gay for me." She climbs off his lap and stands between his legs, slowly writhing to the music. Her gaze flits to the stairs, where a brunette in neon orange is leading a tall, skinny man down to the main room. He looks dazed, and his hair is going in all directions. "Maybe try it a little smaller next time?"

"But I am playing a simp."

Her answer is to bend over and shake her ass in his face, then she extends a hand and says, "Shall we?"

5

Later that week 

"Hey Gregor," says the curly-haired girl in the sheer pink evening-gown. This is only his second time visiting Anora at this club, she only gets a shift every couple weeks. It aspires to look classy, and it is noticeably more expensive than the other ones. They have a strict nail policy for new girls, nude or red only, and she grumbled about that, but she says it's worth it if she can get more shifts here. 

He does not correct the girl, only smiles at her and scans the club. "Hello." 

"She just got here. You want me to go get her for you?" 

He shakes his head. "Let her know, but no rush." 

Fifteen minutes later Anora saunters over, looking confused. "What's going on?" 

He nods at the other chair at the little table, but she sits on his knee instead and drapes an arm over his shoulder. He tells her something came up, he's got a job later, nearer to the end of her shift, when he usually comes in. "I thought you'd still want me to visit, but I can go if you want." 

"Nah, VIP's empty." 

He gets her Coke from the bar, along with a Sprite for him, then follows him up. In the room, he pulls out a slightly mashed paper bag containing a grilled cheddar, bacon, banana peppers, just a little bit of jelly out of his jacket pocket. She ordered it once at the diner during their weekly hand off of his cash. She could pay him then too, he told her so, but she'd said she'd rather square up at the end of every night. "I don't wanna owe you anything," she told him. 

She looks at the sandwich, sniffs it, then peels it open to look at the insides. 

"Strawberry jelly," he tells her. "They did not have grape." 

She narrows her eyes at him. "You said this was disgusting." 

"I'm not eating it." 

She drops to sit on the couch sideways, feet in his lap, starts taking hungry bites. Food still in her mouth, "Take 'em off and give me a footrub. That's another seventy-five." 

He does as he's told, careful with the delicate looking straps. She's got a blister forming on the side of her pinkie toe that wasn't there the last time they did this. It's probably the new shoes. 

She scrolls her phone for a while and he listens to hockey highlights through an earbud while keeping his eyes on her feet the way he supposes a man who likes feet might stare. 

"So this big job tonight," she says, wiping her fingers on the napkins he brought. 

He pops his earbud out. "Not big." 

"You gonna be safe?" 

"Do not worry about me." 

"You still got most of what I gave you on Sunday. I worry about that." 

"I am not the one who needs to worry about being safe." 

"Oh yeah? You kidnapping another hooker? Should I be jealous?" 

"No. It's not a woman. What will happen to him, what will probably happen to him, I would not do to a woman?"

"Look at that, he has boundaries." 

"It's not boundaries. It's morals." 

"Sure. Okay." She scoffs. 

"Everybody has a line. Even people like us." 

She examines his face for a minute. "Us, huh?" 

"Yes. Independent contractors." 

"Oh yeah, that reminds me, I need your address for your 1099." She holds an imaginary pen up to her hand. 

"One two three eat me street." He sticks out his tongue at her. 

She snorts and takes another sip of her Coke, then puts her shoes back on, gets up and takes a leisurely stroll around the room, inching her dress straps off her shoulders, then slipping the rest of it off down to her g-string. Then she sinks to her knees between his legs. "Jesse usually peeks in here about ten minutes in, and she's working tonight." She doesn't sound apologetic exactly, but like he deserves an explanation when last time here they both just hung out together on their phones. 

He doesn't need one. She steers these encounters, always. And if he were to be honest with her, if he did not think it would make her recoil, he might tell her that the things he feels, the distracting, dangerous things that he feels for her are so much stronger when she is just with him. Not performing. Not even paying attention to him beyond a periodic side eye. Her dancing is beautiful, and her body is beautiful, and his body does sometimes react (despite his best efforts.) But when she rubs herself against him his like this, he does not feel the want rise up within him. Not the way it does when he she is greedily eating the fast food he has brought her, or when she insults his car, or when she is bare-faced and slumped over a plate of home fries in a crowded diner, complaining to him in a low voice about the stuck up new girl at her second favorite club.   

"No worries," he tells her. "I will look at you like a simp, but not too much of a simp." 

A smile tugs at her generous lips. Then she plucks the earbud off the couch cushion beside him. She slides her way up his body, dragging her breasts over his lap as she goes, then slips the earbud in his ear, and he spends the rest of their hour watching her and listening to the Admirals squeak out a 4-3 win over Montreal.

6

Later that night

He parks in his usual spot down the block from the club, hood up. Tonight's job ended sooner than expected. It ended very abruptly when what was supposed to be a simple little scare escalated. If the man had honored his agreement or even offered to work with them, other options would have been on the table. But to disrespect the emissaries of the Zakharov family was to disrespect the family. And to threaten those emissaries with a gun... This level of disrespect required answering discipline. It also, even in other circumstances, would have worked out better for the man if he'd had more practice with his pistol or the ability to hold on to it during a struggle.

As the man lay bleeding on the floor from the hole in his foot, Toros got Mr. Zakharov on the phone and held it to the man's ear. Words were heard, sniveling tear-soaked nods were given, and a single 'I understand'. Then Toros told Igor to tie the man's shirt around his leg and call the 911 for him from his phone.

This all took maybe 25 minutes on the ground in Paramus. The traffic at the tunnel on the way back (he'd told Toros to take the bridge) took much longer than the visit itself. Igor was bleeding too, from the busted lip and cut on his brow. The man got in a hefty sucker punch on him when Igor had done nothing worse than loom at his side as he went through his filing cabinet for the original agreement (a document which Toros already had on his phone, but the man insisted the paper document said something different. Upon investigation (while the man lay bleeding) it did not). 

In the moment it took Igor to stagger back and shake off the bell ringing, the man pulled the pistol from a holster beneath his desk and well, the rest happened how it happened. He considered driving home after he dropped Toros off. His jaw ached and his nerves always got jangled after gunplay. (Not during, during he got very calm. But after, when he was safe and alone sometimes his hands would shake for a short while.)

He decided instead to go pick her up. It was frigid out, and with weekend service changes, it would take her an extra hour or more to get home. 

She does not look for him, obviously. Head down, big puffy coat swamping her slight frame, plume from her vape trailing after her as she hikes down the street. The snow's melted and gone from all but the most shaded crevasses and the tallest clumpy mounds of plowed snow in the odd parking lot. It's crystalline cold tonight though, and although the heater is running full blast, it doesn't seem to reach his core, which keeps rattling with shivers. He needs a hat. He had a hat. It is on the floor of that man's office, in Paramus, probably stained with his blood.

Before she gets too far past him up the block, he taps the horn. She ignores it, as any sensible woman alone at night might, and speeds up her pace. He does a double tap, then starts up the car and pulls even with her. He rolls down the passenger side window and asks, in Russian, "Do you still need a ride?" 

She keeps walking and her voice is tighter than usual. "I thought you had a thing." 

"The thing is done. Come on, get in the car." 

She comes over to the window and leans in, start to say, "I don't need you stalking--" Her eyes go wide. "What the fuck?" 

"Remember the trains this weekend? It will take forever. Get in." 

"Nevermind the--what happened to your fucking face?" 

He did not think it was so bad. He turns his rear view mirror for a peek. Oh. His cheekbone felt a little tender, but he did not realize such a black eye had been forming over the last couple hours he spent mostly in horrendous traffic. "Nothing. Come on." He beckons her with his hand. "You're letting in all of the cold. Please." 

Once she's settled in the seat, she twists toward him and takes him by the chin, turns his face to her. She has cupped his chin and moved it many times in the course of their dances, tilting his head this way and that so she can sweep her hair across his neck, or lean in to close to whisper some words that for other men are dirty talk and for him are usually, her dictating the timing of the rest of his dance requests for the night. It is meant to look intimate, but it is not. 

This touch feels intimate. 

That is in his head, though. He reminds himself of that.

She frowns and finally releases him. "You look like shit and you're still bleeding." She points at his eyebrow. When he reaches for it, she swats his hand away. "Don't touch it with your dirty hands." 

"They are not dirty." He splays his hands on the steering wheel. He'd scrubbed off all the man's blood in the restroom of a Popeye's, with the exception of the bits he'll need a nail brush to get at. Yes, his knuckles are scraped, but that is nothing unusual. Still, she is looking at them with concern, so he smiles and tries, "You should see the other guy." 

"Oh yeah, he still breathing?" 

"Probably." 

"He do something to piss off the Zakharovs?"

"Put on your seatbelt." 

She complies, still with the eyeroll, then says, "You're gonna scare your grandma." 

This is true. Or at least, he will make her worry. 

"There's fucking dried blood on your neck. You really oughta clean up before you go home." 

He puts the car into drive and pulls on to the street. A few blocks later, she sighs as though he's said something that annoyed her. It is a sound he has grown unreasonably fond of. He gives her a glance.

She shakes her head, eyes still on the road. "Fine!" 

"I did not say anything." 

"Shut up." 

He was...shut up. But he simply shrugs. 

"I can't let you go home and scare your grandma like this. You're coming to my place and letting me clean you up." 

"You don't have to--" 

"Did I ask you a fucking question?" 

To be fair, she did not. 

* 

He follows her up the stoop.

Keys in hand jangling as she tugs his hood lower, she instructs him, "If my sister's up, she'll be on the couch. Don't talk to her, don't look at her, just keep walking and go upstairs. I'll deal with her. Bathroom's first door on the left."

"Got it."

The sister is not there, but the TV is on, muted. She digs the remote out from between the couch cushions and turns it off, plunging the living room into near darkness. The dim blue glow of her phone screen gives her a ghostly look as she creeps up the stairs. He follows, doing his best to tread lightly.

The bathroom, on the other hand, has harsh white light, there should be four bulbs above the mirror but one is an empty socket. "Sit." She points at the toilet, which is on the right, past the sink. The lid has a cover made of what looks like bubble gum pink shag carpeting. 

He obeys and quietly watches her shed her bag, coat and hat into the tub on the left. Her sweater goes too, and considering how overly warm it is in here, he joins her in disrobing, first his leather jacket, then his own sweater. When she turns away from the tub to face him, her eyes dart down to his chest. He is wearing a white sleeveless undershirt, the same as her, only his is bloodstained at the top. "You get fucked up anywhere else?"

"I'm not fucked up."

"Okay, tough guy. Did he get you anywhere else?"

He lifts his undershirt himself checking the aching spot for the first time since he was thrown against the sharp corner of the desk while they struggled (only briefly, it was not much of a struggle, the man lost his balance, which threw Igor off balance, resulting in a reddish purple bruise near the bottom of his right ribs, roughly the size of a pack of cigarettes.)

She narrows her eyes at it for several moments, then gestures for him to let his shirt down. "It gets too warm in here," she says as she turns away. She is right, but he was not going to complain. She puts her hands on the the little window opposite the door. It's up high enough that she has to go up on the balls of her feet.

He rises to help her.

"No, sit, it's a whole fucking thing." She turns a lock on the top of the little window and hits the heels of her hands on the top of the frame, then pulls back on it, leaning hard enough that her back hits his chest, since he's now standing so near to her. She startles hard, freezes for the length of two of his breaths (it is quiet in the room, he can hear them.) Then she rolls her shoulders and looks back at him dripping with disdain. "Close enough?"

"Sorry." He steps back, hands up.

"I said I got it." She jiggles once, then pushes up with both hands.

The window doesn't budge.

She tries again with a little grunt.

"May I?" He brings hands up to the window slowly, arms on either side of her. She looks boxed in.

"Don't shove fast."

"Okay."

"You gotta." She puts her hands on the frame just inside his. They look smaller, of course. Paler, only one thin whitened scar near the base of one thumb. Her nails are simple red, not the pearly pink, shaded into sparkles and a few small crystals she wore earlier this week. "You gotta pull it toward you kinda hard, but don't yank. Then steadily up. But don't go more than halfway."

"Got it. Are you ready?"

She shifts her weight, and her back brushes his chest.

It is nothing compared to the contact that has become commonplace between them, but only in dark rooms. For money. Her money. But he finds himself far more aware of it. And infinitely less capable of shuttling away the sensation of champagne, deep down his throat and slithering deeper, the way her long dark hair sometimes slithers across his throat in the midst of her writhing.

He swallows hard at the feeling, then clears his throat. "Okay?"

In Russian, she says, "On one. Three, two, one."

They pull and push in unison, and the thick-paned window with chicken wire embedded in the frosted glass grinds upward in the track, letting a fresh, chill little breeze into the stifling room.

Her hands remain on the window frame. So do his.

"Your knuckles are kinda fucked up," she says, returning to English.

He splays his fingers, leaving where they are. She remains, technically, caged by his arms. "I know."

"You had your big strong man moment, you happy now?" She is teasing, but it's not easy to tell which sort.

"I wanted it open too." He drops his hands and sits back down on the toilet lid.

She goes up on her very tiptoes and sticks her face out the window and takes a deep breath of the fresh air before she pulls a first aid kit from under the sink, then washes her hands with the little tropical fish soap. Then she lathers a thin white washcloth and begins to dab around the cut on his forehead.

When she hits a tender spot, he hisses.

"Don't be a baby," she murmurs.

She seems intent, but he feels it needs to be said, "I do know how to take care of a few scrapes."

"I'm sure," is her only response. She efficiently cleans his small injuries, then neatly applies a series of tiny little bandages to his brow. 

He does his best to keep his eyes averted and his face neutral as she leans in. She wears no bra beneath the thin white cotton undershirt, and as she shifts (standing between his legs, a place he's grown accustomed to seeing her,) the shape of her breasts becomes evident, as does the stiffness of her nipples. It should not be so distracting, since he has seen her bare breasts many times, from every conceivable angle, but still he has to swallow against that hot, aching fizz that keeps rising up within his chest.

"So, you had your face beat in before?"

He scoffs. "Is not 'beat in'. Not even beaten. One lucky punch, too close to a filing cabinet."

"Mm-hmm?" 

Dozens of times by now, he has spread his knees for her to stand between them. It is almost muscle memory, to make space for her as she comes close. It is habit to avert his eyes. And while he does not get hard, he feels the gravitational tug, deep in his belly, urging him to wrap his arms around her and bury his face against her pale belly. It is habit to ignore that as well. 

She wipes the streaks of dried blood off his neck and where it's dripped down to the top of his chest. The man's hands had been slick with blood from clutching at his wrecked foot, and as Igor had tried to tie the shirt around it, the man had grabbed his throat and tried to strangle him. Toros had needed to hold him to the floor with a foot on his chest for Igor to continue his work.

"Frankly, I expected more tattoos," she says, stroking the warm wet cloth over his throat. 

"Why?" 

She shrugs.

"I have only one." 

He hooks a finger in the collar of his undershirt (once white, but streaked brown), and tugs it over toward his left nipple, revealing a small heart that is half obscured by his chest hair. The darkness of ink has softened and gone a little blue with age, but she can still read the name. "Olga. Your grandma?" 

"Mother." 

"She nice?" 

"She was..." She was a strong woman with a complicated life, and he had long since forgiven her for her choices. Those aren't things he talks about. "She was nice, yes." 

She has finally wiped him to her satisfaction, drops the muddied washcloth in the sink, then turns to face him with an inscrutable look. 

"You grew up here?" he asks, to crack the silence. 

She does a breath that sounds so tired and turns away from him, starts packing up first aid supplies. "Yeah," she says. 

"Little Anora. I am trying to picture it." 

"Don't picture me as a kid. It's fucking creepy." 

A rumbling noise gathers in the distance outside, and sooner than you would think, that noise crescendos into the nearly deafening clatter of a train passing. He does not know if it is actually louder than what you might hear on a platform when the express goes by, or if it is just how it fills the silence between them. It feels much louder though, loud enough he has the urge to cover his ears, which he does not give in to. 

Something must show on his face though, because she chuckles and says, "You get used to it. You can get used to anything." 

He thinks he knows what she means. 

She starts gathering her things from the tub and tells him to close the window for her. 

"Any trick to it?" 

She shakes her head. "Just force it." 

She follows him to the front door and he pauses in the doorway to tell her, "Thank you. For this." 

Her face softens just long enough for him to catch it, then she rolls her eyes. "Whatever. See you Thursday."

His instinct is to kiss her. He will not, though. She doesn't want that, no matter how much she looks at him like she does sometimes. It is just habit from her job, just like how for a long time Igor looked tough and dangerous even when he did not need to. Not for the first time, he thinks about how their work wears grooves into the both of them. Or were they always like this, from the cradle, and they found their ways to the work that fit best with their true selves. 

"Yes, Thursday." 

He feels something in his chest on the way home. Not carbonation, not even a heavy ache, but something weightless. Something that feels like a balloon drifting up toward the stars. 

7

Another Thursday, another VIP room dance. She has yawned in his face three times already and is going through the motions more obviously than usual. Man after man has requested the pole room for their private dances and while she has incredible stamina, her body is exhausted. 

"So nothing fancy tonight, sorry to disappoint you," she says as she settles him on the couch.

Tonight, her lipstick is glossy, not matte, like usual, and he has a hard time looking away from her mouth. You could never disappoint me, he thinks, like a simp. 

"What?" she narrows her eyes at him. "You want me on the pole?"

He shakes his head and schools his face. "Whatever you want to do is fine."

"I want to get off my fucking feet." 

He pats his thigh. "So get off your feet."

She sits on his leg, lays a casual hand over his shoulder, fingers resting on the back of his neck. She glances at the cameras. She told him before their first time here that they only do occasional spot checks on the cameras, but she has also, during later visits, complained that one of the other girls (who's been here three whole months, whoopdeefuckingdoo) who is on again off again with senior management has opinions on the proper pacing of a private dance. The girl voices opinions about how the girls who hurry to the grinding set a bad precedent for girls like her who actually care about artistry. She's very particular about them only calling themselves dancers. 

"Like her job isn't getting men hard and spending, like the rest of us. Like she's a fucking ballerina," Anora says, not for the first time, as she plays with the back of his neck. "I'm a dancer too, and better than her, but we're also whores. It's like, get over yourself. Set your own fucking precedent. They are your boundaries, take responsibility for them. Letting some manager fuck her up the ass doesn't make her smart. Makes her pretty fucking dumb, actually. I don't care if she's going to some fancy college. In fact, I do care. She's a fucking tourist is what she is. She's got mommy and daddy's money, and if she fucks this up, who gives a shit. Thinks she knows everything because she's read so much 'theory'. God! She just." 

"A girl like her is making the rules?"

"Right? Some skinny blonde with nice teeth and new tits, who gets an apartment from Daddy without..." She snorts and shakes her head. "Thinks she knows what's up just because some fifty year old divorced dude wants to kiss her ass so she'll keep letting him stick his dick in it. Like he's not gonna get tired of her, and then where is she. Rookie shit. But she's nineteen and she's been dancing for four whole months, so she knows everything. And she doesn't even need this job! Why the fuck does she even care?"

Igor doesn't know. 

"And what kind of stripper name is 'Princeton'? You know what? Fuck her. You don't wanna learn from the experience of others? Go with God. All I know is I tipped out more than her last couple times we were on together. Everybody fucking hates her, and when she's not Bruce's favorite she'll find that out, and then she can go fuck off to make kombucha or marry the right frat fuck tech cunt. And you know what? That's her business. Marry who you want." 

He cannot help but smile. 

"Hey. Supposedly, sometimes it works out." 

"I have heard the legends." 

"You ever get married?" 

The lane shift throws him off. 

"Never mind. None of my business." 

"No. It's okay." It does not hurt anymore to think of it, and he has not spoken of it. Ever. To anyone. He wonders sometimes if she has. He wonders how it would feel to tell someone. He licks his lips. "I was close one time." 

"What happened?" 

"She lost the baby. I think maybe I reminded her too much." Of the sadness. And also the relief. She thought he didn't care, but he did. He just did not think it was his place to care more than she seemed to. And they were both so young. When he looks up at her, her eyes are a little glassy. "I'm sorry." 

"No, I'm sorry," she says, without pity. 

"It's okay. It was years ago. We were very young." 

"Yeah. Maybe don't marry a teenager, is my experience." 

"He just turned twenty." 

"How--" she closes her mouth. "Anyway. Where were we?" 

Together, he wants to say. But she would look at him strangely. 

"Shall we?" 

"If you insist." He sinks down further into the embrace of the couch as she artfully positions herself on his lap. She sweeps her hair forward over her shoulder and rests back against his chest.  He keeps his palms flat on the couch, and keeps his eyes on the odd, baroque little fake brass decoration on the wall over the cabinet. 

Her hips make slow lazy circles, the pressure and friction and little moment of truth he shared and how good that felt, and then the intrusive thoughts he's had since she played nurse for him and welcomed him into her home... All of that wakes his body and he does not want to ruin a nice moment so he tries to think softening thoughts. It is a losing battle, though, as long as she moves against him like this, and he knows it. Also, despite the appearance of lazy grace to her movements, he knows the strength behind it. He feels the shift in tension of her muscles and knows that it takes a lot of work to look effortless. 

So although she does not like him to tell her how to do her work, he opens his mouth. "You uh, you don't..." 

There is a smile in her voice. "Don't what?" She rolls squarely against his growing erection, with purpose.

He clears his throat and lays his hands on her hips, gently shifting her enough to give them breathing room. "You don't have to do that." 

"Do what?" 

"Squirm."

"Squirm?" she sounds offended. "You call what I'm doing squirming?" 

"No. I only mean, if you want you could just sit still and rest. You do not need to move for me." 

"Oh, now he's telling me how to do my job too?"

"I only mean, You could tell them this is what I want. It is allowed, yes? And it is supposed to be my money? So just relax."

"Are you saying I fucking look tired?"

She does but he knows better than to say that. "You look beautiful, this is also true. But I know that you are tired."

She sighs and goes still, head resting against his shoulder. As she gently sinks back into him, giving him all her weight, her hair is a soft tickle along his cheek. "I guess you're right. I just still feel like I'm trying to prove myself." She chuckles. "Some way other than taking it up the ass from Bruce." 

"You told me they like you."

"They do. You're right. Just ten minutes, though. And don't let me fall asleep."

"Okay."

"I mean it. And talk to me about something. I'm tired of listening to this music." Her back presses to his chest as she settles in.

"What should I talk about?" 

"I don't care." 

Mostly, they speak in English, but she never seems to mind when he switches to Russian, so he does so and proceeds to share his opinions on the New York Admirals' season so far, and their chances of going all the way. There is something that appeals to his Russian soul in that fatalism, in rooting for a team that has never once, in all the years he has been in America, emerged from the season victorious. Igor does not like to lose but there is something that inspires him about the struggle. One of the favorite past times of the hockey media and fans in New York is to shit on Scott Hunter, but Igor does not think it is even mostly his fault. 

Is there a pattern of choking under pressure, for sure. But there is also wildly stupid decisions from management, bad luck with injuries happening to some of the most crucial players with the most promise at the worst point in the season, scandals that robbed them of other players. But you give him a good team and, well, look at the Olympics. 

"And you must have noticed, there is a very Russian sadness in his eyes."

She sounds drowsy and amused when she says, "I'm--are you listening to me? I am dead serious. Do you hear how gay that sounds?"

He does. But he ignores her reflexive dig, and turns back to laying out his case about why this might be their year, working his way through much of the rest of the roster, other teams in the league. There are a lot of names and numbers, and as he drones on, the artful tension of her body softens, slowly at first and then all at once she seems to be out cold, a dead weight that threatens to list to one side and slip off of him.

He brings one hand to her shoulder to steady her. He pays attention to her breath and slows his own until it syncs with hers. Minutes pass, and then songs as she sleeps on top of him, pinning him to the couch with her soft weight. He knows she told him not to let her sleep but he is listening carefully and watching the entryway. He's prepared to tap her thigh and wake her if anyone checks, He will not let her get in trouble. With her gone still like this, his erection begins to soften, but there is a swelling feeling in his heart that is trying to steal his breath. 

That sparkling sensation in his chest rises to his throat, making it feel tight, and then his eyes are burning and he thinks not for the first or even the hundredth time that he needs to find a reason to stop this. Or rather that he should.

Another song, and she shifts in her sleep. He lets her slide over just a little, arm around her shoulders, and with his other hand he slowly and carefully gets a hand under her legs and pulls them up so she's sitting side saddle on his lap, her head dead weight on his shoulder, her cool nose pressed to his neck. 

He listens to her soft, slow breathing and thinks about what breakfast he will order this Sunday, what might she angle for a bite of. What she will take from his plate. He thinks about how she will pay him tonight, pulling the bills from her bra and pressing them still warm into his palm. 

A soft little noise creeps out of her throat and she nestles into his neck. Her hair shifts over and threatens to tickle his nose and he does not submit to the urge to turn and press his face to her hair and inhale. He does breathe deeply though. 

Then some man passing by in the hall outside laughs loudly and she startles hard then goes rigid. 

Frozen. It feels like she is holding her breath, then she sucks it in sharp and all at once, a startled gasp. Then she's scrambling off his lap, tumbling to the floor before he can catch her. 

She's pissed. She's the kind of pissed that he has not seen since the day they met. She snarls, "I fucking told you not to let me fall asleep." 

"I'm sorry, I only--" 

She pulls on her slinky outfit with her back to him. Her fingers tremble and she keeps dropping one strap as she tries to tie them behind her neck. Normally, he would offer to help her, but he's no fool. He stays sitting on the couch, hands tucked under his thighs. 

She composes herself and turns, face stony. "Fucking pervert." 

He does not defend himself, and he does not know if he would if he were certain she meant it, because he knows he is not. Well, not in the way she's implying. 

"I apologize." 

"Go." 

She doesn't say it, but he knows she means, leave the club. He rises and gives her a nod, and although he does not know exactly why she's so angry, he know that nothing real can be said between them in this place. 

8

He is not the bastard son of the Nikolai Zakharov, no matter what Garnik might think.

His mother did not come to work for the man until Igor was four years old. Zakharov enjoyed paying attention to his mother, and his mother enjoyed having an easy, comfortable office job, a nice apartment and gifts. His mother was beautiful and she had him very young. Zakharov would come to visit her in this apartment that he paid for and Igor would be sent to stay with aunts and uncles. Sometimes Zakarov would take her on long trips to exotic places and she would come back with a small gift for Igor when she came to pick him up.

After she died, he stayed with his uncle's family for few years, and by the time he was fourteen, he was an angry young man running with dangerous boys, a bad influence on their children, and they wanted him out. In his anger, he was careless. It was an accident, he would swear that to this day, but they did not even let him go to his cousin's funeral.

Igor was always a clever boy. His family would say that like it was a burden for them. He did not think he was better than them, no matter what they said, but he could not help but notice things. Mr. Zakharov also noticed his cleverness over the years, when they would cross paths. And when he commented on it, there was not an undertone of criticism or exhaustion.

Mr. Zakharov (either because of his fondness for Igor's mother or because of his guilt about the death of Igor's mother which happened on one of their trips or because you do not get that rich without an eye for talent and Igor's perceptiveness was a tool that a rich man might have use for in the future) took him to dinner now and then. After what happened to his cousin, Igor went to stay with his grandmother, and continued to do stupid things with rougher boys and the second time he got himself arrested, the boy who lost two teeth was the son of a policeman and things were not looking good.

But before things could go further, a man in a very nice suit showed up, and he left with that man straight to the airport, found his grandmother on the private jet they hustled him into, and before he knew what was happening, he was on his way to a new life in America.

Igor met Toros when he picked the two of them up at JFK. They were brought to an apartment, and his grandmother immediately found a church and friends. Igor was given employment during the day and classes at night and made it very clear as often as he could how grateful he was for this opportunity.

9

Later that night

He waits in his car across the street from the club. 

When she finally exits, half an hour later than she normally would for this shift, it takes less than a few strides for him to tell she's drunk. Not completely sloppy, but not the crisp purposeful strides she usually takes. 

A block away, he pulls up alongside her and keeps pace. This continues for three more blocks until he hits a red light. She crosses the empty late night street and keeps walking. When she approaches an avenue where driving beside her will become more difficult, he puts the car in park and gets out, stands on the sidewalk in front of her, hands in his pockets, mouth shut. 

She curves around him and keeps walking. 

"Anora."

"My name's fucking Ani." 

"Please get in the car. I am sorry."

"Fuck off." 

"You're drunk. It's not safe."

She pauses. Laughs once and so loud, it sounds like a scream. Then she keeps walking. 

"I only wanted to let you rest. But I did not keep my word, and that was wrong. Please. Please," he catches up with her and lays a hand on her arm. 

She throws it off, jabs a finger in his face. "Do not." 

He does not know exactly what went wrong, and he knows he held no ill intent, but he also knows she is stubborn. And angry. And drunk. And tough, but also a small beautiful woman alone at night. "Look." He puts himself in front of her again, palms up. "Hey." Then more sharply, in Russian, "Hey! If you want me to fuck off, I will fuck off, I promise. Just let me get you to your home, where you will be safe." 

She does that laugh again, sounding a little like a bird of prey, but her face is stone cold. "Yeah? You want me all safe and sound, tucked in my little bed, with my little Cinderella night light? You wanna break in my house and watch me sleep, since you like that so fucking much? There's no lock on my bedroom door, you can get in there real easy." 

He's confused. "No. Just car ride. Please." 

"Fucking weirdo." She shakes her head and looks up at the sky. The clouds are low and thick tonight, city light reflecting off them with a dull glow. "Whatever." 

At the next red light, he looks over at her, her arms crossed tight, face turned all the way to her window. He says, "I am sorry I scared you."

"You're not. You love that shit, I was just stupid enough to forget. It's how we met. It's what you fucking do, is scare people." 

She is not entirely wrong about that last part. "I did not touch you while you were sleeping." He thinks she knows that. Apparently, there is video she could check to confirm it, but he wants it to be said. 

He pulls onto a busy avenue and for a few minutes after that, she says nothing. Then, after a couple half-starts when he thinks she's gonna speak, she does. "You think that fucking matters? I'm sitting there on your disgusting little dick. You think," she sounds somehow even drunker than when he picked her up ten minutes ago. Perhaps she took shots before she left the club? He has never known her to drink on the job, not more than the for-show sips of weak champagne. "You fucking think I don't know what's going on? You think I'm some dumb little girl?"

"You're not dumb. And you are not a little girl." 

"You think you never fucked me, it doesn't count?" 

Only, they have fucked. Sort of. More or less. And never spoken of it once, but now is certainly not the time. It does clue him in, however, that he is maybe not the person she is talking to. Carefully, he asks, "What does not count?"

Her voice continues rising. "Think I'm pretending to sleep so I must want you rubbing on me, I fucking want it, huh?"

"There was...no rubbing." 

"You think I don't feel it? I fucking feel it, every time. In the morning, before church so you can go get fucking clean for the lord, you fucking," her voice cracks. Then her eyes widen. She presses her lips together tightly, as if she can trap the words that are already out. 

He looks at the road. 

She turns to face front and crosses her arms over her chest, face dead. 

He does not think she wants him to speak. But he cannot help himself. "I'm sorry." 

She is silent the rest of the way. Her hand's on the door handle as soon as the house is in sight. 

He sees it playing out, her leaving the car, never looking back. Never wanting to see him again. Or maybe not, maybe she will pretend this night never happened and he will let her, but he is not willing to take that risk. He's not willing, at least, to let this moment pass without opening up his mouth. So before he pulls up to the curb, he taps the button to lock her door. 

She whips her head around and bares her teeth. "Open the fucking door, Igor." 

"Wait." 

She yanks at the car handle. "I will break your fucking window."

He has no doubt. "Wait, please. Just one second." 

She glares at him, nostrils flaring. 

"Just." He takes a deep breath. Swallows against the thorns in his throat. "For you, it was also family?" 

"For you? For you? What the fuck do you mean, 'for you'? Wow. Wow. You're even sicker than I thought. Looking for a little jerk off story? Huh?" 

"No, I--" 

"Sick fucking faggot pervert freak cocksucker piece of shit."

He waits for her to finish, but instead she starts yanking at the door handle so hard he is genuinely worried she will rip it off. "No, I mean to say, I... I had a cousin." 

She freezes, then very slowly turns to stare at him. 

In Russian, he says, "He was bigger and much older. Stronger. I followed him around like a puppy. I wanted to make him happy. He didn't hurt me. Well. He did not try to hurt me. And sometimes it felt good, even if I was too young to really enjoy it, you know what I mean?" 

She has not blinked. He does not think she has breathed. 

"Anyway, then I was big enough I could have stopped him, but I didn't. I was fourteen when his death happened and I didn't feel sad. I thought good, now I am the only one who knows and when I die, it will be like it never happened. And that made me sad. It was confusing." He blows out a breath. "So." 

"So. So? Fucking so?" 

"So, I am just saying, I do not judge you. I never have." 

She looks at him like he's speaking an entirely unfamiliar language, even though he switched back to English at the end. Eventually, she says very quietly, "Why the fuck would you tell me that? Why the fuck would you tell anyone something like that? What is wrong with you?" 

"I did not want you to feel alone right now." 

Her lips part, jaw hanging open in disbelief. 

He undoes the lock on her door. 

She's out of the car before he has a chance to say goodbye. 

10

That Sunday

The freshly burgundy-haired waitress turns over both their cups and fills them. Tells him she can put in his girlfriend's order, if he hasn't decided yet. 

He does not correct the waitress, just keeps looking out the window beside him, watching for her, like a dog at the front door, waiting for its owner. "I don't know if she is coming today." 

"You all right?" The waitress asks, switching to Russian.

He looks up, surprised. 

"She's a nice girl. Been coming here since she was," she holds her hand to indicate the height of a child. "Such a shame about her father." 

He nods like he knows what she means. 

"They prescribe those things like candy, what do they think's gonna happen, right?" 

"Right." 

"She deserves a nice boy for once. You are a nice boy, yes?" 

"I try." 

"Good. It's clear you love her."

He swallows too-hot coffee. "Is it?" 

She glances over his shoulder at the window. "I'll put in both your food." 

"I did not order." 

She waves dismissively. "You'll eat it." Then, just as Anora gets to the table, she steps to the booth beside theirs and takes their order.

Anora settles in, doesn't meet his eyes as she digs the envelope out of her purse and slides it across the table. It is thick enough that she must intend for them to continue their little project and something in him unclenches. "Plus the one fifty I forgot to pay you last time." 

"It's okay." 

"Did I fucking apologize?" She glances up. The waitress is back. "Hey Halyna." 

"Hey sweetie. How's your sister?" 

"Fucking Spencer is back." 

"No." She clucks her tongue. Then she winks at Igor. "Good to see you don't share her taste in men." 

"Oh this one? I just keep him around for his pretty face." 

"I thought Spencer had a baby." 

Slowly, and heavy with implication, she says, "Spencer did have a baby." 

They give each other a complicated series of looks. 

"Right?" Anora says.
 
"We got that guava juice back." Someone in the kitchen dings the bell in the food window.

"Sure. And tell Shelli I said hi, yeah?"

"Sure thing." Once the waitress leaves, she grabs four sugar packets and tears them open over her cup, spilling a little as she pours them in her mug. "So." 

"So." 

She launches into a briefing about the new club she managed to get a shift at on Wednesday. She hasn't worked there yet, but a friend who has has given her the lay of the political land there. "You're gonna drop twice the usual. Think you can handle that?" 

"I will endure the suffering." 

"Mm-hmm." She drops to silence and simply sips her coffee, watching him. He sips and watches right back. At the table behind him, a small child screams. 

Once the food comes, they eat quietly together for a while, and then after another coffee refill, Anora casually says, "So I was right about you being a cocksucker, huh?" Like she's gonna throw him off. 

It is something she does, say outrageous things to put him on the back foot. He finds it charming. He raises his brows at her and chews. Swallows. Shrugs. Admits, "I like both." 

She blinks rapidly at him, like you might after a flashbulb. "You like...you like both, huh?" She scoffs. 

"It's a thing. Bisexual."

"Bi--I know it's a fucking thing." 

"Then why the surprise? Since you are so perceptive." 

She narrows eyes. Still a little mean and provocative, "You think your cousin turned you gay, or were you always a fag?" 

"That is how it works?" He sets down his sandwich, and unlike her there is no venom when he says, "You like men so much because one touched you when you were a child?" 

That makes her sit back. Thoughts process for several moments, then she tilts her head and says dryly, "Hey, do what you love, you never work a day in your life." 

"That is what some people say. Do you love it? Stripping?" 

"I'm good at it. I love the pay. I've worked shittier jobs for way shittier money. You love being a thug?"

"Eh. Kind of the same as you. I am good at it and it pays well." He sips coffee. "Is a little same, you and I?" He gestures between them. "Sometimes you have to do the thing, but mostly, you just have to make people feel like you might do the thing."

"Oh yeah. Totally the same. Let's swap careers." 

"I don't think I would look so good in a g-string. But you? You could scare people, I think. You scared me." 

"Oh yeah?" 

"I thought maybe you were possessed."

"You could've just punched me, saved everyone the trouble." 

"No. And also a black eye raises questions." 

She scoffs. "Fucking amateur. That's why you go for the stomach. Or the tits." 

"I wouldn't punch you anywhere, but for sure not the tits." 

"Such a gentleman," she says with a chuckle. "Such a good friend." 

"I hope we are friends." 

She gives him a curious look. "Oh yeah?" 

"If it is okay with you?" 

"Eh, why not." 

"And I am sorry about scaring you."

She waves dismissively. "Forget about it. I figure, I should give you a pass." She holds up her index finger, "One pass, since you're in the club." 

"The club?" 

"The 'friends who got fingered by family' club. Think maybe we should get matching T-shirts?" 

He taps his his chest, "F, F, F, in big red sparkles." 

"Sure." She snort-laughs. When he steals one of her pieces of bacon, she watches intently, but says nothing. After they eat together in silence for a bit, she says, "So, you like both, huh? You got a boyfriend?"

He coughs on his grapefruit juice and has to cover his mouth. He shakes his head. It is not like that for him, with men. It is an occasional, secret indulgence. There was one man who lived in Morningside Heights who he spent time with regularly for a few years, but eventually the man wanted more, and being open the way he wanted wasn't something that Igor could have, and also have the life he was living. It might reflect badly on Mr. Zakharov. It wasn't done. 

And Igor did not love the man.

"Girlfriend?" 

He shakes his head. 

"Tough to find a girl who doesn't care you live with your grandma?" 

The truth is he hasn't felt the urge in the last year or so. Approaching thirty, an age his mother never reached, he had spent the last year thinking about the life he had made for himself, and if it was a life he even wanted to share with anyone. "I have had a lot on my plate. So I haven't looked." 

"Probably can't come home all the time smelling like a stripper." 

"You smell wonderful."

"That's my fucking job." 

"And you do it well." 

"Probably smell fantastic right now, I haven't showered in two days." 

Even better, he thinks.

She lifts a brow. 

"What?" 

"I know about guys like you." 

"Guys like me?" 

"Perverts." 

"I thought we were all perverts."

"You are. It's just some of you are remitting-relapsing, some of you are chronic, and some are terminal." 

"Terminal?" 

"Yeah, like," she drags her thumb across her throat.

"Like it gets you killed?" 

She studies him for a long moment. "Something like that." Their coffee gets topped up, then she says, "After he croaked, it was this big surprise when they read his will. We found out he left the house to me and my sister. My brother was fucking livid, thought he was getting everything. 'I'm the eldest son', like this is fucking Downton. Vera felt all guilty, but I told her, it's just payment for services rendered. With compound interest. Me and her pissed on his grave last Thanksgiving."

He pauses mid-chew.

"You ever try it? It's real cathartic."

"I have not."  

The topic shifts to her strategy for the club she's breaking into on Wednesday, one she's been trying to get a shift at for weeks. "You gotta play it cool for me in there. Make me work for it, so they can see all my moves." 

"Okay." 

"And when the other ones dance for you, you think you can get hard for some of them, like a normal fucking custy?" 

"When you want me hard, I will be hard." 

"I expect nothing less from my bottom bitch." 

"You think I am the bottom?" After a beat, he smirks. 

"I think what's the fucking point of being a fag if you don't take it up the ass now and then. But no, I meant bottom bitch like a pimp's best ho." 

"I am your ho?" 

"I mean, I am using your body to make money, telling you who to do sex shit with, and giving you a cut. So." She shrugs. "If the shoe fits." 

"You would be a good pimp." 

"You kid, but I'd be a great one." She eyes him. "I'd turn you out so fast." 

She has already turned him inside out, but saying that would maybe spook her, so he keeps the thought to himself. 

 
11

Very early Thursday morning

Her walk is bouncy as she exits the club and heads up the street. She's practically skipping. 

Once she settles in the car and they're on their way, he asks, "You did good tonight?" 

"We did good tonight. You played it perfect." 

"Thank you." 

"What a good little whore you are," she says, sounding like she is praising a puppy. 

He shakes his head, but cannot help but smile in response to her praise. 

"My bottom bitch. I told Melanie all about what you like."

"Is that why she kept touching my ear?" He makes a disgusted face.

"I told her you like a wet finger in your ear." She snickers. "You took it like a champ, though." 

"Blech." 

She laughs. She seems carefree tonight, and he wishes he could bottle some of that effervescence to give back to her when she is sad. She's on her phone for a while, and they're well into Brooklyn when she says, "One of them told me you felt like you were big." 

"Oh yeah?" 

"I don't remember it that way."

A deep part of him jolts when he realizes what she means. He gives her a dubious glance, since they both know that's a lie. 

"In fact," she says, "I could barely feel it." 

He waits and sees what game she's playing. 

"Cassie told me something." 

"Which one was Cassie?" 

"Redhead. No tits." 

"Ah, her." He tries not to frown. 

"She said she made you come in your pants." 

"Not true." 

"I figured. Felt like she was trying to fuck with me, but I got her number now." 

"She tried with her hand," he makes a half-gesture, "but I told her no thank you." 

She huffs and teasingly says, "Not being a very good ho, now are you?" 

"A whore can say no to things, yes?" 

She tilts her head. "Depends on the pimp." 

"And what sort of pimp are you?" He tosses her a smile. 

She returns it. "If I told you to let her do it next time, would you?" 

"Yes." 

"Would you like it?" 

"Probably not." 

"Why not?" 

He shakes his head and looks out the windshield. They are coming up to her house now. There is a space open right in front of it and he pulls in, parks, and turns off the engine. 

"Why not?" 

He looks at her. 

"Is it because you're gay?" 

"No." 

"Is it because you're shy?" 

"No." 

"Is it because--"

"It is because I don't want her." He holds her gaze until she looks away. 

"Well, I wouldn't make you do anything you don't wanna do."

"I did not think you would." 

She frowns out the window at her house for a couple minutes, and he sits in the silence with her. Finally, without looking at him, she says, "You jerk off when you get home from our dances, yeah?" 

He has no reason to lie. "Yes. Most of the time." 

"That's disgusting. I think you're fucking disgusting," she says, but there is no disgust in her tone and he does not believe her. 

"You want me to stop?"

"You know what? Yeah." She turns to him, with that look she gets when she's taking pleasure in her meanness. Or rather, in the option she has with him for meanness, after a long night of charming and pretending to be charmed. She sneers. "How about you have some fucking respect." 

"Okay." 

"Sure. 'Okay'." She imitates his accent. 

"Yes, okay." 

"Okay what?" 

"Okay I won't jerk off tonight if that is what you want." 

"How about don't go home and jerk off after I dance for you at all." 

"Okay."

"How about don't think about me at all when you jerk off." 

"That will be a little more difficult." 

"Yeah?" 

"I have tried. I always fail." 

"Always, huh?" 

"Every single time." 

"Oh you're thinking about me every time you jerk off, huh?" 

"Every time since we met." 

That shuts her mouth. 

"Like I said, I have tried." 

"Every time? Starting when?" 

"What do you mean?"

"How soon after you kidnapped my ass did you jerk your disgusting little dick to the thought of me?" 

"The night we got back, in the house." 

"While you watched me sleep?"

He frowns. "No. In the shower. When we first got back." 

"I was upstairs, taking a shower too. Did you think about that?" 

"No." 

"What did you think about?" 

He turns his head to look out his window and watches a truck with those too-bright halogen headlights at full blast go by. It leaves little stars in his field of vision. "What it would be like to kiss your mouth." 

She doesn't say anything for another minute, maybe two. Then, "I bet it doesn't even work. Your dick." 

"It does work." She knows this. 

"Prove it." 

"Excuse me?" 

"You fucking heard me, Igor. You want me to pay you tonight, fucking prove it." 

He shifts in his seat to face her and see whether she is joking. She does not seem to be joking. She does seem amused, though. "This was not our agreement." 

"You think I give a shit? I'm your boss, you do what I say."

He licks his lips and looks down at his lap, then at her, half sure she'll burst out laughing if he reaches for himself. "I think you are maybe joking." 

"I think I don't fucking pay you to think. Take it out." 

He does as she asks. It's mostly hard, and getting harder by the second as she looks. 

"You think I'm fucking impressed by that?" 

"I do not." 

"You think I care that looking at me gets you hard?" 

"I do not." 

"You think that shit is my responsibility, just because you got it from looking at me?"

"No." He shakes his head and rubs his hands on the tops of his thighs. He's fully, painfully erect and still unsure whether she will start laughing at him any moment, or tell him to put it away or climb on top of him and sink down, wet and smooth and so hot, or spit in his face, or-- he bites his lip hard and looks away from her mouth, at the radio dial. He turns it on. A car commercial with a lot of wacky sound effects is playing.

She turns the radio off. 

"It works," he says in the uncomfortable silence. 

"It's hard. That doesn't mean it works." She thumbs open her phone and starts scrolling. Without looking up, she makes a bored, dismissive gesture. "Take care of that."

He starts to pry it back into his boxers. 

"Did I fucking say put it away? I said take care of it." 

The thrill of arousal he gets when she says that, it's enough to pull a soft groan from him. He bites harder on his lip and begins to stroke himself, eyes fixed on her face the whole time. He watches her scroll, forces himself to slow down. He waits, edges, until she finally looks over at him without warning and locks eyes with him. 

It feels like a punch to the gut when she says, "You fucking done yet, or what?" It feels like sharp claws piercing his heart when the inevitable tumbles out of him, teeth grinding hard enough to make his jaw ache, nostrils flared, pinned to his seat by her dark, dark eyes. The scent of semen floods the car. His eyes drift to the ceiling as the tail end of the sensation rattles through him. He takes a deep, deep breath and blows it out slow. Then he nods at the glove box. "I have napkins." 

She finds the little tan stack of napkins and hands him a few, looking at him curiously. "You're quiet." 

He wipes off and shrugs. "Sometimes. Sometimes no." He stuffs the napkins in the cup holder. 

She holds the folded bills out, between her index and middle finger.

He reaches for them but she pulls them back at the last second.

She brings the bills up to his mouth and taps them on his lips. He does what he has seen her do many times, what she has done for him, per her instructions, many times. He opens his mouth and lets her put the money between his teeth, then he bites it. 

He sits back and takes it from his mouth, tucks it in his pocket. 

"Good girl," she says as she pats his cheek. Then she's out of the car and up the stoop. He watches until her bedroom light goes on. Then he waits a little longer, until his body stops tingling, before turning the ignition. 

12

It becomes part of their routine. 

He knows she was not serious when she told him not to jerk off while thinking about her, but he obeys her anyway. Which means he does not jerk off at all except for when they are parked in front of her house and she's scrolling Instagram and he's waiting, waiting, waiting, clinging to the edge of the world with only his fingertips until she glances his way and tells him, "Go on," and he's falling into the stars. 

13

June

He cannot stop grinning, but he is far from the only one in this city with that problem tonight. 

As soon as she spots him from across the club, she makes a beeline for him and drops onto his knee. "Did you fucking hear?" 

Of course he heard. It's all anyone can talk about. It would be all anyone in the city could talk about even the Admirals winning the cup was the only thing that had happened that night on the ice, but of course it wasn't. 

But he likes to tease her just a little. "We won the cup?" 

"Yeah, that's definitely what I'm talking about." She rolls her eyes. 

"Good for him." 

"I mean, sure." 

"What do you mean, sure. The man goes from losing for a decade straight to winning the fucking cup, and he finds true love?" He gives her waist a squeeze and shifts her to sit higher on his thigh, not for any sexual purpose, but because it is more comfortable for them both if she sits there, and she takes his cue with ease. For two people who are not (technically) lovers, they have become comfortable shifting against one another's bodies. He would not say that he dances with her, but they have had dances together for months, and little things like this feel like reflex now. She steers him, he responds, their bodies shift against each other, it is almost unconscious at this point. 

"True love? Okay." She scoffs. 

"What are you talking about? You saw them kissing." 

"It's been busy, I haven't got a chance to watch the whole thing. I saw a picture of his tongue down some guy's throat. You wanna round that up to true love, go right ahead." 

"You think he would do something so bold for a fuck buddy? That he would blow up his life for good sex?" 

"Men do a lot of dumb shit for sex." 

"Come on. Even you are not so cynical."

She side-eyes him. 

"All right, but you are also a romantic. You just hide it well."  

"I saw the picture, I didn't see what you see, get over it." 

"A still picture." 

"Yeah."

He scoffs at her. "You need to see them kiss."

"I know what kissing looks like." 

"You need to see *this* kiss."  

"Now I know you're gay." 

He makes a dismissive noise and pulls the footage up. There are many, many, many angles of it online, but this is his favorite so far. 

It starts zoomed in on the swarm of family pouring onto the ice and hugging players, a little shaky, the surrounding screams of the crowd blowing out the microphone, but then a voice (and not to stereotype but a very gay sounding voice, louder than the rest) going, "Holy shit, holy shit guys, holy fucking shit, looklooklook!" 

The image jerks, then swings in on the two men, zooms in on their faces. You can't see the other guy's face from this angle, but Scott Hunter's eyes are fixed on the man with a burning intensity that made Igor blush a little the first time he saw it. In Igor's opinion, that is how you look at someone you are hopelessly, irrevocably in love with. 

Someone else by the camera says, "What the fuck are they--" Then the kiss. That just. Keeps. Going. The clutching at each other, holding each other's faces and staring into each other's eyes. Confetti drops, briefly obscuring them, people cross the frame. The men lean in for another kiss and after they break away, the shorter man turns his head and presses it to Scott's heart as they embrace, bliss across his features, and they clutch at each other for a few more moments, kiss deeply again, then they press their foreheads together and laugh. Both of them have wet cheeks. It looks like Scott is saying over and over, "I love you, I love you, I love you." 

"Like I said," she says when the clip ends. "Pretty fucking gay." But her voice is a little hoarse and her eyes are shiny. 

"Come onnnn. That is true love, clearly."

She scoffs. "True love?" 

"You don't think two men can be in love?" 

"To be honest, I'm not so sure men are capable of love. Period."

He looks at her but he cannot tell if she is joking. 

"No offense, seriously, it's just not how you people are built, in my experience." 

"Me? How I am built?" 

"You're a man, aren't you?" 

"I can be in love." 

"Eh. Guys think they're in love, but deep down if you dig, they just want to take something from you." 

"All guys." 

"Pretty much." 

"What a sad thing to think." 

"It's a sad fucking world. I didn't make the rules. Maybe some of them love their mother. Some of them. Maybe. And half of those are fucking weird about it." 

"I loved my mother. I still do." 

"Are you fucking weird about it?" 

"No." 

"Congratulations." She rises and holds out a hand. "Let's go get you a prize." 

Once he's on the big black communal couch, with men on either side of him getting their own dances, he waits until her face comes close to his to say for her ears only, "What a big secret to hold inside." 

She pauses her undulations and comes close, cheek brushing his, and stays like that. "Hmm?" 

"Can you even imagine? Hiding that for so long?" 

"Men do just fine hiding all sorts of shit," she says, lips brushing his ear. 

"He gave an interview. Talked about how he had so much love, it made him brave." 

"It made him stupid." 

"I hear love does that too." 

She leans back enough to make eye contact. "Oh yeah, lover boy?" The song ends and the men on either side of them get up, and now the nearest one is five or six seats away. "Is that what you hear? I think maybe you're just sad he's off the market, on account of how you're--" 

He interrupts her, "Gay?"

"I wasn't gonna put it so nice, but yeah." 

"No, I'm not sad. I am happy for him." 

She snaps her gum at him. "Cause you're so fucking gay?" 

"No. Because I believe in true love." 

She laughs in his face. "What are you, a fucking Disney prince? Fucking 'true love'. Give me a fucking break." 

He shrugs. 

"You're just out there looking for your princess, huh?" 

He swallows but it does nothing to settle his pattering heart. In Russian, he says, "No. I am not looking." He holds her gaze and tucks her hair behind her ear. Brushes a thumb over her cheekbone. Stops trying to hide his heart from his eyes and really looks at her.

Her rhythmic movements slow, then stop. "Fuck you," she whispers. 

Then she gets up and he watches her go. She disappears into the back, and doesn't approach him for the rest of her shift. He stays until close, buying drinks and tipping girls for their conversation, but he doesn't move from his seat until last call. Then he goes and sits in his car outside and scrolls social media and thinks about what it is to be brave.

14

She is silent for the first part of the ride home. It's not until they're cruising across the bridge, dark water below, glittering lights before and behind them, that she speaks. "You don't love me, Igor, so don't start that shit, okay? Just don't."

"Okay."

"Say it."

"Say what?" 

"Say you don't love me." 

"I do not love you." 

"Good." She rubs at her mouth and shoots him a sidelong glance. "That's fucking right." 

A few blocks into Brooklyn, they are stopped at a light. "Say it again," she demands. 

He turns to face her and waits until she looks him in the eye. In Russian, he tells her, "I am not in love with you, Ani. It does not consume me. You don't consume me. Is that good? Does that make you happy? Because the last thing in the world I want is to do anything, and I do mean anything to see you smile. I would not kill for you. Because I am not in love with you." 

Her cheeks flush pink and she turns away from him to stare out her window. 

The light turns green. Once they are moving again, she says, softly, "Fuck off."

Neither of them speak the rest of the way to her home.

15

He parks in front of her house and waits quietly with both hands curled underhand around the bottom of the steering wheel. 

By this point, his dick has been conditioned to expect attention from his hand when they park here, but he could not care less about its needs. All he cares about in this moment is the next words out of her mouth. 

She stops and starts several times, breath drawn and held, the click of her lips parting, then a frustrated sigh. He keeps his gaze straight ahead, to make it easier for her, and he waits. Finally, she speaks. "What do you want from me?" 

"Whatever you want to give me." 

She frowns, then her brow knits, lips twisting further, like she's trying to hold something in. Her chin tightens, lower lip wobbling, and then she takes a shaky breath. "There's not," she taps her heart a few times, then jabs at it. Then makes a fist and strikes her sternum. "There's not much in here." 

"That's okay." 

She hits her heart hard a few more times, eyes screwing shut, face twisting to something clownish in its pain. Her voice cracks. "It's broken." 

"I know. I know. It's okay. It is. I promise." 

She opens her eyes and sucks in a quavering breath. "If you hurt me, I'll fucking kill you." 

He releases the steering wheel, turns, and presents his wrists to her. In Russian, he says, "I know. It's part of why I fell for you the first day we met." 

She laughs her single, eagle-shriek laugh, then covers her mouth with the back of her hand. Tears are streaming down her cheeks. "You're a fucking psycho." 

"It takes one to know one." 

She wipes her cheeks, then lays her hand over his, wet fingers slipping over his inner wrist. His own fingertips curl up and gently trace her tendons. 

Her fingers curl too, only she digs in her nails, hard, and they scrape painfully up the soft flesh. She scratches so hard, he's genuinely surprised there isn't blood when she pulls her hand back. 

If she left any marks at all, he cannot see them in the darkness of the car. But he feels it, hot and stinging and so alive. His pulse pounds in his throat. 

She brings her thumb back to his wrist and gently pets the burning strip of skin.

He watches their hands for a few moments, and when he looks up he is surprised to see her looking at his face. "Just to be near you," he whispers. "That's all." 

"You're near me all the time." 

"Not you." He breathes deep. "Not you."

She circles the pad of her thumb over his pulse point for a little while longer, then she sits back and unbuckles her seatbelt. "Okay. All right." She pulls at the door handle and throws her shoulder against it to get it to open. "Come on."

16

The house is silent and dark inside. 

He is silent too as he follows her up the stairs and into her room. She shuts the door and locks it, then leans back against it, arms crossed. He stands just beyond arms length away, because otherwise he might reach for her. 

"Take off your jacket," she says, sounding bored. 

He sheds it and lays it over the back of the chair. 

Outside her window, a train rattles by, loud but not overwhelming like it was in the bathroom. Then it passes and the room is quiet again except for their breathing. 

"Your boots." 

He starts to sit on the chair but she shakes her head and points at the bed. He sits on the foot of it and gets them off. 

"Socks too," and he complies. "Keep going," she says, and he does, rising to stand before her. Piece by piece, he sheds everything, even his watch, until he is fully bare for her. Then, hands at his sides, he waits. 

She makes a gesture for him to turn and he does, pausing with his back to her when she says, "Stop." In the mirror he can see her approach, and when she lays her cool fingers on the small of his back, his breath catches. She skims a thumb a few inches along his spine and the world contracts into that small, electric point of contact. He would burn it all for her, the whole planet, if that was what she asked. 

Then she is turning away, and he watches in the mirror as she efficiently peels off her clothes until she is bare too. She pulls sleep clothes from her dresser, a grey tank top and butterfly-patterned lavender pajama bottoms and puts them both on. While he continues to stand where she put him, she eases past him and takes a hairbrush from the vanity in front of him. 

Casually, she looks him over while she brushes her hair. Whenever her gaze returns to his face, he holds it for as long as she will let him, then he watches it slide away again to roam his chest, note the knife scar on his belly, linger between his legs. 

He waits for her. He will wait as long as she wants. 

Finally, she sets down the brush and slides past him, hand brushing his hip, and he cannot help that his breath catches from that small point of contact. Then she's getting into her bed, and he continues to stand.

He will stand here all night if she wants. 

But the next thing she does is pat the bed beside her. "Come on." 

He starts to lie down on top of the covers. 

"No, idiot." She pulls back the blanket and the top sheet. "Get in." 

He settles on his back, hands above the covers, folded together on his belly. His erection tents the blanket but he pays it no mind. Eyes fixed on the ceiling, he notices the little glowing green stars. He wonders how long they have been up there. 

"Tell me again," she whispers. 

"I'm not in love with you." 

She sighs and turns on to her side, facing away from him. "Good girl," she murmurs. 

For a while, he listens to her breathing get slower and slower, the covers rustling now and then as she shifts. It is not long before she is asleep. 

He props himself up on his elbow and allows himself to look at her lashes, her lips, her bare shoulder. He pulls the blanket up to cover that, then he turns away from her and allows sleep to claim him as well. 

17

The light in the room is thin and grey when he opens his eyes. It takes a few moments to remember where he is, because he does not recognize the wall he is staring at. But then he remembers, and in the same moment, he hears the light, rhythmic rustling behind him. 

Down deep, below the covers, one of her feet is touching his. 

Her breath catches, and she lets it out with a sigh and the tiniest little hint of a moan. 

He shifts, slowly, carefully, so as not to startle her, to his back and tilts his face toward her. Her eyes are squeezed shut, and her teeth dig in to her lower lip. He is embarrassed that it takes him another few moments to realize that she is not scratching an itch beneath the covers. 

As she keeps going, he watches her face. It is not artfully sexy, the way it tightens and relaxes, but it is the most erotic thing he has ever seen. One of her knees draws up, tenting the sheets, and her other foot moves over until it brushes his then presses against it. 

He returns the pressure. 

Her eyes float open and as she continues to rub, she stares blankly at the ceiling, then after another catch of her breath, she looks over and meets his gaze. Then, she's pulling her hand out from beneath the covers, and reaching not for him, but for the edge of the sheets that cover his body. She pulls them down, then gestures for him to get the rest and he peels those off too, leaving her covered and himself exposed. 

Her lips part and she stares at his body, his chest, his belly, his morning wood. "Give me your hand," she rasps. 

He offers it, letting it hover above her midsection.

She takes it with her wet fingers and pulls it up to her face, then she lays it palm down over her mouth and returns to touching herself between her legs. "Harder," she says against his hand. 

He presses down, gently. 

She twists her head away and says, "No. Like you mean it. Like you need to keep me quiet." 

He nods and presses down hard, gripping her face. 

She tries to turn her head away again, but he grips harder and does not let her. She whimpers, eyes rolling up before fluttering shut. The rustling noise grows quicker and his face floods with heat. She squirms, toes curling against his foot, and tries to turn her head again, but he does not let her. She moans and opens her mouth against his hand. 

He feels teeth. Her breathing through flared nostrils grows erratic. The mattress shifts as her hips move to meet her touch. He licks his lips and swallows hard, then tells her, "Shhh." 

She whimpers, bites down on him hard, really fucking hard, and then the little movements stop and her body is quaking beside his. He keeps his hand firm over her mouth, ignoring the urge to jerk away from the pain, and watches her nostrils flare, feels her hot, stuttered breath on his hand. A little more rustling and a shivering aftershock rattles her.

Then, she is silent and still except for the rise and fall of her chest as air hisses in and out rapidly through her nostrils. 

He eases up on the pressure and slides his hand off her mouth, watches it open as she gulps in more air. It feels as though she is taking it from his own lungs and he wants to give her all of it, his breath, his blood, whatever she wants to take. It is hers. 

After an unknowable stretch of time, her eyes flutter open and roam the ceiling. 

He carefully brushes an errant strand of hair out of her face. 

She looks at him. 

He looks back. 

Her lips do not move, but there is the tiniest smile in her eyes. She pulls a hand out from beneath the covers and takes his, brings it to her mouth and gently kisses the spot she bit. She did not draw blood, but it was a near thing. 

He shifts his touch to her cheek, then up, tracing the curve of her eyebrow, down the curve of her nose. He brushes his thumb over her parted lips. 

"Say it again," she says. 

"I don't love you, Ani." 

"That's right," she breathes. Outside, the sun rises above some building, or perhaps emerges from behind a cloud, casting a stripe of golden light across her soft features. 

"What do you need?" He asks, because it's all he can think. It's all he can ever think when he is near her. 

She licks her lips, then whispers, like it is a secret, "Kiss me."