Page 4 of The Last Dance

“There’s nothing for you here,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”

I twisted, not a panicked flail but a dancer’s torque, a practiced move. If you dislocate your own wrist, you only have to hate yourself for a week, tops. Parsons lost his grip.

I sidestepped, used the wall for leverage, and shoved him hard enough that his shoulder banged into the fire extinguisher. He made a little sound of surprise, then nothing.

My shoes skidded on the tile, but I was already through the gap and back in the main room. The lights snapped my eyes wide, and for a moment I was so lit up I could see every molecule of sweat on every face in the place. I searched for the bouncer. Not at his post.

Figures.

I tried to keep my pace normal, but my body wasn’t buying it. I grabbed the bar with one hand, using it to slow down. The bartender caught my look and raised an eyebrow. I shook my head. Not yet.

I took a breath, one, two, then forced myself to sweep the floor like I was just another Tuesday night worker. As I did, I spotted Parsons coming up behind me, his face calm, one hand smoothing his jacket. He was good. He could have been a cop, or a pastor. Or both.

I turned, angled toward the far end of the club, where the private tables were. I needed cover, something to wedge between me and the rest of the night.

I was halfway to the booths when I ran straight into the lap of a man built like an oil spill in a bespoke suit: Vadim Miroslav. The man himself. The owner.

It was like tripping over a bear trap, only the teeth were teeth.

His section was on a raised platform, velvet rope and everything, so my misstep had all the grace of a puppy falling into a pothole.

His glass was half-full. He caught it with one massive hand before it could tip, then looked at me—really looked—and set the glass down with deliberate care.

I was close enough to count the stitches on his cuff. Or the scars, if I’d looked higher up. His other hand rested lightly on my hip, like he was deciding whether to return me to sender or keep me as a tip.

“You seem lost,” Vadim said.

Not a question.

I tried to play it off. “Sorry—busy night. Slippery shoes.” I pushed myself upright, fast, and felt my ears go red. “I’m supposed to—uh—get back to the bar.”

Vadim let me go, but not all the way. “You were running.”

It was a statement, not accusation.

I had no idea what to say to that. The rules didn’t cover this scenario.

I glanced back and saw Parsons at the edge of the platform, just outside the rope. He was watching, as ever. Eyes locked.

Shit.

Vadim followed my gaze. His expression didn’t change, but the temperature in the room did. The guards flanking his booth tensed, but didn’t move. Vadim leaned back, then, and gestured to the seat beside him.

“Sit,” he said.

My body decided to obey. The chair was colder than I expected. I tried to cross my legs, realized I was still in the mesh shorts and tank, and gave up on dignity.

Vadim turned his head just a bit, enough to address the guards. “No interruptions.”

The guards nodded, then faded into the background like expensive shadows.

He looked at me again. “Tell me.”

I hesitated, then decided that whatever came after this was better than being cornered in a hallway by a man who quoted Leviticus at you after hours.

“There’s a guy,” I said. “He’s been coming in every week for a couple of weeks. Tuesday nights. He—watches me, leaves notes, business cards with bible verses on them.”

Vadim’s eyebrows didn’t move. “He touched you tonight?”