Page 7 of City of Salvation
NIKKI
ENTITLED SNOTS DESERVE A STILETTO TO THE FACE
The humof the music caressed my skin like a lover’s touch—a sensuous exchange between my body and the vibrations of the rhythm. Dancing was always bittersweet for me. Part of me wanted to abandon it forever, but what else would I do for a job?
A chill seeped into my hand as I wrapped my fingers around the pole of the main stage, my calf muscle straining as I went up onto the ball of my foot as best I could. These were the wrong fucking shoes for this move, but what was a girl to do? Daddy didn’t raise a quitter. A humorless laugh slipped out as I kicked up the other leg into a graceful tilt, my arm flowing out toward my side.
He did create a survivor with enough daddy issues to keep a therapist busy for a lifetime.
The crowd let out hoots and hollers as I brought my leg down and looped it around my static dance partner, leaning back as far as I could, letting my hair splay down my back. That particular combination always gained me applause and extra tips.
It was ironic, really. I’d hoped and dreamed of being onstage. That my talent would be enough to forge a future of my own. And I’d done it. This just was not the stage or the dancing I’d imagined, or the name I thought I’d see up on a sign.
I smiled as bills started collecting on the black lacquered floor. Amber lights bathed the club in warm light, mixing well with the red underlighting of the stage. Everything about Lotería was meant to feel sexy. My body was on autopilot, performing the moves I knew so well while lost in thought.
I’d spotted Ryan perched on Gunner’s lap earlier tonight, their heads tucked together as they whispered things back and forth. She’d looked at ease, and disgustingly in love. I was happy for her—the last couple of months had been a shit show, with her recovering and all the construction that was needed to repair the club. Apparently, shit had also been going down over in New York with Scar at the same time. I hadn’t even realized that Scar was part of the criminal life.
She did all of our security, so I’d assumed she was like a hot tech chick. Vaguely, I was aware that her uncle had some connection with the Italian mafia, but I hadn’t realized he was the fucking bastard in charge.
Scar and I had only met a handful of times when she was out here setting up security, and those nights had been filled with laughter, shots, and teaching the two of them how to work a pole like a pro.
Skills that she had used two weeks ago on herthreemen.
Damn, how do I get that to happen? Not that I want any fucking man to stay around longer than one fuck.
My heart twinged at the same lie I’d been telling myself for years. Being a runaway bride to a man you were gifted to by your father really fucked up your views on love and men.
I gave my head a shake, sending my hair flying. The patrons loved it when I whipped my hair around. They’dnever guess this was my attempt at clearing out all the shitty thoughts clouding my mind lately. Ironically, the kidnapping wasn’t the part that fucked me up. It was knowing that my ex knew I was alive and not knowing what he had planned.
It’d been two months since the incident, and I hadn’t heard anything more from him. I’d almost convinced myself that it had all been Mario bluffing to get me to come back so he could snatch me up and use me as bait for Ryan. It was just a note on a door, after all.
And them flat out saying, “Hey, bitch, we’re sending you back to your deranged ex-husband in Russia.”
There was this sinking feeling in my gut, a bone-deep belief that something was lurking on the horizon, and it had me worried. For the millionth time since I was forced to tell Ryan a little bit about my past, I wondered why the fuck I was still here.
I willed my body to relax as I sashayed to the front of the stage.
“Hey, bitch,” someone said, followed by the sting of a hand slapping my ass. Blonde locks slapped me in the face with how fast I whipped my head around. My eyes narrowed in on the asshole who wore a grin a mile wide.
He was young, probably in his early twenties, based on his baby face. Robert was probably already making his way to the main stage, but I wanted an opportunity to give this asshole a piece of my mind.
It’s always the entitled little snots who think everything is theirs.
The heel of my stiletto met the tender flesh of his shoulder, and he flashed his too-white veneers at his friends, thinking he’d won the lottery, and I was about to fall on his dick. He probably thought I’d profess my love for him in hopes he’d take me home and train me to be agood littleobedient wife. That’s always how these types of guys treated me.
The poor, lowly stripper who was waiting on a nice man to come save me from my wicked ways.
I scoffed, digging my heel in deeper until his smirk turned into a wince. Hands that felt like he’d never worked a day in his life wrapped around my ankle, attempting to ease the pressure, but I only pushed harder.
“Hey, bitch, you’re hurting me. Ease up,” he shouted over the music.
“Oh look, you also don’t like being touched without permission,” I responded. My hands hit my hips slightly above the lace of the crimson set I wore.
The wince was now an angry look of entitlement smeared across his face. He was probably about to tell me who his father was. Or ask to speak with the manager.
“I pay to be here. That means I can do whatever the fuck I want.”
Wrong fucking answer.