Chapter 4: Club Chaos
The music at the club was a physical thing, a deep, grinding bass that traveled up through the soles of Danny’s shoes and into his teeth. Strobe lights cut through a haze of artificial fog and cigarette smoke, catching the sweat on a hundred throbbing bodies. Viktoria had dragged him here after a day of brutal, aimless spending, her energy somehow more ferocious as night fell.
She was a vortex in the center of the dance floor. Dressed in a sequined silver dress that looked painted on, she moved with a predatory grace, her absurd breasts swaying hypnotically with the beat. She held a bottle of vodka by the neck, drinking straight from it. Her eyes, bright and hunting, scanned the crowd.
Danny hovered at the edge, nursing a warm beer, feeling like a ghost. He watched as she locked onto a man in an expensive-looking suit. She danced up against him, laughing at something he said, letting his hands settle on her hips. A cold knot tightened in Danny’s stomach. Martin’s warning echoed in his head: Keep her happy. Keep her engaged. This wasn’t engagement. This was a disaster in sequins.
He pushed through the crowd, the smell of perfume and stale alcohol thick in his nose. He reached her just as the man’s hand started to slide lower.
“Viktoria,” Danny said, his voice louder than he intended.
She turned, a flicker of annoyance crossing her features before it melted into a slow, drunk smile. “My pet! You join.”
The suit guy looked Danny up and down, unimpressed. “You with her?”
“Yes,” Danny said, trying to sound firm.
Viktoria giggled, a sharp, brittle sound. She dismissed the man with a wave of her vodka bottle. “Go. My puppy is here now.” She turned her full attention to Danny, swaying into his personal space. The heat from her body was immense. “You are… jealous?”
“I’m doing my job,” he muttered.
She threw her head back and laughed, then pressed herself against him. Her dress was damp with sweat. She wrapped one arm around his neck, pulling his ear to her lips. Her breath was hot, smelling of vodka and mint. “Your job is to be my good boy,” she whispered, her voice a rough, Russian scrape against the thumping music. Then she began speaking in her native tongue, the words flowing fast and low, a stream of guttural sounds he couldn’t understand. But the tone was unmistakable—filthy, insistent, hungry.
She pulled back, her blue eyes glazed and focused solely on him. “I hear things,” she slurred, switching back to fragmented English. “About American men. Big. Fat.” She leaned in again, her mouth against his jaw. “Cock.”
Danny’s face flushed. The noise of the club seemed to recede, narrowed to this pocket of heat and her overwhelming scent. She ground against him, leaving no doubt about her meaning. “I am very hungry, Danny. You understand?”
He understood. The deal, his career, all of it was a distant satellite. Right here, right now, was the raw, humiliating, electric reality of her. He nodded, once.
“Good. We go.”
She didn’t wait for agreement. She took his hand, her grip surprisingly strong, and pulled him off the dance floor, through the clubbing masses, and out into the cool, quiet night. She hailed a taxi with a sharp whistle, shoving him in first.
In the back of the cab, she was silent, staring out the window at the blurring city lights. The aggression from the club had banked into a simmering, dangerous quiet. She rested a hand high on his thigh, her fingers digging in slightly with every turn.
The Grand Imperial lobby was a tomb of marble and hushed voices after the club’s chaos. They didn’t speak in the elevator. She stood facing the doors, her reflection a smeared vision of silver and black in the polished brass. Danny watched the floor numbers light up: 10, 20, 30.
The bell dinged for the penthouse floor. The doors slid open.
As Danny stepped out, her hand shot out and grabbed the back of his collar, yanking him backward. The doors started to close. She slammed her palm against the sensor, they jerked open again, and then she spun him, shoving him hard against the mirrored elevator wall.
Her mouth was on his before he could gasp.
It wasn't a kiss. It was an assault. Her lips were frantic, her tongue forcing its way past his teeth, tasting of vodka and a metallic hint of her lipstick. She made a low, animal sound in her throat. Her hands clawed at his blazer, pushing it off his shoulders. The elevator, stalled between floors, hummed around them. One of her knees jammed between his legs, pinning him. He could only take it, his own hands hovering in the air before finally, clumsily, settling on her waist.
She pulled back, breathing heavily. Her lipstick was a savage red smear across his mouth and chin. She looked at the mess she’d made of him and grinned, her teeth stained slightly pink. “Da,” she panted. “Good.”
The doors tried to close again. This time she let them, pulling him into the private foyer of her suite. The opulent silence was a shock. She didn’t turn on the main lights, just the dim glow from the city outside the terrace windows.
She walked backwards, leading him by his tie, which she had twisted in her fist. Her eyes never left his. The spoiled, drunken girl from the club was gone. In her place was something ancient and direct. Her other hand went to the side zipper of her dress. She pulled it down with a sharp, hissing sound, let the sequined fabric fall to a pool at her feet. She stood before him in only a pair of flimsy black underwear, her body a stark pale silhouette against the city’s glow.
“You see all of them now,” she said, her voice low. “My girls. You like?”
He couldn’t form words. He nodded.
She yanked on his tie, pulling his face down to the vast, heavy swell of her chest. “You prove it,” she commanded.
Then, still holding his tie like a leash, she turned and walked toward the bedroom, pulling him stumbling after her into the dark. The door slammed shut behind them.