The Dance: Bratva Vows

by SR Jones

  The Dance [Bratva Vows Novella]

  SR Jones

  Contents

  THE DANCE

  DEDICATION

  1. Amber

  2. Amber

  3. Ilya

  4. Amber

  5. Ilya

  6. Amber/Amanda

  7. Amanda

  Epilogue

  THANK YOU

  THE TRAP

  VIOLET

  READ MORE

  THE MONSTER

  QUOTE

  KONSTANTIN

  THE DANCE

  A BRATVA VOWS NOVELLA

  by SR JONES

  Copyright SR Jones 2020

  All characters fictional, any resemblance to anyone real or otherwise is purely coincidental.

  This is a darker romance, and therefore it has trigger warnings for violence, and sexual scenes only suited for those aged 18 and over.

  Created with Vellum

  Inspired by Judy Ann and her sweatpants pics. Keep them coming, lady!

  1

  Amber

  I inherited three things from my mother. Green eyes, a great rack, and terrible, dire, the worst taste in men.

  The first two I’ve used to my advantage and in a career as a model, stripper, dancer, whatever. I have made a lot of money by the ripe old age of twenty-three. The third I’ve let bring me down more times than I can mention, hence the drought. Over a year since I’ve had a date, a kiss, sex … anything with the un-fairer sex. I’m on a man-famine.

  I get my pleasure from dancing for men who can’t have me and using my toys when I get home to relieve any sexual tension. Unlike a lot of the women who work as exotic dancers—strippers, to give us our correct name—I don’t loathe my customers or men in general. I like them. Always have. They are my weak spot. It’s why I need to stick to my diet.

  My hair is a mess, and I sigh as I try to get the tangles out. I don’t want to have to wash it again, so I get my comb and work through the knots. Then I add some dry shampoo, hang my head upside, shake, and voila—bombshell hair.

  Tonight, I’m starting a new job at a swanky strip club, one that doesn’t have seedy shit going on but is run with military precision. The problem is the place is owned and run by a Bratva Pakhan, Sergei Allyov. One scary motherfucker.

  So why work there? My friends all asked. The pay is amazing, and the clientele don’t dare mess with the girls. The reason for this is Allyov’s right-hand man who puts the fear of God into everyone, and he doesn’t like dicks who get handsy with the girls. Andrius. Hired muscle and more, the man has eyes the color of the winter sky and a heart even colder. He seems to have a thing for protecting women, though, or at least that’s his reputation.

  To be honest, even with the added protection working for the Russians affords a girl, I wouldn’t go to their club if I weren’t in dire straits financially. My car has packed in, my landlord increased the rent, and my stupid brother got himself into debt again in a card game. The three things happening at once mean I need a pay raise ASAP.

  I finish my makeup, taking extra care, then grab my bag. I send for an Uber and go wait outside. By the time I arrive at the club, I’m second guessing my decision. These guys are seriously scary. I fuck up in any way and I might find myself six feet under; not in a wooden box, but wrapped in plastic.

  Why I’d fuck up to such a degree, I don’t know, but it usually happens somehow and if not me, then my brother does the honors.

  My name is Amanda, but for work I’m Amber. It sounds sexier. More mysterious. I don’t fuck clients, never have, but I like to give the impression I might; if only they impress me enough. I wonder how far I’ll be able to push the act here?

  I go around the back, as shown by Michelle on my interview day. She’s one of the girls who has been working here the longest. I push open the doors, and the first person I see is Pasha, one of the men who hangs around here with Allyov’s crew. I looked his name up, and it means small, which is ironic because he’s big. And mean looking too.

  “Hey, Amber.” He nods at me as he walks past, pulling a pack of smokes out of his pocket before he heads out the door to the back alley.

  By the time I reach the dressing room my stomach is raw with nerves. It’s only my first night and yet he already knows my name. These guys are observant, and they know who they are letting on their territory.

  It’s always this way with the nerves when I start at a new club, but with the guys who run things here, it’s way worse than usual.

  “Hey, babe.” Michelle saunters over, gives me a hug, and eyes me before smirking. “Don’t worry; you’ll be fine.”

  Her voice is smoky, almost a little hoarse. She’s a striking woman in her early forties now. She still dances occasionally, but mostly she’s like a mother to the girls. “Your makeup station is number eleven. Don’t touch anyone else’s makeup or stuff without asking, I’ve seen hair get pulled out over that shit. Ask and most girls will share.”

  “Sure.”

  “Oh, and listen.” She glances around, pulls me to one side, and lowers her voice. “You’re not allowed to indiscriminately fuck the clients here. There are no extras allowed for the regular clientele; however … sometimes special customers come into the club, and you might be asked if you’re willing to give them a special show. That means more than just a dance. It’s entirely up to you, no one will force you. Andrius gets funny about that shit, and Allyov likes to keep Andrius happy, so there’s no pushing the girls to do extras here. Problem is, the guys still ask, and some of the girls say yes, and then it gets awkward because sure as shit one of them is going to end up with the feels or something. Or worse, a wife will get jealous and start hanging around, and if you think the men are scary?” She raises her eyes to the heavens. “You don’t want to meet the wives. So … if any of Allyov’s men want a little something-something, then my advice is say you’ve a boyfriend, unless, you’re wanting to get yourself into a ton of drama. Don’t do it is my advice.”

  I have no intention whatsoever of getting involved with some Bratva thug. Even though, that kind of bad boy is my kryptonite, but I’m sworn off that shit forever. Only good guys for me from now on!

  “Ever paid for a personal dance in one of the booths, you keep sixty percent; forty goes to the club. For dances on the main stage, you get to keep all the tips slipped into your thong.” She pauses, fixes me with deadly serious eyes, and in a low voice says, “Remember, no extras unless it’s Allyov himself asking for one of his guys. If you get caught charging for any extras, you’ll be in deep shit, and you don’t want to be in deep shit with these guys.”

  I nod and swallow. No, I do not.

  Trying hard to control the shaking in my fingers, I head to my station.

  My costume this evening is one of my favorites, a deep red floor-length gown. Amber is like an old school movie star. When I’m her, I don’t simply dance, I become a character. Someone else. It’s the only way I can do this with confidence. I forget the nerdy me from school, and the failure me from later in life, and I become Amber—Goddess of the silver screen.

  Allyov’s club doesn’t have a dress code, except for rules stating that all girls have to start their stage shows dressed; no starting in lingerie. You can end in a thong if you wish, or sexy underwear. I prefer to end my show in sexy underwear that covers more than it reveals. Why show the punters the goods up front? I want them to pay for that privilege in the private rooms.

  A girl walks into the backstage area. I don’t know her, but I shoot her a friendly smile. She rolls her eyes in response. “Total douches out there tonight. They want to see it all but aren’t willing to pay. Fuckers. If they want it for free, they should have stayed home with their wives.”

  “Hey, Ca
ndice, you got a guy asking after you for a private dance,” Michelle calls from the door to the girl who just walked in.

  “Finally. Christ, I need the money, but I am not in the mood. I look in their eyes and hate them. You know?”

  Candice doesn’t wait for me to answer as she heads out the door.

  I don’t hate them. I get why girls do. I know a lot of girls who have had horrible, awful experiences. Me, not so much. My horrible experiences tend to be with the men I end up with in my life outside of work, and that’s all on me and my shitty tastes. So far, I’ve dated an already failed druggy ‘rock star’. A photographer who was a prize creep. A mechanic who liked to get into fights every weekend and constantly needed bailing out. Yep, if they’re a bad boy, chances are I’ll like them. Conversely most of the men in these clubs, the expensive ones I work in, at least, are polite, upstanding citizens who might get a bit handsy if they drink too much, but are generally easy to control. And that … easy to control? It doesn’t get my panties wet.

  “Five minutes, then it’s your set.” Michelle pokes her head around the door.

  I push my shoulders back. My hair is swept to the side, cascading down one shoulder, and my makeup is perfect. I have a handbag over my shoulder, it’s part of my act as it contains a packet of cigarettes, and I mock smoke one. I always pick a guy, saunter to the edge of the stage and lie down on my back as I pretend to blow smoke in his eyes. I try to pick a man who looks like he can afford a private dance. Pick a guy out of the audience, and they love it. It’s the ultimate ego boost to be singled out in a room full of men.

  The pumping bass of the song being played ends, and I get myself mentally ready as I walk carefully on my six-inch heels out of the dressing room to the club interior and stage.

  It’s busy out there, and I get the new-girl flutters as I climb the steps up to the stage. The pole at the center is dark, and the lights are off to the side as requested. As soon as the familiar beat of my song begins, I relax. I like to think of my act as a cross between stripping and burlesque. It’s sensual, and for the first song, I don’t take my clothes off. Instead, I tease the crowd, and try to make eye contact and figure out one or two guys to pay special attention to.

  Song two is where the actual stripping comes in.

  Soon enough, I’m lost in the music and going through the motions of a routine I know by heart. My body might be on auto-pilot, but my mind is channeling sexy thoughts. I don’t get it when the girls I work with tell me they’re planning out their college assignments while they dance or thinking about their shopping.

  Being sexy is the biggest way to earn more. You can be the best gymnast on that damn pole, but if you’re eyes are blank and you’re channeling your inner boredom, you aren’t going to be getting a ton of private dances coming your way.

  All the while I dance, I think about the men watching me, wanting me. I let their attention fill me with confidence.

  When my set is over, I step down from the stage and into the club. I want to work the floor, see if I get some requests for private dances. I’m thirsty, though, so first I head to the bar.

  We’re allowed as many soft drinks as we want for free, but any alcohol we get is bought by the customers only, at a hugely inflated price. We’re taught at every club to ask for cocktails or champagne. The customers mostly drink beer, and that’s not too extortionate, and they don’t tend to look at the prices for the girly drinks. When they offer, we ask for a Sex on The Beach or a Cosmo, and they can’t back out of it without looking mean, and so we make more money for the club.

  Flirting and chatting to the customers in order to get drinks as well as dances is highly encouraged by most places.

  As I reach the bar, I request a lemonade. I glance to my side and freeze.

  Right next to me, looking at me with his scary eyes, is Andrius.

  Oh crap.

  I only saw him briefly when I came for my interview, but I know all about him. One of the girls here that day told me lurid tales about how he’s a hitman and Allyov’s Rottweiler. I swallow hard and force out a smile.

  He doesn’t smile back but gives me a nod before looking to the bar. He’s got whiskey dangling in a heavy tumbler from his left hand and an expensive watch on his wrist. A jacket is slung over the back of his chair, and his broad shoulders are emphasized by a gray vest, matching the rest of his suit. His white shirt is rolled up to reveal big, scarred forearms.

  Jesus. He’s like my dream man come to life. Big. Bad. Scary. Sadly, he also seems totally uninterested. Probably for the best. This one, I most definitely wouldn’t be able to control. No one would. He’d be the wildest ride ever, I’d bet.

  “Who is this beauty?” The man next to Andrius indicates me, and Andrius frowns.

  “I don’t know,” he tells the man. “Are you new?” he asks me.

  I nod and start to say yes, but it comes out as a squeak.

  God, he’s charismatic. It’s as if he commands the very molecules in the air with his presence somehow.

  I’m finding myself genuinely hot and bothered, and it’s not normal for me to be this way.

  “I’m Amber,” I purr as I hold out my hand.

  I expect Andrius to do something old-fashioned, like take my hand and kiss it. He doesn’t. He grips it briefly and shakes like I’m a colleague and not a girl in a cheap imitation of a red-carpet gown and six-inch stripper heels.

  “Andrius, and this is Lucien.” The man next to Andrius grins at me, and I smile back. He’s not hot, not like Andrius, but he is wealthy if his clothes are anything to go by. I’ve already checked both men’s shoes. Shoes are a great indicator of wealth when it comes to men.

  Men who don’t have a lot of money might still splash out on an expensive watch, or the odd costly tie, but most of them will own chain store shoes. Men with real money to throw around, they have their shoes made, or they buy top-end designer footwear.

  Lucien takes my hand and does what I thought Andrius might—bends and kisses the back of it. “Pleasure. You’re very beautiful,” he tells me.

  “You’re French?” I ask, giving him my best smile.

  “Yes, but lived in Russia most of my life. My father is French, Mother Russian. She left my father and took me home when I was a boy.”

  So … he’s possibly Bratva too.

  Voices startle me as a lull in the music plunges the room into disorienting silence for a split moment, before the base of a new song begins.

  I turn to see Allyov himself, the owner and Bratva Pakhan, walking up to us with a man by his side.

  The man next to Allyov immediately grabs my attention in the same way Andrius did.

  Well, not quite the same way, but similar.

  He’s different than Andrius. He’s an inch or two shorter. He’s also bigger built, much more muscular, which is saying something because Andrius is big, but this man is a beast. He’s got dark hair, olive skin, and striking green eyes. His hair is cropped close to his head, but is graying around the temples. He looks to be in his early forties, which makes him twenty-years older than me.

  He’s wearing a Henley style shirt, which shows off his massive arms through the fine fabric, and dark jeans. As he nears us, he rolls up his sleeves and grabs Andrius to give him a hearty, backslapping hug.

  The rolling up of his sleeves shows off massive, tan forearms, his right one covered in tattoos, the left sporting a blingy, expensive watch. Unlike Andrius, who looks smooth as silk until you take a second glance and really see him, this man is rough. His surface is rough, his body is rough, and even his features are rough.

  He has money, but he isn’t polished. He’s big, and burly, and his face is hard. Andrius has a hard face, but damn the man is beautiful. This guy isn’t ugly, he’s striking, but you’d never describe him as beautiful. His nose is slightly off to one side, and I think it may have been broken, and he has a scar zig-zagging through one dark brow.

  I’m in bad-boy heaven, and I need to get out of here because all this
testosterone is doing things to my sanity.

  The men start talking in what I presume is Russian, and I turn to go, but as I do, the big, rough man notices me, and he pauses.

  Without speaking, he reaches out and with two long, thick fingers and touches the sleeve of my dress where it hangs from my shoulder. “This is unusual clothing for a strip joint,” he says in heavily accented English.

  His voice is rough, like him, as if it’s breaking over rocks on the way out of his throat.

  “I like to be different.” I smile at him and take my drink as I step away from the men.

  He moves his fingers from my dress, but wraps his hand around my upper arm. I pause. Men in here aren’t allowed to grab the women this way, but he isn’t grabbing me as such, merely getting me to pause. The moment I do, he lets go.

  “Would you prefer something else to drink?” he asks.

  I decide to fuck with him for being so arrogant with me. “A glass of champagne would be nice,” I say.

  The house champagne is twenty pounds for a glass, a total rip off. He smiles and nods, then turns to the barman, and orders a bottle of Cristal.

  I blink but school my face into a bored expression as he waits for a glass to be poured and then hands it to me. Not that I want to come across as a bitch, but I also don’t want to seem bedazzled by him … because I am. It’s not the stupidly expensive champagne that has me impressed, but the way he handles himself. He’s stood with a senior Bratva Pakhan and a man who, if the stories are correct, is one of the deadliest enforcers ever seen, and he seems totally at ease.