Let’s go. What’s your name?
I took a sip of my mocha, the warm liquid coating my throat, helping me slip into my character. “Menya zovut Ksenya.”
Ksenya, derived from the Greek word xenia, which meant stranger. My eyes perked when I found it on a list of Russian names. I was a stranger now, a stranger to Joaquín, to Grant, to myself. Grant had been right. Mia couldn’t help Joaquín. Mia couldn’t break the SEAL code. Mia couldn’t get anyone to talk.
But none of those SEALs stood a chance of resisting Ksenya.
Chapter Seven
Ksenya
AS I REINVENTED MY LIFE, Joaquín rotted in a jail cell for five months. Per his request, I made no further contact. Just one final call to his lawyer, telling him that I’d been accepted into a theater program in England and that I’d check in when I could.
I missed Joaquín so much, every day, but I couldn’t focus on that pain. Today was game day.
I pulled my car into the parking lot at Panthers. Was I really going to do this? The thought of taking my clothes off for a bunch of leering men made my throat burn.
Roma had helped me secure a new driver’s license, social security number, and birth certificate. He’d even found me a place to live—a tiny room in an elderly Russian lady’s apartment in El Cajon. The place reeked of pierogies and tea, but it didn’t matter. I was pretty sure Roma had Mafia ties, but we’d both adopted an unspoken rule about not asking about each other’s activities.
One final glance in the dashboard mirror and I was ready to go. My hair was now bleached and blended with platinum blond extensions, my hazel eyes were masked with brown contacts, accented with heavy dark eye shadow and false eyelashes, and my lips were painted pale pink and frosted. And thanks to the combination of my depression and my physical training, my skinny frame now looked like it could grace the cover of a Victoria’s Secret catalog.
And I hated to admit it, but I loved the way I looked. Conceit. Vanity. Pride. My lack of humility saddened me. Though I would’ve never gone under the knife in any other circumstance, this dilemma forced me to fix every one of my physical insecurities. As a woman, it was almost empowering, no longer having to worry about my thin lips or crooked nose. I did realize through the recovery that my previously low self-image didn’t matter, that my soul and dedication was what was important. I just wish I could’ve understood this new truth without having to change myself.
I’d transformed myself from cute girl next door to, according to Emma the stripper, Grant’s ultimate fantasy. It was still hard for me to believe her; I would have to see it with my own eyes. But if Grant dreamt about blonde bombshells, I would become the woman of his nightmares. I was unstoppable. I was in control.
I pushed by some guys in the parking lot, made my way to the entrance, and spoke to the bouncer. “I have meeting together with Jim,” I said in my affected Russian accent. Roma kept telling me no one would be able to distinguish me from any other Russian speaker. I’d studied not only the language but also the grammar mistakes the recent immigrants often made when they spoke in English.
The bouncer eye-fucked me. “Ka-sen-e-ya? Jim is expecting you. In his office.”
I nodded and made my way toward the back of the club, watching the girls on stage out of the corner of my eye. Smoke filled the place from the adjoining private hookah lounge. The sweet, musky smell made my eyes water. Better get used to it.
Jim greeted me at the door. Bald, fat, hairy, pretty much what I expected the owner of a strip club to look like. “Welcome, Ksenya. Wow. You’re a little minx, aren’t you?”
Gross. I’d made a strict pact with myself—I’d go rogue, but under no circumstances would I sleep with a man who disgusted me. “Good to meet together with you.” I hated using improper English, but it was a necessity now.
“Come into my office and relax. Tell me about yourself. Where are you from?”
His office consisted of a squalid cum-stained couch, a desk with papers piled all over it, and walls of framed pictures of him mugging with celebrities who had come to this joint.
I perched on the edge of the sofa. “I’m from Kharkov, in Ukraine. I was ballroom dancer. I come here with my baba, my grandmother, who was engineer. But she is dead and so I must work. I do not disappoint you. I hear you are the best, and me, I always want to be the best.”
He motioned me to stand up and twirl around, and I obliged, wiggling my hips.
“Let’s see what you’ve got. We have striking girls come in here every day, but I need to know you’re the real deal. You can give me a dance in the VIP lounge.”
He led me to the room, which was painted electric purple. The pole in the middle glowed from the bright lights.
“Undress.”
I slowly took off my sweat suit, fighting the urge to flee. Now stripped down to my matching pink bra and panties, my cheeks burned, and I hid my blush behind my hair. I’d always been modest; the only man to ever see me naked was Grant. The music started, almost as if it sensed my presence. The hypnotic rhythm of the R&B song seemingly overtook my body. Centered, calming, crafted. Seducing this dirty old man with my moves would be easy—tricking Grant would be the true test.
My eyes focused on Jim, but I didn’t see him. I wasn’t dancing for Jim. I wasn’t even dancing to save my brother. I was dancing for Grant—I saw Grant’s face, his lips, his eyes trace my movements. Slow and seductive rather than fast and frenzied. How many times had he sat in this room, watching a broken girl dance for him? What had these women given him that I hadn’t been able to? Did he open up to them? Truly let them in instead of how he always tried to be tough and resilient for me?
As I made love to the pole, my heart pounded, my stomach fluttered. This was where I was meant to be. After seeing Grant again and having him shut me out, literally and figuratively, I realized I wasn’t done with him. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I missed him, despite the fact that he had been an asshole to me. I’d hurt him, but behind his vicious words to me, I wondered if he still loved me no matter how much he tried to fight it.
A loud clap sprang me from my haze. “Bravo. Ksenya, you are enchanting. Can you start tonight? We have a huge party booked. VIPs, extravagant spenders. They love seeing a new gem. Are you game?”
I wasn’t sure if this transformation would work, that I could even get close enough to any of the Team guys, but I had to try. My plan was to strip here until I saw Joaquín’s Teammates. I’d focus on the first one who paid me any attention, entertain them at a similar party, and try to figure out what happened to Tiffany.
“Da. Thank you, Jim. I won’t let you down.”
I put my clothes back on, and Jim gave me a bunch of forms to fill out. Surprisingly, he actually ended up being quite nice and went out of his way to make me feel comfortable.
VIPs. It was Thursday night. I’d done my research—driven by the houses of my brother’s Teammates, seen their cars in the driveway, the “Welcome Home Daddy” banners in the windows. They must’ve just returned from a training exercise or a deployment. Which meant they were due to make their appearance here any day.
When Grant walked through these doors, I’d be on that stage. And I would be able to dance for my man. In the shadows.
Chapter Eight
Ksenya
UNFORTUNATELY, JIM’S BIG SPENDERS THAT first night didn’t include Grant. Or the night after that. Or the next. Days turned into weeks. It seemed as if I’d been stuck in this hellhole forever, and there was still no sign of my former lover, or any of his Teammates. I’d gone from star of the SFSU drama department with a promising future, living my dreams, moonlighting with the best thespians at American Conservatory Theater, to a lowly stripper with limited hope, stuck in a nightmare, dancing—if you could call it that—for lonely men.
I hated it—the baby talk, the lap dances, the inappropriate touches, the lewd remarks, the constant propositions. I kept telling myself—You can do this, Mia. You’re preparing for the role of a lifetim
e.
The other strippers were nice at least. I was surprised that they weren’t as messed up as I’d assumed they’d be. Emma was long gone though. From what I could glean, this place had a high turnover rate.
It was Taco Tuesday—carne asada, salsa bar, Coronas, churros. I’d decided to have a little bit of fun with the crowd and dressed up in a sexy border patrol costume, enjoying the irony since I was an undercover Latina. I was dancing to a Latin pop song when the doors flew open. The loud laughter of deep male voices perked my ears.
Then I saw him—my man was standing right in front of the stage.
Jolts of electricity coursed through my veins. The sweat on my back moistened my costume; the heat from the dazzling lights burned my skin. Could I really pull this off? Would Grant take one look at me and call my bluff? My mouth became dry and my heart palpitated.
We were in the same room, breathing the same smoky air. Dreaming of his face every night for months made him seem like my own mirage. But this time he was very real.
“Blurred Lines” started playing. Well, at least the song was appropriate. I glided to the pole, my partner in this urgent dance, a dance that could help me enter into this new world I so desperately sought to infiltrate.
My hips swayed, I licked my lips. Climbing to the top of the pole, I spread my legs, determined to get Grant to notice me. I had to remind myself to stay the course, not blow my dance or run over to him.
I made eye contact and he winked. I knew that wink, that look of desire. The first time he’d winked at me, sitting across from me at a coffee shop, I’d completely melted. Back then the giddiness of first love consumed me. Now, I had to hold back tears, since I was pretty positive that he had no idea I was Mia. Just some sexy stripper he hoped to see naked.
I pranced up and down the catwalk, narrowing my gaze on him. Dancing for him, willing him to connect with me. His eyes turned hungry as he followed my every movement. Soon I could barely see him through the bright lights and smoke. My hair whipped in the air, my body seduced the pole. The song ended, the smoke waned, the lights dimmed. And Grant was relaxed in a chair, motioning me to come toward him.
The plan. Stick to the plan, Mia. Watch which girls go over to his group. Don’t approach him immediately, take your time. You have dreamt of this moment, planned, prepared—now it’s showtime.
I gave him a coy smile, blew a kiss, and walked off the stage. I headed to the bar to get a better vantage point and some liquid courage. A quick shot of vodka calmed my nerves. Grant’s skin looked darker, perhaps he’d just returned from the Middle East. His massive biceps bulged out of his black T-shirt, looking bigger than when I’d last seen them. His hair was longer, his beard fuller. And he was looking right at me.
I waved and he moistened his lips. If I avoided him, he might suspect something. I was just another dancer, and if a customer was staring at me, it was my job to flirt back.
Shoulders back, tits up. I reapplied my red lipstick, locking my gaze on his. I’d turned myself into his dream girl, his personal fantasy pinup. But I was real—well, mostly. And he was still the only man who had ever sent ripples of pleasure pulsating throughout my body.
A casual flaunt of my blond locks, a batting of my false eyelashes, and I made my way over to him. “Hi, handsome. My name, it is Ksenya. How are you doing tonight?” My accent was crisp, I rolled my r’s, my tongue touching the top of my mouth.
“Much better now that I saw you, sexy. I’m Grant. Where you from?” He pulled me onto his lap. I ran my fingers through his hair. He smelled the same as I remembered—pine, lemon, and vodka, as if he had just chopped down a Christmas tree and drunk a spiked lemonade to refresh. Did I smell the same to him? Could he recognize my scent despite me switching to new brands of lotion and shampoo?
“Kharkov, Ukraine.” I figured my recent-immigrant ruse would explain my terse conversation. Reduce the chances for him to find me out.
His eyes zeroed in on my chest. I arched my back to give him a better view. My mind flashed to him sucking on my nipples, cradling my small breasts. He’d always seemed so pleased with me, with my body—did he really want a girl with fake tits and silicone lips?
“I’ve been around the world twice, but never to Ukraine. Maybe you could show me around some time.” His words were slurred.
I’ve been around the world twice? Really—he was actually quoting the Navy SEAL “Ballad of the Frogman”? His bloodshot eyes told me he’d been wasted before he ever set foot in here.
I focused my energy on controlling my facial movements, ensuring that my eyes didn’t shift or my nose didn’t twitch as I spewed out my lines. “I’d love to show to you whatever it is you like to see, handsome.” Had he gone to strip clubs behind my back when we were together? My heart wrenched, thinking of those nights I’d spent practicing lines from a script for class in his apartment, waiting for him to come home from boys’ night, supposedly at bars and steakhouses. He’d always sworn to me he was the designated driver, that the older Team guys had forced him to join them, since he was merely a SEAL pup.
By now, every Team guy was talking to a girl. My gaze scanned to the other present members of Joaquín’s Team—Paul and Mitch. Had one of them murdered Tiffany and framed my brother?
I turned back to Grant. Rules for keeping a SEAL’s interest: #1 always make him the center of attention, #2 never let him see you checking out his Teammates, no matter how insanely gorgeous. “Can I dance for you?” Talking too long would arouse suspicion. He thought I was a stripper. I needed to earn my tips.
“Sure, sexy. Follow me.”
Follow me? Even now, even in here, he was taking charge. I usually led my customers—emasculated husbands, inebriated frat boys, insecure businessmen, even conceited rock stars—back to the VIP room. But no, Grant was in control. He was a regular. He knew the drill.
He grabbed my hand, and instead of recoiling at his touch and being disgusted about his ease in this place, I couldn’t fight my arousal toward him. What the hell was wrong with me for still wanting him? Especially in here, when I looked like a porn star. When would this pain end? The combination of disgust, sadness, and guilt crashed through my mind. Had my abandonment driven him to seek comfort with these women? Or had he been seeing them all along?
But I didn’t have a moment to reflect. I needed to give the performance of a lifetime.
Chapter Nine
Grant
I LED KSENYA—HOWEVER THE fuck you pronounced it—to the back room. After months on a mission, I couldn’t wait to see her peel off her clothes. Alone with me, without a group of guys also getting off on her.
She was so fucking hot. Physically, she was exactly my childhood fantasy pinup, as if she had been designed for me. Long platinum-blond hair. Full, round breasts which busted out of her black negligée. Plump, pouty lips. Definitely not the girl-next-door type, like my ex Mia, the only woman I’d ever loved.
But I could tell something was off with this chick. I was a regular here, and she didn’t seem the type to take her clothes off for money. She was too stunning, almost too sexy. Why was she stripping?
Strippers were the best; I didn’t care what anyone else thought. They were fucking hot, listened to your problems, loved sex, didn’t nag you, didn’t expect anything in return. Sure, they danced practically naked for money, but men paid for women no matter how you looked at it. Whether it was nice dinners, designer clothes, expensive jewelry—nothing was for free. At least with strippers, you got what you paid for. I hadn’t been this callous, cynical man when dating Mia. This was who I was now.
Fuck it, I didn’t care. I wanted to see her naked. That was the problem with these titty bars—rules, cameras, bouncers.
I sat on the blue velvet sofa. “Dance for me, baby.”
Her mouth turned up into a smile, and her long hair brushed against my face. That sweet, citrusy scent of her skin—smelled like Mia, even though she had always masked it with coconut products. I pictured Mia naked, rubbing lotion all o
ver her thighs, an image I could recall to my head anytime, anywhere, day or night—a useful skill when I was stuck in a dirt hole in Afghanistan. I wondered if Ksenya tasted like Mia, too?
Fuck. I couldn’t think of Mia now. I had a sexy woman in front of me and refused to think about my ex. All those nights when I was alone in the hospital, missing her, hoping she would come back to me. She had made it clear she didn’t want me. I had moved on.
A slow melodic beat started playing, not the upbeat dance crap the strippers usually chose. I recognized the song, a power ballad by a hair metal band. Interesting choice. Why had she picked that song? Doubtful she was even born when it came out. Whatever—Eastern European chicks were live wires.
I relaxed, took a swig of my beer. Ksenya’s chocolate-brown eyes locked onto mine. Though the color was different, something about the shape of her eyes reminded me of Mia. Dammit, what was wrong with me?
Without prompting, Ksenya turned around, her fingernails, filed short and painted red, dug into my jeans, her tits rubbed my chest. A coy glance, a warm touch. She was totally into me. Not in the normal stripper bilking her client way, or off in her own mind dancing and thinking about her problems. This chick seemed one hundred percent present and focused on me. I loved it.
I needed her to come home with me. “Baby, how long’ve you worked here?”
She turned away from me. My only way to connect with her was through my voice—I wasn’t allowed to touch her, which was so hard since her juicy ass was only inches from my tongue.
She shot me a glance over her shoulders. “Few months. It is job.”
Her broken English was charming. The only foreign girls I had met were overseas. Some of the Team guys liked going to brothels, but I refused to pay for sex, especially after what happened to my buddy Pat. He’d hired a hooker in an Aruban brothel, and she turned out to be a sex-trafficked American. I couldn’t help thinking that all those women overseas in those places were forced into the sex industry, victimized, abused. I refused to be a part of their nightmares.
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