Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 140940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 705(@200wpm)___ 564(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 705(@200wpm)___ 564(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
I lifted the bottle to my lips and took a large gulp.
“Yo.” Maxwell widened his eyes. “Don’t get too fucked up, man, and start embarrassing us.”
I ignored him.
The song’s sound was too intoxicating.
It demanded movement.
I bobbed my head harder.
“The Lion is celebrating.” Tisha chuckled.
Maxwell murmured, “Or he is having a seizure.”
Bobbing my head some more, I spied the club owner by the bar.
He was tall with broad shoulders and dark brown skin. His black hair was slicked back into a ponytail. He took us all in with a neutral expression.
I looked at Tisha. “What did you tell the owner?”
“That tonight the Cathouse belonged to the Lion.” Tisha gave the bottle of vodka to one of his men and lit his cigar. “I find him to be a smart man.”
“Why?”
“He took in our people, their guns and sizes. I even saw him counting.” Tisha took a puff of the cigar and blew out. “I believe when he got to around thirty, he gave up counting, told the bouncer to stand down, and then gestured for us to enter. Even said, ‘Welcome.’”
“He needed to ask the bouncer to stand down? Was the bouncer trying to block us?”
“Not really. To be fair, Valentina pissed off the bouncer.”
I took another gulp of my vodka. The initial rush of euphoria hit as the alcohol warmed my veins.
I smirked at Tisha. “How did Valentina piss him off?”
“He told her to back up, and showed his gun. She eyed the weapon and said, ‘Nice gun. Put it up before I ass-fuck you with it.’” Tisha took another puff of the cigar, blew out smoke, and looked at me. “And with the expression on her face, the bouncer, the owner, and I believed her.”
I thought back to my ex-lover—the ballerina—and then I shrugged. “My sister does like to put things in people’s asses.”
Tisha laughed, and I couldn’t help but join him.
What a good time.
The club unfolded before us like a scene from a dream only whispered about in the dark corners of the world.
I raised my view to the space above us.
Women, ethereal and mesmerizing, hung from the ceiling, their bodies twirling with a grace that defied gravity.
Only in the States.
From the moment I stepped in here, the differences from similar clubs back in Russia were stark and immediate.
In America, the atmosphere was one of unabashed celebration, a carnival of lights, music, and flesh.
Overwhelming, yet enthralling.
These places were designed to dazzlingly cater to every sense with a level of service and spectacle that seemed almost theatrical in its execution.
In Russia, the experience was more subdued.
The luxury was more in the details—the quality of the drinks, the exclusivity of the clientele, and the promise of privacy and discretion.
Clandestine gatherings and dens of mystery, where the allure lay as much in the secrecy and exclusivity as in the entertainment provided.
Meanwhile, American clubs flaunted their offerings.
Dancers performed not just on stages, but moving throughout the crowd, engaging with patrons in a way that was both direct and disarmingly casual. There was a sense of immediacy to the interactions, a commercial frankness to the exchange of money for entertainment that was both refreshing and jarring.
An overt celebration of sexuality.
From the stages to the private rooms, each space amplified the fantasy being sold.
In Russia, the distance maintained between dancer and patron was deliberate, cultivating an atmosphere of longing and unfulfilled desire that was its own form of intoxication.
The boundaries were less clear, the rules unspoken but understood by those who frequented the clubs.
The thrill often in the pursuit as much as in the capture.
And this was funny to me because our culture tended to be the opposite.
In Russia, the concept of personal space was not an option—your space was their space.
Americans preferred more personal space than us. They shook hands or gave a short hug and immediately stepped aside, putting three to four feet between them and the person.
Also, I’d learned long ago that most Americans didn’t enjoy close talkers.
In Russia, we talked right on top of each other if we desired it, leaving barely a foot between us.
Maxwell pointed at one of his men. “Eh!”
The guy looked his way. He’d been escorting a group of women toward the exit.
Maxwell wagged his finger. “Not the ladies, man. Especially the fine ones. What the fuck are you doing? They can clearly stay. It’s the motherfuckers with sausages that have to go.”
The guy nodded and gestured for the women to sit back down.
“Good evening, ladies.” Maxwell held out his hands and winked at them. “Everything is on me tonight. Don’t even think about pulling out your purses.”
They smiled and hurried to their seats.
“Mmmhmm.” Maxwell watched them and licked his lips. “Tonight is going to be a good one.”
A second later, Maxwell called over the waitress.
Blinking, she got to us. “Sir?”
“Get that table right there whatever they want, and make sure that it is on top brand too.”