Slave to the Rhythm (The Rhythm #1), Page 6

  I tried to take in my surroundings and ignore the pain.

  It was gloomy, just a few service lights that filled the space with shadows. Expensive cars were parked in numbered bays: Porsches, Ferraris, an Aston Martin and two Jaguar coupés.

  I was scared, really fucking scared. I was lucky to be alive. If I kept asking about the girl, I wouldn’t live for much longer. Maybe I should do what Trixie said and forget about her if I wanted to survive. Could I do that? I wasn’t sure. The girl, if she was alive, what would happen to her? Where would they take her? I had to tell someone. But I didn’t know who I could trust.

  Anger and frustration burned inside me and it wouldn’t take much for the simmering rage to explode.

  And then you’ll die. I was a fucking coward.

  “Looks like you got some cool clothes,” said Trixie, peering into one of the bags.

  I stared at her in disbelief as blood continued to trickle down the side of my face.

  Twenty minutes ago, I thought I was going to die, now Trixie was smiling and joking in front of me. She didn’t want to see the blood or my broken fingers; she didn’t want to know that I’d witnessed an assault, possibly a murder, maybe two. I couldn’t make sense of it and I shook my head in confusion.

  Nothing felt safe anymore.

  She took me to the theater’s first aid station. I could hear rehearsals on the stage, feel the vibrations of the music.

  It spun my mind that this existed side by side with the violence of the last few hours, operated by the same people.

  Dance, performing, this was my life. But now the whole thing was tainted.

  Trixie frowned, staring at my hand which had swollen to twice its normal size. The fingers that Sergei had broken were turning purple and looked like a couple of Kranjska sausages.

  “We’ll get some ice for that.

  Trixie led me to a stool and told me to sit while she opened a large fridge, pulling out two packs of ice.

  I rested my hand between the icepacks while she washed the cut on my head.

  “You’ll have a scar,” she said. “But it’s above your hairline. It should probably have stitches . . .”

  Her words tailed off.

  “But I’m not going to get them,” I finished for her.

  “You’re learning.”

  We stared at each other for several long seconds before Trixie looked away.

  After some of the swelling had begun to reduce, she eased the ice packs away, and without telling me what she was going to do, grabbed my broken fingers and yanked them back into a straight line.

  The pain was off the chart and black dots floated in front of my eyes. I didn’t know if I was going to puke or pass out.

  In the end, I didn’t do either, swaying on the stool while Trixie expertly splinted my broken fingers, then wrapped them in a thick bandage.

  I guessed it wasn’t the first time she’d had to do that.

  “Leave the splints on for a week. Then you’ll need to do some exercises so they don’t get too stiff. Just like new in five, six weeks.”

  I nodded, but inside the molten lava of anger was beginning to glow red. Somehow, I’d find a way to take these evil bastards down. Somehow.

  “You’d better get to rehearsals.”

  I didn’t move. I just sat there staring at her.

  She shrugged and walked out.

  I sat for a few more minutes, staring at my bandaged hand, then I walked from the wings onto the stage. Elaine opened her mouth, an angry look on her face. But then she took in the blood on my shirt and bandaged hand. I thought I saw a flicker of emotion behind her eyes, but it was gone so quickly, I couldn’t be sure.

  “Be ready in ten minutes,” she said.

  Two broken fingers, a bitching headache and a gash in my head that needed stitches, aching ribs from where I’d been punched, and . . . I didn’t want to think about the rest.

  Elaine definitely didn’t look happy to see me. Maybe she was worried that Sergei would be around more now. My gut twisted at the thought, remembering what Trixie had said.

  When the other dancers saw me, a shocked murmur rippled around the room. Elaine snapped at them, and they all went back to work, throwing me quick, questioning glances.

  Yveta looked like she was going to say something but bit her lip and thought better of it. Gary’s expression tightened as he eyed the blood on my face and swollen hand, but he didn’t say anything either. It was a disease of silence. And I was just as infected as everyone else.

  I woke up choking, feeling Oleg’s hands around my throat. I lashed out with my feet and someone shrieked.

  “Ow! You asshole!”

  Panting, my hands shaking, I turned on the small bedside light and found Gary crouched at the end of my bed holding a bloody nose.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Gary moaned, then shuffled to the bathroom, dripping blood on the cheap carpet.

  I yanked back the covers and stalked after him.

  “What did you do to me?”

  “What did I do to you? I’m the one bleeding to death!”

  Gary’s voice was muffled as held a wet washcloth to his face and a nose that was twice its normal size.

  “You were screaming and yelling and wouldn’t wake up. I tried to shake you awake and you almost broke my fucking nose!”

  Oh shit.

  I ran my good hand through sweat-soaked hair. I must have been dreaming. I’d thought that Oleg had come back for me, had tried to kill me, just like . . .

  I didn’t want to finish the thought, but the memory of the air being cut off, my throat being crushed—it was wriggling like an eel in the back of my brain.

  And her eyes . . . the girl’s eyes: I couldn’t stop seeing them, begging me to help her, to save her.

  “I’m sorry,” I said lamely. “It was a nightmare.”

  “You’re the nightmare!”

  I couldn’t blame him. It must be shitty when your roommate starts shouting, and you try to wake him up and get punched in the face.

  Silently, I grabbed a towel and started scrubbing at the blood stains on the thin carpet. Gary sat on the end of his bed holding the wet washcloth to his nose.

  I glanced up to catch him staring but he just shrugged.

  “What can I say? You’re a crazy asshole, but you’re still hot.”

  Looked like I was forgiven. I was working out that Gary’s bark was worse than his bite.

  I gestured at his nose.

  “Is it broken?”

  “No,” he sighed. “Thank God. My plastic surgeon would throw a fit.” Then he glanced at me. “What was the nightmare about?”

  “Oleg.”

  Gary shuddered. “Ugh, that monster. Don’t say anymore.”

  “I think he killed . . .”

  “I DON’T WANT TO KNOW!” Gary hissed at me.

  His words made me grimace.

  “Nobody wants to know. This place is sick. The fear is like . . . it’s a cancer inside everyone. How can you stand it?”

  “It’s never been this bad before,” Gary admitted flatly. “I’m scared. We all are after what happened to you today. So you know what I’m going to do? Nothing. I don’t see anything, I don’t hear anything, and I don’t say anything.”

  “But . . .”

  Gary dropped his voice to a whisper.

  “People around here disappear. My last roommate, Erik, he was like you—thought he could change the world. One day he was just gone. Officially, he went back to his family in Poland. Unofficially, no one knows.”

  He shuddered.

  “The rumor is that Sergei wants to be top dog, and with Oleg helping him, it could well happen. There’s a power struggle going on. And you, my friend, have walked right into the middle of it.”

  Gary dropped the washcloth onto the floor and climbed back into bed.

  “This conversation is done. And if you start screaming again, I’ll toss a glass of water over you—it’s safer.”

  Gary threw the d
uvet over his shoulders and turned on his side, huffing noisily.

  I’d just been chewed out by an angry dude in Hello Kitty pajamas.

  My brain was wired after everything that had happened, but my body was suffering.

  I lay in the narrow bed and forced myself to relax. I’d wait, find out how this place worked, and then . . .

  “Hey, Gary!”

  “What do you want now?” came a very pissed off voice.

  “Can I borrow your phone? I need to send an email.”

  Gary grumbled some more, but eventually tossed me his phone.

  “I’m just going to say this one more time—be careful who you involve in this. These people are dangerous.”

  I sat with the cell phone in my lap, and tapped out an email to Luka, giving him the basics of what I’d seen and heard. I wasn’t expecting to hear right back, because I knew he was on tour, but within minutes, he’d replied, his message short and unambiguous: Go to the police.

  I glanced over at Gary who was snoring loudly, his swollen nose amplifying the sound.

  I can’t.

  After a few more moments, the reply arrived.

  I have €1,000. It’s yours brother—just say the word. I’ll buy your flight home right now.

  I wanted to tell him to get me a ticket, but without ID, I had no chance. I turned off the phone and lay back.

  But every time I shut my eyes, I saw the girl’s face. I wanted to claw that memory out of my brain, and after another hour of her haunting me, I was ready to tear out my own eyes. But eventually, sleep pulled me under into dreams that were dark and ugly, slicing at the surface of my mind, icy breaths chilling my skin.

  My life hadn’t been all sunshine before, but I hadn’t been afraid of it. Everyone dies. Everyone. But today, I’d thought it was my turn. That was messing with my head. I barely knew who I was anymore. All I wanted was to feel something other than numbing fear.

  Two months ago, my biggest worry was Jana breaking up our partnership. Now, a crazed mafia killer had his sights set on either fucking me or killing me.

  The next morning, we carried on as if nothing had happened. Gary’s nose was a little swollen, but he didn’t mention it.

  At breakfast, no one spoke to me and no one wanted to sit near me. Even Gary was unusually quiet.

  Then Trixie appeared, and the muted conversation died away.

  “Mr. Volkov wants to see you,” she said, snapping her fingers.

  No one would look at me, although I saw Gary darting a worried glance before his eyes lowered quickly.

  I didn’t even know how I felt. I didn’t know if I expected to live.

  This time, Trixie led me to Volkov’s office where he sat like at king on his throne.

  “Such a shame about that little misunderstanding with Sergei,” he said, inclining his head to my damaged hand. “He just can’t help himself when he sees a handsome face, although I can’t say you do much for me . . . no offense.”

  “None taken,” I ground out after slightly too long a pause that made Volkov’s forehead wrinkle in a frown.

  “Hmm, so there’s an end to it, no?”

  If I was going to say anything, now was the time, but my tongue felt paralyzed.

  “Sergei says you owe him money?”

  Volkov’s voice was even, pleasant, the odor of violence hidden behind expensive cologne.

  “I . . . my clothes were damaged.”

  “Maybe you’d like to repay him personally?” Volkov asked.

  I knew what he was suggesting, and for a moment I thought that I was going to puke, so I said nothing.

  “Or perhaps I’ll pay him what you owe, and you can pay me. It’s possible to get good tips working in my nightclub.”

  I frowned, confused.

  “Tips . . . for dancing?”

  Volkov smiled. “Go have a few drinks in the bar after the show. Let the ladies from the audience buy them for you. Entertain them, make them happy, you know?”

  He paused, his yellow eyes cutting into me.

  “You don’t want to be in Sergei’s debt any longer than you have to be. Or mine. But it’s your choice.”

  Now I understood.

  I was in Hell.

  Thirty-six days later . . .

  Laney

  “IT’S RIDICULOUS! YOU’RE not in a fit state to go anywhere!”

  Collin was furious, the tendons standing out on his thick neck, a vein throbbing in his forehead as he stood puffing like an angry bull.

  “For God’s sake, Laney! Just phone them and cancel. It’s only Vegas—it’s not like it’s anything important.”

  I stared at him, fury making my lips tremble. I hated looking weak when I was so damn angry.

  “No, it’s not important! I know that! It’s just my life. Ordinary life.”

  Collin jeered. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

  “I’m not. I’m really not, but what difference would it make if I stay here? I’ll be the same wherever I go. I may as well enjoy myself. And I’ve been planning this with Vanessa and Jo for eight months. I want to go.”

  “It’s ridiculous,” Collin said again, aggravated that I wouldn’t agree with him. “I can’t just take off and go to Vegas with you. I have work. I have responsibilities. It’s selfish of you to take risks with your health.”

  My mouth dropped open. “Selfish? You think I’m being selfish?”

  I was hurt he could think that. Didn’t he know me at all?

  “Yes, I think you’re being selfish. I can’t look after you if you go there and . . .”

  “I’m not asking you to look after me and I don’t need you to look after me.”

  “Of course you do!” he snapped.

  We glared at each other across the kitchen table.

  That damn wheelchair. It too often defined me.

  I took a deep breath. Keeping calm would reassure him, or at least strengthen my argument.

  I hated talking about my health. It was all so boring.

  “I’m not a child. I can manage perfectly well.”

  Collin dismissed my words with a wave of his hand.

  “How? How will you manage getting your wheelchair to the airport? How will you manage your luggage? Have you thought about any of this?”

  I stared at him, insulted that he thought so little of me, assuming I couldn’t organize anything without him. Collin shook his head.

  “I’m just thinking of you,” he said in a milder tone.

  “Stop trying to control me and let me get on with my life,” I said quietly.

  Collin’s knuckles turned white, gripping the coffee cup as if it was a life-preserver.

  “Is that what you think? That I’m trying to control you?”

  I sighed. “Sometimes, yes. I know you don’t mean to be like that . . . but I’m going to Vegas.”

  “Fine,” he snapped, slamming the cup onto the table so that coffee slopped over his hand. “You don’t want me ‘controlling’ you?”

  He made air quotes with his fingers.

  “You know what? No problem. I’m done, Laney. I’m so done. All I’ve ever tried to do is help you and I get shot down every time.”

  He stood up, his bulky frame towering over me.

  “I’m done trying to look after you.”

  Then he scooped up his jacket and stormed out of the room.

  I heard the door to my apartment slam and the silence washed over me.

  “I don’t want you to look after me,” I said to the empty room.

  Lame Laney—that’s what they called me at school. I wanted a boyfriend, not a babysitter.

  Collin was right in one way. There’s nothing simple about traveling with a wheelchair. I had to be organized, planning ahead for every eventuality. How many other people pack a puncture repair kit when they travel? Other than cyclists, obviously.

  I had to pay for my general practitioner to issue a ‘fit to travel’ letter because I was having to change my travel plans. I had to hire a cab that could acco
mmodate my chair, one with a ramp or a pneumatic lift. I needed to organize assistance at the airport—and then hope that it was in the right place at the right time. I could have asked my friends or family to help me, but that wasn’t the point. I was 29 years old, an independent woman. I didn’t want to be reliant on others if I could avoid.

  But it helped to choose an airline that would be sympathetic—laws and legislation were often inadequate, no matter what anyone tells you. Goodwill means as much, if not more.

  I had to notify the airline service team about the nature of my disability and the kind of wheelchair I used. Hand-propelled ones were simpler than electric chairs, where batteries caused the carrier a headache. Each part of the wheelchair had to be marked with my name in case anything went missing, although I hoped to take the cushion onto the plane with me. And at least I could request a gate check whereby my wheelchair could be directly loaded to the plane’s fuselage.

  I spent two hours changing my travel arrangements, wincing at the cost even though I had insurance. And I’d learned by experience not to rely on emails; talking to a human being usually produced better results, although not always.

  “Ma’am, are you able to walk a short distance?”

  The airline’s employee was polite, going through her checklist of questions.

  “Not today,” I sighed.

  “That’s fine, ma’am. We’ll pre-board you. If you could be at the airport three hours before your flight.”

  I hoped that the airline would upgrade me. Sometimes they did. But if they didn’t, I’d requested a window seat. It might seem easier to have an aisle seat . . . right up to the moment the person by the window needs to get up to visit the bathroom and has to climb over you.

  I’d also learned that a window seat gives you something extra to brace against during the landing.

  Next, I contacted the hotel to check if a disabled room was available.

  “On the lowest floor possible, please.”

  Elevators are shut down in the event of a fire.

  And because I was careful, prepared, I asked the hotel about the width of the doors on their disabled rooms, including the bathroom. There was no point checking in and finding your chair didn’t fit through the door.

  So far, so good. But although they had a roll-in shower, they weren’t sure if a shower wheelchair was available. I politely requested that they enquire, then packed several garbage bags in my suitcase. If necessary, I could wrap my seat cushion and chair back in plastic and make do. It wasn’t ideal: garbage bags are slippery to sit on. You might even call it an accident waiting to happen.