Slave to the Rhythm by Jane Harvey-Berrick Read Free Book Online Page B

men’s dress shoes, but instead the soles are suede and they’re super light in weight, even with the central steel-shank support and extra cushioning.
    I chose the best because cheap shoes can cripple a pro dancer.
    My last must-have purchases were a pair of Latin pants and a plain black, long-sleeved shirt with a built in dance-belt. Americans called them mantys—man panties.
    But my gut twisted again at the fascination on Sergei’s face while I bought what I needed. He was staring at the built in dance-belt which looks kind of like a woman’s teddy. It’s only strange when you first start wearing them. We all use them: they hold your dick and balls in place, and give a clean line—no shirt hanging out of your pants when you dance.
    But he was still staring at me.
    And I was worried.
    As we left the dance supplies store, I sensed a shift in his mood.
    The casual mocking, the insinuation, the sexual comments had given way to something darker.
    I’ve seen every kind of petty meanness as a pro dancer. I’ve seen costumes slashed, shoes suddenly gone missing. I’ve seen people deliberately blocked-in or boxed during a competition so they’re squeezed into a corner by other competitors and can’t complete their routine. I’ve seen spite and jealousy and every kind of backstabbing you can imagine. I thought I’d seen it all. But looking into his eyes was like looking into Hell.
    Oleg opened the limousine’s door and Sergei slid onto the plush leather with a gratified sigh. Then he patted the empty seat next to him, and my eyes widened.
    “Come sit,” he ordered. “Daddy wants to play.”
    He spread his legs and grinned up at me.
    Oh shit!
    My feet refused to move, disgust and dread locking me to the spot.
    From behind, Oleg launched a kidney-punch, and fierce pain knifed through my whole body. I gasped, collapsing into the back of the limo, my face inches from Sergei’s crotch.
    “Perfect!”
    He laughed, gripping the back of my head and forcing my face against his zipper. He was hard and I gagged, trying to turn my face away.
    “So ungrateful,” he laughed again.
    There was a soft metallic click, and something cold pressed against the base of my skull. I knew it was a gun—knew it although I couldn’t see it. I froze, my heart pounding painfully.
    “No one can see you through these tinted windows,” he said conversationally. “No one can hear you. And guess what? No one will care. Just another faceless, numberless, insignificant immigrant.”
    He pressed the barrel of the gun so it dug into my flesh as it was dragged down my spine.
    “All those pretty clothes I bought for you. Well, now I want you to thank me nicely,” he said pleasantly. “It’s not much to ask. Is it?”
    The pressure was removed from my neck and I sat up cautiously, muscles bunched, ready to run.
    Sergei smiled slyly.
    “The doors are locked, but feel free to try them. Oh, you’re shaking. Poor boy. I’ll do it for you,” and he rattled the limo’s door handles. “See, locked.”
    He leaned back against the seat, the gun still in his hand, his eyes trained on me. He was enjoying every part of this. He was sick in the head, getting off on the power trip. I thought I was going to die.
    “Unzip my pants.”
    My mouth was dry. I wanted to shout, but all that came out was a feeble croak.
    “Fuck you!”
    “That’s the general idea. Let’s start with me fucking your mouth.”

Ash
    ALL I COULD do was glare at him, show him my disgust and hatred. My heart raced as the urge for fight or flight screamed inside me. Sergei huffed with impatience, then grabbed my hand and pinned it against the door with the gun.
    “If I have to ask you again, I’ll break a finger. I’ll keep breaking them until you do what you’re told. Or maybe I’ll break your feet. You’re a dancer: tell me, Aljaž, how many bones are there in the human foot? I know it’s a lot.”
    I shook my head, breath hammering in my throat.
    “Fuck you!” I said