Immigrant girl

Chapter 2. Anya.

I lay in the darkness of my small bedroom. The sounds of the bustling city seeped in through the closed window - car horns, people's voices, and the never-ending wail of police sirens. This city was always in a state of chaos. I didn't want to move; I didn't want to think about anything. I just wanted to sleep and wake up when everything in my messed-up life was finally sorted out. My head throbbed from the two Margaritas I'd downed a couple of hours ago. No, I had to get up and take a shower, at the very least make some avocado toast since I hadn't eaten anything since yesterday.

With a sigh of frustration, I dragged myself out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom through the dimly lit corridor. Flipping the switch, I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Not the best look, Anya. Dark circles were etched beneath my large, light-gray eyes framed by thick black lashes. A couple of blondish strands had escaped my messy bun on top of my head. I had chewed on my lower lip, as I always did when nervous. Though I had a tan from living in this city, right now, I looked rather pale to myself. My body wasn't perfect, but it wasn't bad either. I had a decent-sized bust, an ass that continually drew the lustful gazes of men, and even my small tummy looked somewhat attractive. I was 5'7", and I could even call myself beautiful. However, staring at myself now, I saw an exhausted old woman.

I turned on the shower, waiting for the water to warm up. Slowly, I began undressing, tossing my clothes into the laundry hamper as I went. I should mention that I'm a neat freak, and I'm obsessed with maintaining perfect order. Maybe that's because I'm a Taurus by zodiac sign? Although I never really believed in all that astrological stuff.

Exiting the shower, I wrapped a towel around my head and made a beeline for the kitchen. When I opened the refrigerator, I shook my head in dismay. There was no bread or avocado, and not much of anything else either. Instead, I was met with the sight of the remnants of Chinese takeout. Well, that would have to do. I popped the takeout box into the microwave and stared out of the window, lost in my less-than-joyful thoughts, feeling sorry for myself. I yanked the towel off my hair and threw it onto a chair.

"I should probably Google this club Caleb mentioned. What if it's not an elite club but a brothel, and by going there, I'd sign myself up for sexual slavery?"

Sitting down at the bar counter, I reached for my iPad. In the search bar, I typed "Neva Club Beverly Hills." At first, I saw photos of the club. The place was enormous, spanning three floors. The first floor had a dance floor and a stage, and along the entire perimeter were neon-lit bar counters. I was particularly drawn to the mosaic on the bar counter; the pattern was too intricate to make out, but I was convinced it was something extraordinary. The second floor had tables and a square platform with poles for go-go dancers. The third floor was enclosed and draped with heavy curtains; apparently, it was the VIP area, which was where I'd be working. Well, it didn't look anything like a brothel, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

I scrolled past the photos and began clicking on other links. I found the website of the club itself, but it was still under development. As I returned to the search results, my eyes caught the headline of a news article: "Russian Mafia in Beverly Hills." Now, that was a worrisome sign. I immediately clicked on the link and began to read the article with a sense of unease.

"As our editorial team has learned, the building located at the intersection of Brighton Way and Canon Drive in Beverly Hills, which has been closed for a long time, has been acquired by a well-known figure in certain circles, Caleb Mitchell. His name has repeatedly appeared in cases related to the Russian Mafia. Our sources report that this building will soon become an elite nightclub. Could it be that this new nightclub will serve as yet another cover for the dirty dealings of the mob? This remains unknown, but one thing we know for sure is that such a neighbor is unlikely to be welcomed by the residents of Beverly Hills and the local police department."

Well, that's just great! Now it made sense why the guy in the bar nearly had a heart attack upon seeing Caleb. So, he's the right-hand man of the Russian Mafia's boss, right? It's strange that he's an American, not Russian. What should I do now? Come on, Anya, you're already lucky. Working for mobsters is nothing like the American dream.

I didn't hear the microwave finish heating my meager leftovers. I was completely lost in thought.

"So what if mobsters own the club? I'll be working there as a regular waitress. Though Caleb offered me a job in the VIP area, which means important meetings might take place there, and dirty dealings could be happening right under my nose. In other words, I'll still be in an unfavorable position. But I need this job."

I pulled out the black, glossy business card from my wallet and twirled it in my hand. The golden letters glistened in the light of my table lamp. "You still have time to change your mind," I thought, gazing at the shiny piece of cardstock. After thinking for another couple of minutes, I finally made up my mind to call Caleb.

I dialed the phone number and listened to the ringing. No answer. I hoped he wasn't busy burying the poor mustached guy, the bar owner, somewhere near the 405 freeway. There was no voicemail option on his phone. I wondered if mobsters had voicemails. "Hi, this is Caleb. I can't take your call right now because I'm busy cementing the feet of another inconvenient guy in a tub. Please leave your message after the beep, and I'll get back to you once I've washed the blood out of my shirt." I chuckled at the thought but stopped abruptly, realizing how terrible and utterly disgusting it was. I loved dark humor, but it had never been directed towards myself.

Unconsciously, I started pacing the room while holding the phone in my hand. I was winding a strand of hair around my index finger as I pondered whether I should call Caleb again. No, I shouldn't be pushy or show that I desperately needed this job – or more precisely, the salary they would offer. For some reason, I had no doubt they would pay well and on time.

The phone in my hand vibrated. Startled, I jumped into a nearby chair, and it toppled over with a crash. I banged my pinky toe against the chair's leg and let out a colorful stream of curses while hopping on one foot. Then, I flopped down on the floor, clenching my throbbing finger and answering the call.

"Hello?" I said, the tension evident in my voice.

"Anna, hi!" Caleb's voice carried a smile, and I wondered how he knew it was me. "I didn't expect you to call so soon."

"I wanted to say that I'm ready to accept your offer," I said, and my voice trembled more than I'd have liked.

"I'm glad to hear that. We can meet at the club tomorrow, around 4 p.m.?" In the background, there was a buzzing sound, like someone was using a saw nearby.

I hoped they weren't sawing someone's body into pieces right on the beautiful mosaic bar counter. A shiver ran down my spine. I felt like I was getting involved in something very wrong. But if I were already on the road to hell, it was too late to turn back.

"Okay, I'll be at the club at 4 p.m.," I said, trying to steady my voice. "Thank you, Caleb. You've been a great help."

"No problem, sis," he replied. "But it's too early to thank me. First, you'll have to interview with the boss. Alex always personally interviews candidates, especially those who are going to work in the VIP section. But don't worry; I'll be right there with you."

Everything in the background had gone quiet. "Until tomorrow, Anna!"

"See you tomorrow, Caleb," I said, trying not to let my tone devolve into hysterical laughter.

The phone screen went dark. The conversation was over. Tomorrow, I'd be interviewing with the boss of the Russian mafia. God, help me...