The darkness of a dimly lit moon gave testimony to the mood of a man who had lost all hope at the bottom of a bottle. He couldn’t stop the spiral of self-destruction he had set in motion. Boxing was the only thing he had ever been any good at. It was supposed to be his way out of poverty, but he was throwing it away like every other chance at salvation that had ever come his way.

He’d chosen a local strip club that was known for bringing women to the U.S. illegally, usually from Russia. The strippers were little more than indentured servants, most of whom were on the hunt for an American husband – and a green card. Once they had that all-access pass to the American dream, they would be one step closer to living their life behind a white picket fence.

Cheap Christmas decorations were placed here and there around the perimeter of the dingy dive bar to complement the paltry strings of lights that tended to stay up all year long.

A brunette had taken the stage moments earlier. Her face was soft and innocent, not harsh and pinched like so many of the other strippers. Her mahogany hair had prominent blonde streaks that shown under the lights. Her supple, curvy body slithered up and down the pole, her muscles flexing and stretching sinuously. The music was slow and sexy, not the pounding beat usually favored by the DJ – more like a Pole Dance of the Seven Veils. Once she mounted the pole and began to twirl around, she didn’t touch the ground until the last swathe of sheer fabric had fluttered to the stage.

Bjarke leaned back in his chair and studied her. She made it look effortless as she moved up and down the pole in a complicated sequence of moves. While hanging upside down facing the audience, she held on by her legs as she reached back, arched her back, and released the clasp on her bra. Her breasts, with nipples covered by sparkly pasties, quivered and jiggled in time with the seductive beat that had been selected by the DJ.

She braced her core muscles to support her torso as she spun upside down around the pole, then slowly released her grip on the metal column. She arched back and braced her fingertips on the floor before kicking over and letting her toes make contact with terra firma once more. She slid to the edge of the stage, spreading her legs straight and out to the side, slowly lowering herself into the splits as she treated Bjarke to a brief glimpse of her barely covered pussy.

Helena had no idea that the attention she gave the man with the crewcut on the front row that night would set a series of events into motion that would forever change her life. She was a firm believer that life was the sum of choices made along the way, and she had long ago abandoned all thoughts of redemption. The best she could shoot for in this moment was to earn a decent tip, albeit at the expense of her dignity.

Although the man seated near the stage was a stranger, he seemed somehow familiar. Not physically; his face was unremarkable, his hair closely cropped, his chin weak. But in his eyes, she saw the same disappointment, hunger, and disillusionment that had haunted her all her life. So, when the music ended and she had collected her tips off the stage floor, she didn’t hesitate when he gestured for her to join him at his table.

She nodded her willingness and hurried back to the dressing room just long enough to secure her tips in her locker, then returned to the main floor and headed to his table. That was part of her job, too, to spend time with customers who had ‘financial potential’. She was aware of the leers she got as she crossed the floor in nothing but a sheer, flesh-toned G-string, pasties and six-inch lucite heels. The shoes pinched her toes but she smiled through the pain; it wasn’t like she had much of a choice since she couldn’t afford another pair, not after what her boss took out of her tips. She could have donned the short silk robe she kept in the dressing room, but she knew the tips would be better if she gave the stranger a show.

According to the club owner, Sambor, she owed him nearly every dollar she made because he’d brought her over from Russia. She didn’t complain though. There wasn’t any point, and she didn’t want to draw negative attention to herself. If she did, she might find herself having to ‘pay up’ in less pleasant ways like so many of the other girls Sambor took advantage of after the club closed.

She knew Sambor would eventually try something with her, he was just biding his time as he made his way through the club’s roster of strippers and wait staff. So far, all he had required of her offstage was to do the occasional lap dance for customers who asked for her. She could handle that, at least so far. Private lap dances were conducted in small partitioned rooms located around the perimeter of the main floor. Each room had a floor-length curtain that was always left partially open – more for the titillation of the other customers than the safety of the girls.

She sat down next to the stranger and smiled. She kept her spine straight and her shoulders back, giving him a nice view of her tits, just the way Sambor insisted his girls do when entertaining customers at the tables.

Bjarke leaned over and whispered in her ear, “If I’m going to spend my hard-earned money buyin’ you drinks all night, I’m not havin’ any more of that watered-down shit. You order up some decent drinks for us…or you can get up and walk the fuck away right now.”

Even as she grimaced at the pungent combination of vodka and body odor that assaulted her senses, his Russian accent gave her an unexpected sense of comfort. She missed her homeland but not the poverty she’d endured there. Even suffering under the oppressive hand of her boss was preferable to that.

She nodded blankly, surprised by the request. She signaled her favorite waitress, Lilly, over and ordered another round.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his words slightly slurred.

“Sunshine.”

“Bullshit. I heard the DJ announce you by that stage name. Fuck that. I want your real name.”

“We aren’t supposed to--”

“Give me your real fucking name, girl!”

Taken by surprise once again, she spoke without thinking. “It’s Helena.”

“Helena,” he repeated, his lazy, inebriated tongue getting stuck on the ‘l’ as he took his time looking her up and down. “I am Bjarke.”

When Lilly brought over the same watered-down drinks for Helena too, Bjarke realized he was up against a directive from her boss. He glared at the waitress as he waved off the paltry bowls of peanuts and pretzels that she offered. He looked the waitress over, taking disdainful stock of her spiky, dyed blonde hair and fake tits. He told her to bring him an unopened bottle of vodka, then threw a hundred-dollar bill on the table. Nobody would question a man spending that kind of money.

When the waitress returned, he stood unsteadily with the bottle clenched in one hand and Helena’s hand in the other. He sauntered across the main floor to one of the small, private rooms, thoroughly enjoying the envious looks he was getting. She struggled to keep up. Her nearly bare tits bounced with every step and the stilettos kept her ass high and tight as he practically dragged her along behind him.

“What do you do for a living?” she asked breathlessly when he sat down in the folding chair just beyond the curtain. He shifted in the chair slightly so he was facing the half-closed curtain, to make sure the other patrons saw him getting the royal treatment.

“I’m a professional fighter, a boxer,” he replied absently.

No wonder he was so big. She decided he must be a good fighter. By the casual way he had thrown that hundred-dollar bill down on the table, he must make a good living at it.

Bjarke tossed the bottle cap to the floor, then put the bottle to his lips. As he tilted his head back and took a long draw, his gaze wandered restlessly from her breasts to her G-string. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and patted his thigh impatiently. “Showtime, Helena. So, show me.”