Stripper Ilya AU - part two
There’s a restlessness within Shane that he has no outlet for, trapped as he is in the back of the taxi. His knee rises and falls rapidly in an unsteady rhythm that feels entirely outside of his control, the excess energy looking for a way out.
He’s just nervous about his phone potentially having been stolen, he tells himself. That’s all it is. How could he have been so stupid as to just leave it there, on the table?
He could try and blame Comeou’s outburst, forcing him into a hasty retreat from the table, but he knows he was already distracted before then. There’s no telling whether he would’ve had the wherewithal to grab his phone even without the scene Gil insisted on causing.
He remembers the heat of the dancer’s gaze, how his mind felt foggy and limbs heavy with longing. He remembers how everything else faded away; everything apart from that sinful gaze boring into him.
He can feel a flush rise to his cheeks just at the memory and the nervous energy within him feels almost like a fist, clenching around his stomach.
He’s sweating a bit. It feels unnaturally hot in the back of the car, despite the cool November night.
“Could you turn on the AC?” he asks the driver. They may be the first words he’s spoken to him since giving him his desired location.
It’s not as though Shane is unaware of his unfortunate proclivity for the male physique. It’s been a few years since he really started noticing men like that - or, at least, since he noticed himself noticing them.
He was usually better at compartmentalising though; didn’t usually let himself slip like that around his teammates, of all people. But how could he have predicted the Adonis on stage, grinding and gripping and writhing. Looking at him like that. He couldn’t have. Nothing could have prepared him for that. It was regrettable but there was nothing to be done for it at this stage. Well, other than hope that his phone had been turned in to a member of staff, rather than stolen.
He forces his focus back onto the phone; after all, that was the reason for his nerves. Not the sultry gaze of a performer he probably won’t be seeing again. Most likely someone else will have taken to the stage by now. Not that Shane would see him even if he was still on the stage because he isn’t going to look.
He’s just going back for his phone.
God, he hopes it hasn’t been stolen.
He doesn’t think there’s anything too terrible on there that could blow into a huge scandal, even if it’s been picked up by some asshole who recognises whose phone it is and decides to leak everything on there. There are some progress pics, marking his muscle gain during the off season, some complaints about fellow Metros in his messages to his mom that he’d prefer to not become public, potentially some Google searches that could prove difficult to explain but that’s about it.
It could definitely be worse. At least he never gave into the urge to download Grindr.
Despite that, he can feel the anxious energy thrum within him.
His every nerve is alight and crackling with static electricity. His hands feel clammy. His knee hasn’t stopped bouncing for the entire car ride.
Like he told the guys, he’s just going to get his phone and then he’ll leave.
He’ll walk up to the bar and he’ll ask the bartender if anyone turned in a phone to her and then he’ll leave, hopefully with the damn phone, and go to his hotel and fall asleep.
He won’t look at the stage. He won’t scan the venue. He will keep his gaze firmly on the bartender and he will not let it stray. And then he’ll leave. And, whether he has his phone or not, everything will be fine.
There is no reason to overthink this.
It will be five minutes tops.
Tomorrow he will get on a plane and leave Boston behind and this night will become nothing but a funny story; that time Comou took the team to a male strip club. They’ll be able to joke about it in the locker room and it won’t make Shane feel like he’s swallowed a wasp nest.
He doesn’t notice that they’ve pulled up to the club until his cab driver asks him whether he’ll be paying by card or cash.
He tries not to wonder whether the driver has recognised him; whether some gossip rag will be reporting on Shane Hollander’s solo trip to a strip club in Boston by tomorrow morning; how long it would take someone to uncover the fact that, on this particular night, said strip club featured exclusively male performers.
He shouldn’t have given him the actual address of the club. He should’ve found some location around the corner from here.
He hands over his card and desperately hopes the driver isn’t a hockey fan. He’ll make sure to walk a bit further down the street before he calls another cab to take him back to the hotel, hopefully from his recovered phone.
He watches the car drive away and drags his hands over his face and through his hair.
It will be fine. There’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for him being here. The bartender recognised the team and she will remember Shane. She will know he’s just there to pick up his phone and no one else will even notice him enter, that’s how quickly he will be in and out. Even if the story leaks, she’ll be able to attest that he only returned for his phone. Sure, he doesn't love the idea of the news reporting on the whole team going to a strip club but that's a story that will blow over in a couple of days. Shane Hollander attends a male strip show would stick around for longer.
He can feel his heartbeat pick up as he draws closer to the front door.
What does he think is going to happen? That there will be paparazzi camped inside the main entrance, just waiting to ambush him? That the dancer from earlier will give a tell-all interview and say what? That they'd shared a look?
He halts just outside of the door and shakes off the nervous energy, the way he sometimes did when he was a kid, flapping his hands to get the energy out before letting the shake travel up his arm and loosen his shoulder. He rolls his shoulders back a few times, rolls his neck from side to side and breathes deeply, almost like when he’s psyching himself up for a game.
Shane startles, his hand flying to his chest.
The voice is deep and masculine, coloured by some accent Shane can’t immediately place but sounds vaguely Eastern European.
There is a figure, standing to the right of the club’s entrance, a glowing cigarette in his mouth. The shade, caused by the overhang carrying the neon sign that proudly proclaims the club’s name, had cast him in shadow, causing Shane to entirely miss his presence until he spoke.
Shane’s hand is still placed over his rapidly beating heart, as the person draws nearer. Broad shoulders and tall frame, his hair an unruly mess of curls, and an amused smirk on his face as he takes in Shane’s shock. The man is immediately familiar to him.
“I’m sorry,” he continues, left hand neatly bringing the cigarette from his mouth. Shane sees smoke exit his nostrils as he seemingly stifles a laugh, no doubt at Shane’s expense.
There’s no mistaking that it is the dancer from earlier although his face seems transformed by levity, his sharp cheekbones somehow softened by the curve of his lips, his eyes sparkling in the dark rather than smouldering under stage lights.
Shane draws a deep breath and huffs lightly. “No, you’re not,” he says, shooting the performer a slightly awkward smile as he straightens up and brings his hands down by his sides, as though he hadn’t just been clutching at his chest in an attempt to keep his heart from breaking free of it.
The stunning man before him oozes a confidence that borders on arrogance, and the grin on his face - his clear amusement at how on edge Shane is - should be infuriating. Somehow, all it makes Shane feel is a fluttering in his stomach.
“No,” he admits, “I’m not.”
Shane scoffs lightly and hopes it comes off as annoyed, rather than amused.
Still, just to be polite, he sticks out his hand.
The man before him simply looks at it for a moment. It feels almost as though there is deliberate intent behind his every move; as though the arched eyebrow serves only to draw Shane’s eye to the man’s hooded gaze, as though the way the cigarette is brought to his lips with a loose grip is intended to have Shane’s eyes fall to his lips.
Pink, even in the limited light. Plump and soft looking. There’s a deep cupid’s bow in the middle of them that looks too perfect to be anything but deliberate; as if it was lovingly sculpted by an artist pouring everything into their work.
Shane snaps himself out of it when he realises he’s staring, drawing a deep breath, his hand still extended between them. “I’m Shane,” he prompts. “Shane Hollander.”
He watches as the goddamn renaissance painting before him withdraws his cigarette with his left hand before offering his right for Shane to shake.
“I know,” is all he says in reply.
Shane’s breath stutters slightly at the confirmation that the man recognised him. It should bother him more than it does.
“And your name is…” he says, prodding the man for an introduction of his own.
He seems a bit hesitant to answer. He takes another pull of the cigarette, his eyes scanning Shane’s figure, causing his ears to feel hot. It’s almost as though he is deliberating whether Shane can be trusted with this information.
“Ilya Rozanov,” he finally replies. “Here I go by Rozy.”
Shane nods and swallows hard. It takes him too long to realise that he’s still holding Ilya’s hand and once he does, he snatches it back as though he’s been burned.
“Okay,” Shane stutters, “well, nice to meet you,” he’s fumbling for his words a bit. Which is when it hits him. Ilya has no idea why he’s here. He just saw him seemingly psych himself up to enter a strip club, sans his team. For all he knows, Shane ditched the guys only to return here by himself. For all he knows, Shane is here because he liked what he saw and wanted to see more. He can feel a humiliating flush rise to his cheeks, “Um” he stutters, “I’m just here to get my phone. I forgot it earlier.”
The amusement is back in Ilya’s features as he nods at Shane, the way his eyebrows raise and the prolonged slow bobbing of his head suggesting that he’s less than convinced by Shane’s sputtering statement. “Ah,” he says, in acknowledgement of Shane’s excuse for his presence here. He then takes a final drag of his cigarette before dropping it to the ground and crushing it under the toe of his shoe.
He’s wearing grey sweatpants and a winter jacket. Shane’s eyes linger perhaps slightly too long on the sweatpants, his mind unhelpfully supplying him with the memory of Ilya wearing nothing but a pair of shiny briefs. When his gaze finally rises, meeting Rozy’s once more, it’s clear that his attention has not gone unnoticed.
“So,” Shane halts, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck, “I should probably head in there and see if anyone turned it in.” He needs to get out of here; away from this man’s fog-inducing gaze and dangerous smile.
“Sveta has your phone,” Ilya immediately informs him.
“Svetlana,” he clarifies, as though Shane should know who that is. At Shane’s blank gaze, he further elucidates his meaning, “the bartender.”
“Oh.” Shane’s fidgeting a little. It’s good to know that his phone was, at least, found. That it hasn’t been stolen. All that remains is to collect it from the bar. “Well, great.”
He raises a hand in a half-wave, turning slightly to walk away, “I’ll just-”
Ilya stops him. Perhaps sensing his reluctance.
“I can get it for you,” he offers.
Instinctively, Shane has to shut him down. Some ingrained sense of not being a bother rearing its head. “That’s okay.”
“Is more busy now than it was,” Ilya informs him. “If you’d prefer to not go in,” he shrugs, “I can get it.”
Shane considers it. The risk of being recognised is not as high when he’s by himself, as opposed to with the team, and, sure, Boston is a big hockey city but it’s not at the level of Montreal, where he can hardly go anywhere without someone feeling the need to stop him for a picture or an autograph. Still, he’d really prefer not to risk it and if it’s busier than it was before…
“Oh,” he says, “um, okay, if you don’t mind.”
Ilya shrugs, “is no trouble.”
The smile on the man’s face seems a private thing, as though layers of meaning are hidden behind it. Shane doesn’t quite trust himself to read it correctly but it’s a nice smile, slightly crooked, the left side of the lip lifting higher than the right. His eyes are warm but hooded, they trail over Shane’s figure and Shane can feel the hairs on his body stand to attention. He’d like to blame it on the cold but the truth is that, so far, the cool night air hasn’t registered as anything but a nice balm against the heat of his skin.
“You wait here,” Ilya tells him before turning and entering the club. It’s not as though the guidance is necessary. It’s not like Shane would leave without his phone. After all, that’s what he’s here for. That’s all he’s here for, he reminds himself. It’s easier to remember when out from under Ilya's intoxicating attention.
He leans up against the wall, hoping the same shadows that kept him from noticing Ilya will disguise his identity from any patrons leaving or entering the club. It’s not like there’s a steady stream of people but there are a few new arrivals as Shane waits for Ilya to return. Each time he averts his gaze, looks away from the front door and onto the pavement. Hoping not to get noticed.
It’s a while before Ilya returns. It’s a brisk night. Shane hadn’t really noticed quite how cold it was before but, standing here by himself, it’s starting to seep into his bones. He didn’t exactly dress to spend the night outside.
When he finally comes back, Ilya walks right up to Shane, the phone in his outstretched hand. “This is yours, right?” he asks.
Shane presses the button on the side of the screen to light it up and is greeted with the familiar lockscreen photo of the Stanley Cup. “Yeah,” he confirms, “thank you.”
“Not very subtle,” he teases, nodding his head at the photograph filling the screen, and, no, Shane supposes it isn’t. He hadn’t exactly had the possibility of his phone being stolen in mind when he selected it as his lockscreen.
“I guess not,” he concedes, slipping the phone into his pocket before pushing away from the wall. There’s something about Ilya’s presence that makes him want to stay. That only makes it more important to leave. “Well,” he begins, “thank you agai-” but Ilya cuts him off.
“Are you sure that is all you want?” he asks. Shane pulls up short, stopping in his tracks.
Ilya’s eyes are firmly locked on Shane, his lips slightly parted. His posture seems deceptively relaxed, like a predator luring their prey into a false sense of security, but the eyes give him away. They track Shane’s movements as he fidgets slightly, shifting his weight. He can feel his breathing pick up in response to his elevated heart rate.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
If he had thought the look he shared with Ilya when he was on the stage was intense, it is nothing compared to this.
This is reckless. This is dangerous. Standing here, where anyone could see him, slowly being undressed by the searing gaze of the man before him.
“The VIP room is free,” Ilya tells him and Shane’s breath stutters.
Ilya draws a deep breath and takes a step closer to Shane. Instinctively, Shane takes a step back, right into the wall of the club. Ilya doesn’t halt his movements until they’re so close that a deep breath would cause their chests to brush. Luckily, Shane’s breathing is entirely too shallow for that to be a pressing concern.
“We have three VIP rooms,” Ilya tells him, his voice low. He’s so close that Shane can smell his breath, it smells strongly of mint and, underneath that, not quite masked by the spearmint, is a hint of cigarette smoke. It should be more unpleasant than it is. “The big room is booked for bachelorette,” he continues, “the other two are free.”
Ilya raises his eyebrows at Shane, as though he is being purposefully dense.
He slowly brings his hand up to stroke down Shane’s shoulder, his touch so light that it almost tickles, sending a shiver up Shane’s spine. “People can book these rooms for private dances,” he explains and, sure, Shane could have guessed that but hearing the words in that suggestive accented drawl causes a rush of desire to flood his system.
“15 minutes is $300,” Ilya keeps up the motion of his hand as he speaks, halting at Shane’s elbow before running it back up to his shoulder. “Gets you four songs.” Shane feels a little bit lightheaded. He should leave. He has his phone back. There is no reason for him to stay. Still, he remains rooted to the spot, lips parted and breathing shallow.
“Half an hour costs $500,” Ilya continues, “you get some songs, some just talking, spending time together.” Ilya’s hand has made its way to Shane’s chest and he is mortified by the idea that Ilya may be able to feel just how hard his heart is beating. Shane knows he could push him away. Even though this guys has a couple of inches on him and is clearly built from what Shane remembers of his bare chest and arms, Shane’s a professional hockey player. He could easily take him. Still, he doesn’t move.
“For $800 you get an hour. We can chat, you can look without pretending not to, you can touch,” As he speaks, Ilya runs his hand up Shane’s chest, over his peck and up to his neck, where he presses down on Shane’s shoulder, digging his fingers slightly into Shane’s tense muscles in a way that has him biting back a moan. “$200 more and you get bottle service.”
“I don’t really drink during the season,” Shane replies, as though that’s his main concern with Ilya’s proposition. His voice comes out thin and breathy. He feels barely present.
He draws a deep breath, his lungs filling with the scent of cigarettes and mint and, underneath it, something less definable; something warm and amber, almost oaky, the scent of Ilya himself. They’re standing so close now that there would be no way to play this off as a casual conversation if someone were to exit the bar at this exact moment. Shane can only hope they’re at least partially cloaked by shadow.
“I do,” Ilya says, shrugging.
“Oh,” Shane says, nodding mindlessly, “would you like me to order bottle service?” he asks. His mind feels like it’s been dipped in treacle, his every word is dredged from somewhere deep within him, seemingly with little input from Shane himself.
Ilya’s eyes sparkle with warmth, “it could be nice,” he tells him in a whisper and when did his lips get this close to Shane’s ear?
“Okay,” Shane breathes back.
Ilya pulls back a little, his eyes scanning Shane’s face, as though the reply surprises him somewhat. Like he expected Shane to put up more of a fight. “Okay?” he asks.
Shane nods, “okay.” It’s a sublimely stupid idea but the small smile that pulls at Ilya’s lips feels like a shared secret and Shane is unable to resist its allure. Still, with the additional breathing room afforded to him by the way Ilya has leaned back slightly, his brain seems to come back online just long enough to raise a single concern; “wait, you said it was busy now.”
Ilya tilts his head a little towards the corner of the building, away from the main entrance they’re stood beside, seemingly unconcerned. “I can take you in side door,” he says, “leads straight to VIP room,” and despite the fact that it is an inarguably terrible idea, Shane finds himself agreeing.
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