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social security number, and birth certificate. He’d even found me a place to live—a tiny room in an elderly Russian lady’s home in El Cajon. The place reeked of pierogies and tea, but it didn’t matter. I was pretty sure Roma had Mafia ties, but we’d both adopted an unspoken rule about not asking about each other’s activities.
    One final glance in the dashboard mirror and I was ready to go. My hair was now bleached and blended with platinum blonde extensions, my hazel eyes were masked with brown contacts, accented with heavy dark eye shadow and false eyelashes, and my lips were painted pale pink and frosted. And thanks to the combination of my depression and my physical training, my skinny frame now looked like it could grace the cover of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue.
    And I hated to admit it, but I loved the way I looked. Conceit. Vanity. Pride. My lack of humility saddened me. Though I would’ve never gone under the knife in any other circumstance, this dilemma forced me to fix every one of my physical insecurities. As a woman, it was almost empowering, no longer having to worry about my thin lips or crooked nose. I did realize through the recovery that my previously low self-image didn’t matter, that my soul and dedication was what was important. I just wish I could’ve understood this new truth without having to change myself.
    I’d transformed myself from cute girl next door to, according to Emma the stripper, Grant’s ultimate fantasy. It was still hard for me to believe her; I would have to see it with my own eyes. But if Grant dreamed about blonde bombshells, I would become the woman of his nightmares. I was unstoppable. I was in control.
    I pushed by some guys in the parking lot, made my way to the entrance, and spoke to the bouncer. “I have meeting together with Jim,” I said in my affected Russian accent. Roma kept telling me no one would be able to distinguish me from any other Russian speaker. I’d studied not only the language, but also the grammar mistakes the recent immigrants often made when they spoke in English.
    The bouncer eye-fucked me. “Ka-sen-e-ya? Jim is expecting you. In his office.”
    I nodded and made my way toward the back of the club, watching the girls onstage out of the corner of my eye. Smoke filled the place from the adjoining private hookah lounge. The sweet, musky smell made my eyes water. Better get used to it.
    Jim greeted me at the door. Bald, fat, hairy, pretty much what I expected the owner of a strip club to look like. “Welcome, Ksenya. Wow. You’re a little minx, aren’t you?”
    Gross. I’d made a strict pact with myself—I’d go rogue, but under no circumstances would I sleep with a man who disgusted me. “Good to meet together with you.” I hated using improper English, but it was a necessity now.
    “Come into my office and relax. Tell me about yourself. Where are you from?”
    His office consisted of a squalid cum-stained couch, a desk with papers piled all over it, and walls of framed pictures of him mugging with celebrities who had come to this joint.
    I perched on the edge of the sofa. “I’m from Kharkov, in Ukraine. I was ballroom dancer. I come here with my baba, my grandmother, who was engineer. But she is dead and so I must work. I do not disappoint you. I hear you are the best, and me, I always want to be the best.”
    He motioned me to stand up and twirl around, and I obliged, wiggling my hips.
    “Let’s see what you’ve got. We have striking girls come in here every day, but I need to know you’re the real deal. You can give me a dance in the VIP lounge.”
    He led me to the room, which was painted electric purple. The pole in the middle glowed from shiny lights.
    “Undress.”
    I slowly took off my sweat suit, fighting the urge to flee. Now stripped down to my matching pink bra and panties, my cheeks burned and I hid my blush behind my hair. I’d always been modest; the only man to ever see me naked was Grant. The music