Sex, Lies & Nikolai (3 page)

“No, nothing like that. It’s just…
she
left again, and she took the last of my money.”

“Oh, lord,” Roberta mutters under her breath, a flash of disapproval in her eyes. “Why did you let her out of your sight?”

“She’d been off the drink for a week, Roberta, and she was fine looking after Scarlett. I had no one else and I had to work. I needed more money because I’m short on bills and there’s nothing left in the house to eat. I was supposed to come back and get groceries, not find her gone with all my money.”

“You can never trust an alcoholic.”

“I know that now. What was I supposed to do? If I can’t pay the bills, I’m screwed. You weren’t home either. I had no choice.
None.
” Tears are threatening to spill as I unload. I’m so stressed. I was barely hanging on as it was, and now I’m lower than I’ve ever been before and left having to explain myself.

“Don’t let go of your dignity, Alina.”

“I’m not going to whore myself.” I don’t say this in a sarcastic or offended way. I’m a hundred percent serious because it’s not unusual around here for girls to linger around corners and wait for cars to slide into.

The thought chills me, but that desperation wouldn’t be far from my reality in a couple days of no food.

Roberta sighs, her eyes dimming slightly, but she nods back. “Alright.” She says it in a defeated way because she knows I have no one else.

“Thank you,” I tell her sincerely.

She throws her robe over her pyjamas and tells me to be careful. Then she disappears into my unit and I take the elevator down to the ground level and hurry outside. It’s cooler than before and dark out, so I shove my hands into my pockets and make sure to look away every time I pass someone on the sidewalk.

I’m different when I’m outside at night. I’m more careful, more guarded. My emotions are hidden with expertise because the creeps on the street can smell fear. And I’m not afraid of them. Really, I’m not.

I’m afraid of starvation.

Of homelessness.

Of not being able to care for Scarlett.

That’s scarier than any man with wanting eyes.

I’m standing across the street and staring at the front of the pawn shop. It’s nine at night and the lights are still on, and there are people inside his shop, an unremarkable looking place with a faded sign and barred windows.

The place looks like it’s in shambles, but it’s a lie. Nikolai is made of money. If his clothes don’t prove it, it’s the brand new Mercedes parked outside of the shop that does. That bloody car doesn’t belong in a place like this, but it’s left untouched despite the carjackers around and it’s obvious why that is.

No one wants to fuck with Nikolai.

I know from Ivan’s retelling of his nephew’s situation that I’m supposed to approach Nikolai in the evenings like this. But I find myself wanting to return in the day when I feel safer. The darkness has an edge to it, like anything dangerous is possible. I scan the streets around me just to make sure nobody is watching me.

I’m hesitant, wondering what it would mean to owe Nikolai money. It would be more pressure, more stress, more worrying over money and how to pay back a debt. I’ve never been in debt before. I’m worried it’s a hole I’ll be digging myself deeper in.

But I have no choice. I have five dollars in my wallet, an empty fridge, and nothing to feed Scarlett come morning. I’ve been robbed of money and options, and simply put, this is the only quick way I can think of to put me back on track.

I walk across the street, my head still dizzy, my steps slow. When I make it to the front of the pawn shop, I take a deep breath and walk in.

There are chairs in the entrance area and they’re almost all taken up by other men. It’s like a waiting room in a doctor’s office, people clock-watching and waiting impatiently for their turn.

There are two men standing and conversing by the counter filled with watches and rings. I gaze at the jewellery, momentarily fascinated by the sparkling of gold and diamonds. Then I sense their stares and look back at them. They’re looking me up and down, but not in any kind of lustful way, just a mixture of curiosity and weariness. Maybe they think I’m a whore or a junkie. I don’t really care either way.

I approach them cautiously, standing tall to hide my unease, and say steadily, “I’m here to see Nikolai.”

The younger one of them with red pimples all over his face smiles at me and gestures to the men seated behind me. “So is everyone else, lapochka.”

Lapochka.
Sweetie pie.
Benji calls me that and I hate it.

I glance over my shoulder at the waiting men, and they’ve taken an interest in me too that I ignore before looking back and asking, “How long do I have to wait?”

“However long it takes,” the second more solid man replies with a thick accent, looking more intently at me.

I leave them and take a seat in the last empty chair available and fiddle with my fingers, trying not to feel out of place while almost every man feasts on me with his eyes.

It’s like being a prey among lions. Fortunately for me, I’m used to the feeling of being unsafe and stared at. So despite wanting nothing more than to get up and leave, desperation has me staying rooted to the chair, waiting for the minutes to pass.

The pawn shop didn’t seem this large from out front. It’s longer than it is wider, and everything on the shelves and in the glass displays are quality items as opposed to the crappy overpriced shit you find in other pawn shops.

There are signs on the walls.

BUY*SELL*LOAN.

GOLD FOR CASH.

There’s a rack of fur jackets in one corner, a heap of sleek televisions and phones in another. The entire place looks nice and taken care of. There’s even a pleasant smell in the air. It’s definitely not what I expected.

With time, the seats begin to empty. With every turn, a man follows the pimply dude to the backroom of the pawn shop and disappears behind a black door. It usually takes ten minutes for every man to come back out, and depending on whether they got what they wanted or not, they’re either happy or upset.

The man sitting next to me keeps bopping his knee impatiently. He’s wearing sweats, and there’s a pungent smell coming from him that’s overpowering the smell of the store. His hands are wrapped around a bundle of cash. He seems relaxed, and I figure it’s because he’s about to pay Nikolai back.

I can’t look away from the cash. Christ, there must be hundreds of dollars there. When was the last time I saw that sight? I don’t think I’ve held more than two hundred dollars at once in my entire life. My whole body itches for that bundle in his grip, and I’m having to suppress this animalistic urge to rip it from his hands and take off running.

Honestly, I feel close to doing it. Sickeningly close.

My mind is taking me down all sorts of avenues I’ve never been down before and it scares me.

Take it.

Take it.

I won’t take it.

I can’t.

As if sensing me, the man catches me looking and his face twists with anger. “What the fuck are you looking at?” he rasps.

My heart jumps in my chest at the gravelly sound of his voice. He’s missing teeth, and the ones that are left are black and rotted. He shoves the cash into his pocket and glares at me. I instantly look away, but I can feel his body shuffling inches closer to where I’m seated, and his face turns completely in my direction, continuing his sudden bizarre act of intimidation.

His lips are moving, but no sound is coming out. I know without hearing him that he’s cursing at me and coming even closer, and I’m beginning to question his sanity when the solid man at the counter hisses, “Josef, you pig, get away from her.”

The man stops moving his lips and settles back into his chair, but he’s still looking at me. His angry eyes burn holes down my body. He spreads his legs wider, brushing his knee against my chair. I can see the tiny bit of action, of him thrusting his hips up and down just barely. I grip my hands together tighter, ignoring his air humping movements. Most men will stare but not touch, but I seem to have attracted the attention of a man that seems likely to be part of the minority.

This is just great. I’m seated next to a perv I was tempted to rob.

I want to leave. I feel grossed out and violated. Like his air humping movements are physically touching me. I keep my face clean of emotion though, especially when I catch the solid man’s eyes on me, studying me deeply with pinched brows. He unnerves me.

Finally, the latest man comes out and Josef is called through. He looks chuffed, forgetting all about me as he disappears from sight.

It’s just the solid man by the counter and me left. He continues to stare at me, and I stare back. We don’t speak, but I’d rather the mind-numbing silence than the company of Josef the nutcase.

He is out sooner than I expected, and there’s an oomph in his step. He pats the man by the counter on the back and exits the pawn shop, but not before looking at me and winking. I can’t resist glaring in return at the gross as shit creep.

“Come on, lapochka,” pimply man says.

I get up on tired legs and follow him, my anxiety that was at bay before now suddenly comes swooping in. I didn’t think this far. I don’t know what I’ll say, or what to expect. I’m going in completely blind.

I’m afraid he’ll say no.

I’m afraid of debt.

I’m afraid of what tomorrow will bring and what desperation will do to me if I don’t find a way out of this mess.

And last of all, I’m afraid of Nikolai.

He will not be a distant man I admire from afar anymore.

The black door opens and I walk in carefully. My eyes immediately look over the giant office. There are leather couches in the middle, a TV mounted in the corner, a large desk against the wall and shelves filled with files and paperwork.

I follow a buzzing sound and voices speaking in Russian to the three seater leather couch. There’s an old man talking and leaning over a shirtless torso, a tattoo gun in hand, its needle piercing into the flesh of a man whose back is turned to me.

It doesn’t take me long to realize Nikolai is the man he is tattooing, and that he hasn’t turned to me yet. He’s talking very little back to the man while his eyes lazily watch the television screen. There’s some B grade movie on. Some guy has just gotten shot and there’s a pack of dogs tearing him apart, intestines flying around like thick noodles.

This is not what I expected.

Pimply man lightly presses me forward, gesturing me to move. I do very reluctantly. The buzzing continues and the tattoo artist laughs at something he’s saying before he takes notice of me. His face instantly drops and he says something to Nikolai that causes him to finally turn his head to me.

I don’t think the man speaking to him has entertained him at all judging by Nikolai’s face, clear of emotion. If he’s surprised to see me, he doesn’t show it, but there’s something edgy in his expression and it makes me feel entirely unwelcome.

Has he always looked this scary? I try to think of this morning, at the smirk he flashed me, at the way he looked me over right before he wrapped the tissue around my finger.

It’s like seeing two different people.

The tattoo gun stops and the artist backs away, already sensing the shift in the air. It’s not one I entirely understand. I’m just another person that’s been waiting in the line-up to ask for a loan, but everyone’s looking uncomfortably at Nikolai.

He’s still looking coolly at me, but he says something in their tongue and they immediately get up and leave. Even Pimply is gone and closing the door behind him. I look around again, feeling more uncertain about being here now that it’s just us in the room. I’m not sure I should be here at all, when I hear his voice break through the silence.

“Three times in one day we see each other,” Nikolai remarks in that spine tingling voice, his eyes running over me. “Must be a special day.”

I want to tell him no, it’s not a special day at all. It’s actually one of the worst, but I’m so utterly lost right now, I don’t know where to begin.

Nikolai wastes no time standing up, his upper body completely visible now. He slides his crisp white dress shirt back on, leaving it unbuttoned. My eyes inevitably find their way back to him, to his inked chest exposed and red in one spot where it’s just been worked on by that tattoo gun. There’s writing half-finished and in a different language, but I’m too distracted by his physique.

I didn’t think he was built under his suit. I figured he had an average body, but no. There are lean muscles and abs, and the tattoos are so unique, I wonder what they all mean.

Christ, he’s good looking. He’s…fucking spectacular to look at in fact.

He knows I’m looking him over, and his mouth quirks up in amusement. “You like what you see, rybka?”

I tear my gaze away from his chest. “I was looking at your tattoos.”

It’s both the truth and a lie. I was looking at his tattoos
and
admiring him. He knows it too.

He stands there for several moments, and instead of moving straight on, he does the same thing I was doing. He looks me over from top to bottom with this brazen look on his face. “I like what I see too,” he informs me on a smirk. “I like it every morning.”

I don’t know if he’s being serious, or laughing at me. It’s my low self-esteem that tells me he’s laughing. I’m terribly underweight, my blonde hair is dry and brittle, and I don’t wear any make up to hide the tired bags under my eyes. In a different world I’d actually be attractive. But I don’t see myself gaining twenty pounds, being able to afford decent hair or skin products. I look utterly tragic.

I
am
tragic.

“How does this work?” I ask, moving this along.

“How does what work?”

“This. Being here.”

“It doesn’t work. You don’t belong here.”

I’m surprised by his words. “Why not?”

He tilts his head to the side, a weary look on his face. “Because this isn’t a place for you, Alina.”

Then he moves to his desk and circles it, grabbing a carton of cigarettes and flipping it open. He pulls one out and I just stand there, watching him, wondering how he even knows my name. It was probably Ivan that told him, but he’s never used it.

Catching my expression, he smirks again and the sexy sight of it makes my chest jittery. “I know everyone around here who owes me money.”

My body turns to him, still rigid from nerves. “I don’t owe you money.”

Not yet anyway.

He circles the cigarette between his fingers while he moves around the desk. He’s coming closer, and I can’t help but inch backwards. I need distance. Nikolai is menacing and I’m not liking the way my body is responding to his gaze.

He stops in front of me and I crane my head up just to look at him. He’s so confident in himself, so precise in his movements, and I envy him for a moment, wishing I had the same boldness as him. I wouldn’t be shaking if I did.

“You’re here for money,” he states. It’s not a question, but he’s still looking at me for a response.

I nod. “Yes.”

“Then I can’t help you.”

I take a second just to process his words. “I’ve been waiting for over an hour and I need –”

“I can’t help you,” he cuts in without letting me finish.

“Aren’t you going to let me explain first?”

“I don’t want you to explain. I don’t want to know your situation. That’s not how this works.”

“How does it work then?”

“It doesn’t matter. I can’t help you.” His words are spoken with finality, and I’m completely perplexed.

“Of course you can,” I tell him quickly. “If you can help those deadbeats waiting beside me, you can definitely help me. They’re probably gone to cash the money you gave them on drugs, and all I want is food for –”

“I don’t want to know your situation,” he repeats firmly, his eyes narrowed at me now in warning. “Do you understand?”

My face falls. No, I don’t understand! I’m so confused and angry. He won’t even let me explain myself. It’s like he just wants me gone from his sights, and it feels like a terrible rejection. All those mornings I thought there was
something
there in his expression when he looked at me. Part of me hoped he had a soft spot, and that asking for this would come easy because he’d
want
to help me. I’ve been wrong this entire time.

I feel embarrassed at myself, but that aside, I’m also enraged and helpless.

“Don’t make me beg,” I whisper, my throat thick. “I need this, Nikolai.”

When he hears his name fall from my lips his face tightens. He keeps spinning his cigarette between his fingers, observing me with both indifference and frustration.

“I don’t lend money to people who already owe me,” he finally replies, his voice solemn.

“You’ve said that already but I don’t owe you money,” I retort, clenching my teeth.

“Tell that to your mother.”

I’m about to ask him what my mother has to do with anything before realization slams into me like a wrecking ball.

Oh, my God.

My shoulders slump and a rip of fury washes over me.

“She owes you money,” I quietly say, dejectedly.

He nods once. “I’m not useful to you, rybka. I can’t give you shit. You are living with a woman who takes from me and hasn’t paid me back. It’s not possible I can give money to someone else under that roof without seeing a penny back. I can’t help you.”

With that he turns his back to me and settles the cigarette in his mouth. He’s dismissing me, and I’ve never felt so inferior and pathetic. I stand there, not wanting to move but not seeing the point in staying either. I glance at the door for several moments and then at the tall man feet from me, back still turned.

He doesn’t realize my desperation, or he doesn’t care. Something tells me it’s the latter. Why should he? I’m just another beggar. A man in his situation looks after himself. Turning people like me away is just a logical business move.

Still. He won’t even hear me out.

Fuck him.

I want to run out of here and tell him I don’t need his money anyway. Then I’d feel proud of myself for reserving the little dignity I have in not begging.

But then I think of Scarlett, and I fight the sting behind my eyes and brace myself again.

“My mother has nothing to do with me,” I tell him calmly, pronouncing my words slowly and clearly. “She’s an alcoholic and a junkie and she just took off on us with all my money. She’s not coming back and I won’t let her if she tries. Whatever money you loan to me, she won’t see a penny of it.”

He doesn’t respond. I think he’s ignoring me.

Anger heats my skin. Being ignored is a recurrent horror in my life. It’s something Mother used to do to me as a child when I begged for attention and food, and I can’t handle it being done to me.

“I’ll pay you back,” I tell him, swallowing the irritation that’s growing thicker inside me. “I don’t care what interest you charge me, either. I’m good for it.”

He still isn’t responding and I’m about to lose it.

Memories flash before my eyes. Of me shaking my mother passed out on the couch.
“Mom, I’m hungry. Mom, please wake up.”
Or rolling up a joint while I sat on the couch next to her and begged her to look at my picture I’d drawn with some old crayons the school had donated to me.
“Mom? Mom? I drew a picture of you. Look.”

I feel a sting behind my eyes and I force it away. I won’t be ignored! Not again.

When Nikolai grabs a lighter off the desk, I feel my whole body jerk forward. He’s about to light his cigarette when I suddenly move in and grab the end from out of his mouth. Angrily, I chuck the cigarette on the desk, causing him to turn to me with hard eyes. He can see my anger and the corner of his mouth drops down in a frown that should scare me, but I’m too enraged to feel it.

“I need this,” I seethe out, staring him dead in the eye. “Do you hear me? I
need
this!”

“I already gave you my answer,” he replies coldly.

Hysteria conquers my anger. “I have no one else to turn to!”

“I’m not a charity.”

“I’m not asking you to be. I’m telling you that I will pay you back –”

“You have nothing to offer me. You make
nothing
. I know Ivan and he’s a greedy durak. He takes advantage of your situation –”

“You don’t know my situation,” I cut in icily. “You won’t even let me explain it!”

“I know if you owed me, I’d also be taking advantage of you. That would bring shame to my business, and I operate on
respect
.” He moves closer to me, his eyes dead on mine as he continues. “You don’t want to be in my pocket. It’s not a nice place, rybka, and you will hate me for it.”

“Just once,” I tell him, and I’m cringing because it sounds like a plea. “I never ask for help. This isn’t habit. I need a break right now.”

“I can’t help you.”

Those four words cut through me. He won’t budge. I know that now. He decided the second he saw me in here that he wasn’t going to give me a cent. I never had a chance.

I tear my eyes away from him before he could see the tears swimming behind them. I’m exhausted from being on my feet all day, hungry because I haven’t eaten a thing except two bites of mushy pasta in over 24 hours, and angry that my mother is a thieving piece of shit; it’s no surprise I can’t keep my emotions at bay right now. I’m crumbling. I have to go before I fall to the floor and cry at his feet.

Weakness is bad, but showing it is worse.

I eye the door once more and it’s daunting knowing I’m going to step out of here with nothing.

Nothing!

All of this was for
nothing
!

I have no food to feed Scarlett.

I have no food to feed Scarlett.

I have no…

I hear him exhale – he probably just wants me gone – and I’m about to turn when he says, “Wait, rykba.”

I look back at him and wait. He stares at me for a long moment, his face cracking just a little bit. Frustration flashes in his eyes, like he’s battling himself over something. Then I watch as he sticks his hand in his pocket, pulling out a black leather wallet. He eyes me again, his eyes searching mine before he looks into his wallet and pulls out a single note. He folds it in half and holds his hand out to me.

I stare at the note. A crisp hundred. My fingers twitch to take it, but I don’t move an inch. My pride is trumping hunger, and I want to beat it to submission because that hundred is better than nothing.