Sex, Lies & Nikolai

by R. J. Lewis

  “Good night,” I then tell Scarlett, kissing her cheek and breathing in her scent. “I love you, Scar.”

  She doesn’t say a word anymore, but she kisses me back and I pull away, watching as she turns to her side, Rumple against her chest. She closes her eyes and doesn’t waste time falling asleep; it’s like she’s thirsty for it. Sometimes I wonder if it’s her favourite part of the day, escaping this bullshit and having dreams of a better life.

  She deserves better than this. Her innocence should not bleed out so early in her life. I wish she was just a normal kid, tantrums and all.

  I return to the kitchen and finish the last few bites of pasta in the bowl. It’s cold and mushy, but it’s so damn good I can’t resist. My whole body shakes as I swallow and lick the bowl, taking up whatever flavour of butter that’s left.

  Thank you, Scarlett.

  I thank her because I know, without a doubt, she purposely left some for me.

  *

  I use the little credit I have left on my phone and try calling Mom up. When I get nothing, I call everyone she knows and hit a dead-end.

  She’s disappeared off the face of the earth.

  I pace for the next hour and try to figure out ways to make money. If I had anything left worth selling I’d have done it already, but the unit is filled with bare minimum necessities as it is. Selling anything is out of the question.

  It’s times like these I wish we’d had a relative who wasn’t as drug dependant as Mother. Someone sweet and loving with enough money to look after Scarlett and do a better job than I am doing.

  I would be a beggar if I could, but the streets are already saturated with them and their fake limbs, card board signs, sob stories and all. I’m not the only person struggling. To everyone else I’m just another number, another soul scraping to survive another day. And I’d happily struggle for the rest of my life if it meant Scarlett would thrive, but she’s in the same shitty boat as me, and I don’t know how to break the mould.

  Life isn’t a fairy tale.

  College was never in my cards.

  Jobs will never come easy to find.

  There is no prince charming itching to rescue me.

  I’m completely alone, destitute and destined to struggle until the end of my days.

  Destined to be sucked into a world of debt because, as much as I’m pushing away the only option that sits in front of me, it’s truly the only one I have.

  Nikolai.

  Fuck my life.

  I throw my jacket back on and leave the apartment. I knock on Roberta’s door and she opens it seconds later, looking tired and withered.

  Roberta is in her mid-sixties, and I’m burdening her constantly by asking her to look after Scarlett. I know she would never say no, but I also know she secretly wants a day to herself without the hassle, only I have no choice. I need Roberta. I don’t trust anybody else. I don’t know what I would do without her.

  I must be pale and as sick looking as I feel because Roberta’s face falls and she asks with concern, “Are you okay, Alina?”

  I nod once. “Yes, I’m just hoping you can look after Scar for me. She’s already in bed, so there’s nothing that needs to be done. I won’t be long either.”

  “It’s late.”

  “I know.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I…I have some things to take care of.”

  She looks at me warily. “What things, Alina? Are you in any trouble?”

  “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.

  Chapter Four.

  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 everyo
ne 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.

  Chapter Five.

  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 differe
nt 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.