Page 68 of The Money Shot
I hesitated, the vodka loosening my tongue just enough for the words to slip out. “There was a club back in Leningrad,” I began. “We called it The Sanctuary.”
Her eyes lit up, her body language shifting to full attention. “Sanctuary,” she repeated, like it was some kind of magic word.
“It wasn’t like here,” I said, gesturing around the room. “No bright lights, no music loud enough to drown out your thoughts. It was... quiet. Secret. Dangerous.”
She didn’t interrupt, just nodded for me to go on.
“It never stayed in the same place for long,” I continued. “A basement one month, an abandoned warehouse the next. We had lookouts stationed on every corner, and if the militia came, they’d give us just enough warning to scatter. If you were caught...” I trailed off, the memory of cold iron handcuffs and dark interrogation rooms tightening around my chest.
“But you went anyway,” Nova breathed.
“Of course I did,” I frowned. “It was the only place we could be ourselves. Even if only for a few hours.”
She rested a hand on my arm, her long nails cool against my skin. “You’re a brave man, Dimi.”
I snorted, shaking my head. “Brave? No. Foolish, maybe. Reckless.”
“Handsome,” she added, her tone so matter-of-fact it caught me off guard.
I laughed, a short, dry sound. “Now you’re lying.”
“No, I’m not,” she said, tilting her head. “You’re a Russian Bear. Rugged, mysterious. If I wasn’t so into men who sparkle, I’d be all over you.”
I rolled my eyes as Vince slid another shot of Polugar in front of me. I muttered my thanks and downed it in one go, letting the warmth spread through me.
Nova tapped her nails on the bar, studying me. “Tell me about him,” she said after a moment.
“Who?” I asked, though I already knew.
“Petyr,” she said, her voice soft but insistent. “Your one true love.”
I stared into the empty vodka glass, the image of him coming to me as vividly as if he’d just walked into the room. “Why do you want to hear about him again?” I asked.
“Because I think your story is beautiful.”
I shook my head, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. “It’s not a cheerful tale.”
“I know. The best ones never are,” she sighed.
For a long moment, I said nothing, the hum of the bar fading into the background. Finally, I exhaled, the words slipping out like a confession.
“Petyr had a smile like sunshine, even in the middle of a Soviet winter. He made the world feel less heavy.”
Nova rested her chin on her hand, her gaze steady. “Go on,” she said.
I did. The story poured out of me, piece by piece, until the room felt lighter and darker all at once.
Petyr worked in the same factory as me, stitching endless rows of green blankets that were shipped to every corner of the Soviet Union. The place smelled of machine oil and damp wool, and the noise of the looms was constant, a dull roar that felt like it was grinding you down, day by day.
He was married, of course. All smart men were back then. Her name was Vera—a petite woman with soft features and sharp eyes. She wasn’t just pretty; she was clever. I’m sure she knew about us, though she never said a word. She would bring him lunch sometimes, always smiling, always polite, but there was a tension in the way she looked at me. Like she was sizing me up, wondering if I was worth the risk.
Nova leaned closer, her eyes wide and eager. “What was he like?” she whispered, as if she were afraid to break the spell.
I didn’t answer at first, but then, as if summoned by her question, his image filled my mind. My lips twitched into a smile before I could stop them.
“Handsome,” I said finally. “So handsome it was almost ridiculous. Tall, strong. His laugh...you could hear it over the looms. Everyone loved him.” I paused, then added quietly, “But I loved him most of all.”
Her expression softened, and she reached out to touch my arm, but I pulled away, pretending to adjust my sleeve.