Sold to the Hitman(29)

“Brighton Beach?” I repeat, furrowing my brow. “Isn’t it… isn’t it a little cold?”

“What do you mean?” Andrei says, glancing over at me with a bemused expression.

I fidget with the hem of my dress, biting my lip. I can’t tell if he is joking or not. Everyone back upstate is very straightforward. We don’t joke around. So I’m not particularly skilled at determining when people are being facetious, but I feel that he must be, right now.

“It’s dark out, and cold, and I — I don’t know how to swim!” I ramble all at once, closing my eyes and folding my hands in my lap.

Andrei snorts and I open my eyes to see him giving me a bemused look.

“What’s so funny?” I ask, starting to feel a little miffed.

“We’re not going to the beach — we’re going to a bar.”

“Called Brighton Beach?”

Andrei swipes a hand over his face, clearly amused. “No, the bar is called the Amber Room, and it is located in Brighton Beach.”

Suddenly, I feel like the dumbest, most ignorant human being currently breathing air. I’m thankful for the darkness, because I can feel my cheeks burning bright pink.

“Oh,” I say softly.

For the rest of the drive, we sit mostly quiet except for my occasional comments about the scenery and signs we pass by. Andrei is cordial and kind, but not very responsive, and certainly never forthcoming. He is rather like my father in this one, singular way. Both are quite reticent — men of little words. But when they do speak, they are charismatic. People stop to listen.

I, on the other hand, am a complete chatterbox. I hope that I’m not bothering Andrei with my unending commentary, but I have a tendency to talk too much when I get nervous. And every moment I spend in this revealing dress, in an unfamiliar city, with a handsome but intimidating man, at this late hour… my nerves are totally on edge.

By the time we reach our destination, I feel quite sick to my stomach. There are people walking around outside, lining up to get in the door. The building itself is fairly nondescript, but Andrei insists that this place makes him feel at home, so I want to give it a fair chance. I am eager to find out more about my new husband: what he likes, what he thinks about, what his memories are filled with. Despite our legal union  , we are hardly more than strangers, but I am determined to break down his walls.

Most of the people here tower over me, the women teetering on high heels, the men tall and well-dressed, a lot of them with tattooed arms. I have to fight to keep my expression neutral, to suppress the urge to let my mouth fall open and gawk. This is Andrei’s kind of crowd?

My husband is guiding me to the front of the line, garnering us some bitter scowls from those waiting to get in. I whisper to Andrei, “Don’t we need to go to the back of the line?”

“The owner’s husband is an old business contact of mine,” he replies simply.

I feel like that may not be a sufficient excuse, but I don’t say a word. The burly guy at the door gives Andrei a nod and lets us through without hesitation, causing some guys to angrily shout, “Hey!” from behind us.

“Oh, settle down,” orders the door guy, without even looking up from his phone.

Once inside, we walk down a curving corridor. I am immediately assaulted by the sensation of pounding, pulsating music. The deep, reverberating bass and the fast pace of the music makes me feel instantly out of place. I’ve never listened to anything but classical music and hymns, as my father always insists that “popular music is the root of sin in today’s youth culture” and therefore, all access to radio and television media were very restricted. I’ve also never seen this many people in one place, this close together, moving like this.

Dancing.

I cling helplessly, fearfully to Andrei’s side. I have never been allowed to dance or to watch anyone else dance. It is a direct path to temptation and sin. It’s utterly immoral for people to move together this way! At least, that’s what I’ve been told my whole life.

Perhaps Andrei picks up on my intense fear, because he wraps an arm around me in a surprising gesture of protection and warmth, his fingers gently brushing through my hair.

“Is it too much?” he asks, leaning in close so I can hear his voice through the deafening music. I shrug and shake my head, not wanting to admit my true feelings. He raises an eyebrow at my silence, clearly not convinced, and guides me through the crowd to a counter where lots of people are seated on glossy bar stools. There are shelves upon shelves of multicolored bottles of varying shapes and sizes.

Alcohol. Another vestige of a sinful world. ‘The devil’s drink,’ my father calls it.