Page 67 of The Money Shot

“Absolutely,” Moira nodded eagerly.

I buried my face in my hands, wishing the table would just swallow me whole. At this point, I was beyond humiliation. I’d transcended it, like some kind of Zen monk who’d found peace in his own suffering.

“Liam, sweetie, are you crying?” Nessa asked, leaning closer.

“No,” I mumbled. “I’m fine. Just… embracing the experience.”

“Well, good!” she beamed. “Because you’re gonna look so hot when this is all done. Jack won’t know what hit him.”

Chapter Thirty-Three

Dimitri

The 1 train rattled into Christopher Street, and I stepped off, still in my work uniform. The creases in my trousers were perfect, as always, my shoes polished to a military shine. No one else noticed such things anymore, especially young people.

I walked toward The Stonewall Inn, my hands tucked into my pockets to fend off the evening chill. A group of students cluttered the sidewalk, their faces lit up like ghosts from the glow of their phones.

Fools. Trusting fools. Didn’t they know the government watched everything? Every message, every swipe, every tap—it all left a trail. And for what? To find “love” on an app? As if love were something you could order, like pizza. I grunted under my breath. They wouldn’t have lasted a week in the world I grew up in.

The bar’s neon lights buzzed faintly as I pushed open the door. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of spilled liquor and old wood, a smell that settles into a place after decades of stories. My seat was waiting for me at the far end of the bar, just out of the way enough to avoid unnecessary conversation.

The bartender, a wiry man named Vince, nodded in my direction as I sat down. He didn’t need to ask; he knew my order by heart. A shot of Polugar vodka and a tap beer appeared in front of me a moment later.

“Thanks,” I muttered, barely looking up. Vince gave a quick nod and moved down the bar to tend to a pair of laughing twenty-something’s who were already several cocktails deep. Most people avoided me, and that suited me fine.

I cradled the vodka in my hand, staring into the glass like it might hold some kind of answer. It didn’t. It never did. I knocked it back in one swift motion, the familiar burn spreading down my throat, and followed it with a sip of beer. The noise of the bar faded into a comfortable hum.

“Dimi, darling!”

The voice was unmistakable—Nova Starr. I didn’t even need to look up to confirm it, but I did anyway. There she was, tall and radiant, wrapped in a gold sequined dress that caught the dim light like a disco ball. Her makeup was flawless, her lashes long enough to create a breeze when she blinked. Nova was loud and unapologetic, and she’d decided I was her personal project.

Before I could protest, she leaned down and kissed my cheek, probably leaving a faint smudge of lipstick behind. I wiped it off with the back of my hand, frowning.

“Do you mind?” I said, though my voice lacked its usual bite.

“Oh, honey, if I minded, I wouldn’t bother,” she grinned, sliding onto the stool next to mine. She had a knack for taking over any space she occupied, like she belonged there more than anyone else.

“Shouldn’t you be out there... I don’t know, being fabulous?” I asked, gesturing vaguely at the dance floor.

“And miss my favorite grump? Never.” Nova’s smile softened as she studied me. She wasn’t like the others who avoided me out of fear or indifference. Nova looked at me like she sawsomething worth understanding, and that made me profoundly uncomfortable.

“You’ll get nothing out of me,” I said, taking another sip of beer.

She rested her chin on her hand, watching me. “Oh, Dimi. You’ve got walls higher than Trump Tower, but I’m a climber. You know that.”

I shook my head, muttering under my breath in Russian, but Nova just laughed. She leaned in closer, her perfume light but insistent, like spring flowers fighting through winter frost. She swirled the straw in her drink, watching me with a patience I didn’t deserve. I avoided her gaze, focusing on the condensation running down my beer glass.

“Why do you come here, Dimi?” she asked softly.

“To drink,” I replied, as if the answer were obvious.

“Oh, please,” she said, rolling her eyes with exaggerated flair. “You could drink anywhere. This place means something to you, I can tell. Spill it.”

I clenched my jaw, irritated by how easily she chipped away at my defenses. But there was no malice in her eyes, only a quiet determination. Against my better judgment, I sighed.

“You wouldn’t understand,” I muttered.

“Try me,” she said, leaning on the bar like we had all the time in the world.

---