Page 11 of Scarlet Thorns
The permission should feel liberating. Instead, it feels like being offered a candy bar when you’re starving. A quick fix when what I need is a real meal.
I finish my vodka and set the glass down too hard. “I’m going for a walk.”
“It’s late.” She pinches her lips together, and I fight down a surge of guilt. I’m not cut out for playing the dutiful husband.
“I need air.” I shrug.
Galina nods and gets up carefully, all pregnant grace. “Don’t wake me when you come in. Baby’s been restless tonight.”
She kisses my cheek— dry, polite contact that feels more like duty than affection—and heads upstairs. I listen to her footsteps, the soft closing of our bedroom door, the house settling into quiet.
Standing alone in my expensive living room, surrounded by furniture that projects exactly the right image, I feel more isolated than I did in that Siberian cell five years ago. At least there, I knew what I was fighting. A fucked-up system that I eventually learned to manipulate.
Here, I don’t know what I’m fighting.
All I know is that I’m fighting…something.
I grab my jacket and call a cab. The driver doesn’t ask questions when I give him a Back Bay address, just nods and drives. Boston at night looks different from the back seat— more honest somehow. Less concerned with keeping up appearances. A lot like me.
The Scarlet Fox sits between a boutique and an art gallery, the exterior discreet, classy. I’ve passed this place dozens of times without it standing out, which tells me they know how to keep secrets.
The vibe inside hits me immediately— warm wood, burgundy fabric, jazz at exactly the right volume. The kind of place where people come to disappear instead of to be seen. It’s good. I like it.
The bartender spots me before I reach the bar. Tall, dark hair, confident without being cocky. He gives me a smooth smile as he reaches me.
“Evening, sir. What’s your pleasure?” He leans forward, elbows resting on the polished counter.
“Vodka. Neat.” I haul a barstool over and angle a hip onto it.
Without a word, he pours Beluga— top shelf without asking. Either good instincts or expensive taste. He reaches for a towel and begins buffing wine glasses he takes from the washer nearby.
“Rough night?” he asks as I kill half the glass.
“Business.” More than just business. My brain is bursting with unanswered questions and simmering rage.
“Ah.” He keeps polishing glasses. “The kind that follows you home?”
I study his face for calculation or curiosity. Instead, there’s just professional interest— someone who’s heard plenty of sob stories and learned not to judge.
“Something like that.” I scowl into my vodka.
“I’m Jack. Bartender, occasional therapist, full-time keeper of secrets.”
No pushiness, no probing for more details. In my world, that discretion is worth gold.
“Osip.” I empty my glass in one mouthful.
“Russian?” He watches me.
“Da.” I nod.
Jack refills without being asked. “My grandfather was Russian. Came over after the revolution with nothing but clothes and a chess set carved from whalebone.”
“Chess teaches patience. And how to think three moves ahead.” Although I’ve been known to have an entire game mapped out before I’ve even begun it.
“Speaking of thinking ahead…” Jack leans closer, voice dropping. “We host private events here. Masked nights. Anonymous encounters for people who want to forget who they are for a few hours.”
I set down my glass. “What kind of encounters?”
