Beyond the Sea

He held up three fingers. “No more than three.”

I blew out a breath, eyeing him suspiciously before looking around. “First question, what language have you been speaking?”

“Polish,” he answered simply.

“Oh,” I said, feeling stupid that I hadn’t recognised it. There were a few Polish girls in my classes at school. “What is this place?” I asked next.

“It’s a private club,” Noah said. “You have to be a member to get in.”

I leaned close now. Perhaps a little too close. Our mouths were only inches apart. “Why Aleksy and not …” I trailed off, lowering my voice substantially, “Noah.”

He shrugged. “They trust their own people more.” My expression must’ve shown I wasn’t satisfied with that answer. I folded my arms. Noah sighed. “It also means my employers don’t delve into my background.”

This gave me pause. “What’s in your background?”

His gaze lowered to my cross pendant before returning to my face. “Sin.”

My heart skipped a beat as I drew back. “What kind of sin?”

Noah straightened to his full height. “I said three questions, Estella, and you’ve already asked four.” I was about to argue with him, but a man at the other end of the bar gestured for his attention.

My mind reeled as he went to serve him. Just like always, I had ten more questions for every one he answered. A little while later, the club cleared out and just the few men playing poker remained. Noah was wiping down the bar when the man named Tomasz asked, “Want to play, Aleksy?”

“Sure,” Noah answered, finishing up and motioning for me to follow. He took the last spare seat at the table. Despite my unease, I stood close behind him. Better the devil you know and all that. I tried to be as invisible as possible, but unfortunately, it didn’t work.

“You usually come alone. Who’s your friend?” Tomasz questioned.

Noah flicked me a cursory glance. “Her name is Estella.” He didn’t give any further explanation. Tomasz eyed me up and down, and I didn’t like the lascivious gleam in his eyes. I moved a little closer to Noah, my elbow brushing his shoulder. His gaze met mine, and he must’ve sensed my discomfort because he reached out and took my hand. Before I knew what was happening, he pulled me down. Awareness encapsulated my entire body as my backside met Noah’s lap, and I sat perched on him. Tomasz chuckled, like he was telling himself a private joke.

I sucked in a breath when one of Noah’s hands came to rest just above my knee, the other holding the cards he’d just been dealt.

“These chairs are new,” Noah commented, still in that fake accent that made me swoon despite my best efforts not to. “Where did you get them?”

“One of the girls brought them in. Ask Linda,” Tomasz replied, disinterested.

“They look like Hans Wegner’s,” Noah went on, eyeing the chair of the man sitting next to him.

“Hans who?” the man snorted, giving Noah some side eye.

Noah shot him a look that said he thought he was an uncultured oaf, which was slightly hilarious since Noah hardly gave off “cultured” vibes himself. He gave off “stab you in the gut at the end of a dark alley” vibes. So why do you keep spending time with him? A logical voice in my head asked. I had no answer.

“Hans Wegner was a Danish furniture designer. The chair you’re sitting on is a replica of his 1949 Wishbone design. It’s one of my favourites.”

“I didn’t realise you were so crazy about chairs, Aleksy,” Tomasz said with a wry chuckle.

“I am. 20th Century Designs are a particular interest of mine.”

“Any money in that?” another man asked. This one wore a peaked cap that cast part of his face in shadow. All I could make out were a pair of thin, cruel lips.

“Some,” Noah answered. “If you know what you’re looking at.”

Tomasz sat back, eyeing him somewhat in amusement as he gestured with his hand. “Would you like to bring one of the chairs home with you?” he offered.

Noah held his gaze a long moment, and I grew tense. Then, he smiled and gave a deep chuckle. “Of course not. They’re just chairs.”

“Can we get back to this game?” the man sitting next to Noah said, impatient with all the furniture talk.

The men returned to their card game, talking intermittently in Polish, and I studied Noah. He was such an odd person, one minute telling me about the bully he threatened to assault as a teenager, the next waxing lyrical about his lost faith in religion, then commenting on the design of a piece of classic furniture.

I sort of zoned out, my gaze wandering around the room again. The place reminded me of a pool hall with its low ceilings and dank lamps that barely lit the space. I had no clue who was winning the card game since I’d never learned how to play poker. A little while later Noah placed his cards down, and the men at the table seemed annoyed. He smiled happily and gathered his winnings.