Amour Amour (14 page)

Nikolai rubs his jaw. “The bar that closes at five?”

“Yeah.” Luka scoops his little sister, cradling her body with ease. “You can’t tell him no. He’s eighteen.”

“Just let me handle it,” he says. “Keep your phone on. Don’t steal anything. And thank you for calling me about him.”

Luka nods, mutters a few things in Russian, and breaks from the pack, aiming for the elevators. This shift in the group alerts Timo, and it takes him about one-point-two seconds to finally zone in on us.

He points his gold staff at me with a dazzling wide grin and says, “Thora James.” Then he bows. I can’t smile this time, partially because I feel Nikolai boiling beside me.

It’s like when I’m in the air, about to land a double layout, and I know I’ve overcorrected. I know that I’m going to stumble when I hit the mat.

It’s just like that.

I see the bad thing before it happens. It’s rare that I fixate on the incoming storm, but I’m starting to, I realize.

Timo notices Nikolai beside me, and his sparkling grin slowly fades.

Nikolai steps forward, and the entire group silences. More out of respect than fear, I believe. The power he possesses, over a bunch of rowdy, drunken guys, takes me aback. “You didn’t check on Katya like I asked,” he says lowly.

Timo leans his bodyweight on the staff. “I called her. Chill out, Nikolai. Or better yet, go to bed.” He laughs, expecting everyone to join in with him. No one does. The rest of the guys mutter quietly and shake their heads. Everyone is on the God of Russia’s side. No one cheers against him.

Except maybe Timo.

Nikolai speaks again, his voice harsh and words coarse. Someone wins a jackpot, the casino floor blaring the electric slide song. Nikolai never trips up, and Timo’s knuckles whiten on his staff. They shout back and forth—for what feels like five minutes, until we’re ushered outside by hotel management.

On the other side of the glass doors, no cool breeze lessens the sticky heat beneath my coat. I linger, unsure of where my place is again. Then Timo pushes his mask up to his forehead, their argument switching to English for the first time.

“I’m not twelve anymore!” Timo screams, pain leeching his voice. His face reddens with the words. “I want to
live
my life, and you can either follow me or
leave me alone
.” He hails a cab, shutting his brother out.

Nikolai breathes deeply, like he’s run a full marathon. He rubs his lips and then turns his head, searching almost. I’m surprised when his gray irises land on me, about ten feet away. He gestures to me with two fingers like
come here.

I approach, wobbling in my heels. His eyes flit to them once.

For some reason, I decide to speak first, “Do you need…a hug?” I internally cringe at how lame that probably seemed.

The corner of his lip tics upward, barely. “No, but I have to make one more pit stop. I’m not leaving him with my cousins.”

I swallow my uncertainty. “I can wait here if you want.”

“I don’t want that,” he tells me. “I’d rather you join me. Don’t ask me why.” He shakes his head a couple times. “Because I still don’t have an answer.”

Part of me questions whether he sees me as a sibling. Like another Timo and Katya and Luka to fret over. It worries me. Because in no way do I want to saddle this guy with more stress. That’s not my intention by staying in Vegas. If that’s the case, I can step out of his world.

“Your eyes are black,” he notes, his lips downturned. “If you want to stay—”

“Do you think of me as a sister?” I suddenly ask. “Is that why I’m here? I mean, here, as in crashing at your place. And…” I look around at the outside of The Masquerade, taxi cabs dropping off drunken girls and more casino high-rises lit-up and twinkling in the distance. It’s one of those moments that I just wonder—how did I end up
right here
in my life? In Vegas. With a fourth generation artist. It’s one of those surreal moments that I don’t want to take back, even if it’s confusing and muddled and gray.

I feel his fingers beneath my chin. He tilts my head, so that I irrefutably meet his powerful gaze. I see the answer in them. Before he even says it.

“No, Thora.” His hand slides to the back of my neck, each fingertip hot. His grasp protective. He steps nearer, his legs knocking against mine, tension winding my muscles. His other hand cups my jaw, most of me in his possession. Right now.

It’s definitely not a familial gesture. It’s not even a friendly one. Shay would
never
touch me like this. He would never let his body do the talking like Nikolai. He’d tell me straight up: “I think you’re cute, but not like
that,
Thora. Come on, we’re friends.”

Nikolai’s thumb skims my cheek, like I’m worthy of more affection. His gaze dances again. Along my lips.
He’s going to kiss me.
I read his movements, as he always reads mine. And I keep concluding,
he’s going to kiss me.
He draws me even closer to his body.

He lowers his head towards mine, and just when he’s so incredibly close, he changes course to my ear. Huskily, he whispers, “Come with me.”

It sounds sexual off his tongue. Especially now that he’s touching me this way outside of the gym. He’s not acting or putting on a show. This is him. Entirely.

I open my mouth to form a semi-coherent response.

“Nikolai!” a guy shouts. Nikolai raises his head, away from me. His cousin has a hand on the frame of the cab and waves him to join.

Nikolai glances back at me, the pull not lost. He lets go and I unconsciously sway forward.

“Your choice,” he breathes, his gray eyes raking my small frame before he heads to the cab.

I’m not usually this impulsive.

On a normal day, I list pros and cons. And I listen to the pros (rightfully so) and then go from there. So it takes me a second longer to gather my bearings and decide on my next action.

I don’t want this never-ending night to end. Not like this. Not in this way. I’d be imagining what he’s doing while I sulk alone. I’d construct a hazy picture of Hex and the events that lead thereafter. And I’d wonder what would’ve happen between me and him had I attended.

But the mystery of the night is not always kind. It can end in regret.

I watch him climb into the cab.

And I listen to my gut that says
you got this, Thora James.

Don’t be afraid.

Whatever regrets I do have—it won’t be staying back, wondering and imagining. I want to live to the fullest degree. So I sprint to the cab, and slide in before he has the chance to shut the door.

I don’t look at Nikolai yet, but I sense his surprise.

I just stare straight ahead, feeling way cooler than I know I am. “To Hex,” I tell the taxi driver, like in the movies. How the badass girl just controls her own fate.

And then Nikolai says, “I already gave him the address.” There’s a smile in his voice.

Nice one, Thora.
“I’m a work in progress,” I say softly, more to myself.

He wraps his muscular arm around my shoulders. “We all probably are.”

Act Thirteen

4:01 a.m.

Bubble machines blow out shiny orbs, multi-colored lights casting pink, blue, and yellow shades all around us. Timo dances in the center of Hex like nothing can ground him. Full of energy. Of life. Most of the Kotovas are at Sublime down the street, but we’ve stuck around this bar.

“You’re trying to get me drunk,” Nikolai says after I push a fifth vodka shot towards him. I lower my butt on the stool next to his, empty glasses scattered in front of us. I’ve been nursing another tequila sunrise and supplying him shots for the past thirty minutes.  

“I’m not trying to take advantage of you,” I say, no filter.

He grins with raised brows like
you’re serious?
When he realizes I am, a full, gorgeous smile overpowers his features. And then he tilts his head at me. “That’s highly unlikely. First, I’m six-five—”

“I guessed right,” I say to myself, resting an elbow on the cold bar in delight.

He says something deeply in Russian.

“What was that?” I ask, not as scowly I hope.

“I said,
you’re cute.
” He throws back the shot, not even a little tipsy yet.

“Like an unsexy friend?” I blame the tequila for that. Never would have I said it sober. I think.

He licks his lips and leans closer than before, his mouth next to my ear as he breathes, “Why do you think you’re unsexy?”

Because that was sexier than anything I’ve ever said or done before.
I heat all over. “…that’s what cute means. Or so I’ve been told.”

“Your friend is an asshole,” he suddenly says, “whichever one told you that.” His gaze darkens.

“He’s my best friend.”

“It’s a guy?” His brows shoot up. “Even worse.”

I shake my head. “He was just making a point,” I defend.

“That you’re unsexy and only his friend?” He cocks his head. “That point could’ve been made a better way.” He downs another shot. “And secondly,” he returns to the main topic, why I can’t take advantage of him, “I’m Russian. We drink until the bottle is empty.” Meaning he can hold his liquor.

Still, I have my motives. When we first arrived at Hex, he acted like Timo’s chaperone, hawkeyed and on alert, prepared to spring from the stool and break up an impending fight. There is no storm, I’ve decided. And it’s pointless to stare at the sky, waiting for one.

“The shots are a distraction,” he says, gripping my attention again. “I know.”

“Is it working?” I ask.

We face each other. His back isn’t to the dance floor. He still has a good view of his brother out of his peripheral.

“Not completely, but it’s cute of you to try. And by cute I mean the opposite of your
best friend’s
definition.” He says “best friend” very bitterly, like I need to find a new one.

I take the plunge. “Do you want to be my…”
new best friend.
I chicken out. That’s the right hook or line or whatever to sound smooth and cool—something Camila would’ve said in response. And I effed it up.

He drums his fingers on the bar as he studies me, knowingly. “Do I want to be your best friend?”

I open my mouth to say
yeah
, but I lose the words by his amusement. “…maybe.”

“Maybe?” He gives me a look. “No, that’s definitely what you were going to say.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Tell me I’m wrong then,” he challenges.

I surrender. I’m weak in the face of lies. “Okay, you were right. Do you? Want to be my new best friend, I mean?” I wait for his answer, wishing I would’ve just had the bravado to unleash that from the beginning.

He takes his time,
sipping
a shot, very slowly. He’s doing this on purpose.

“Are you going to answer my question?”

When he finishes it, he licks his wet lips and sets down the glass. Then his eyes unhurriedly meet mine. “No.”

I frown. “No…about the question or being my best friend?”

He simply stares at me, knowing very well that he holds all of the cards. I’d rather not be at the mercy of this question and his vague answer. So I speak up again.

“I change my mind,” I say. “I don’t want to have the devil as a best friend.”

“So says my demon.” His finger runs along the rim of his shot glass, absentmindedly. I wonder if by slipping into the cab, I agreed to sleep with him. More than just on the couch. Sex. With a twenty-six-year-old Russian athlete.

 
I’m on my period
, my inside voice shrieks in horror. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked if he saw me as a sibling. The answer has altered my perception of little things—like how he watches me intently. How his gaze dips to my coat, the straps beginning to unknot and reveal my risqué costume.

I’m seventy-five percent sure that he might be thinking about sex. About the devil screwing all of his demons. On red sheets.

Okay, I’m one-hundred percent thinking about sex. Not the act of doing it. But all the baggage that is attached to it. And
I’m on my period.
And he knows it. Which is so much worse.

Now I’m thinking about him thinking about my period.

This is too much.

I chug my tequila sunrise. It burns. I set it down roughly, about a quarter left. And I gasp for breath like I downed lighter fluid. Slowly, I look at Nikolai.

I shouldn’t have. His brows just rise, his lips slightly upturned. I’m overly aware of how much older he is than me. And of his
it’s complicated
status.

I think I need to change mine.

This is so complicated my head hurts.

…maybe that’s just the tequila.

He reaches down and seizes my ankle, lifting my leg onto his lap. I watch him unbuckle my stiletto heel, revealing a battered foot with three blistered toes, nearly bloody. But they’re free, the air stinging the sores. He gives me a disapproving look—since I didn’t tell him how badly they’d been hurting.

Then he removes the second stiletto and keeps my legs draped across his lap. “Better,” he knows, sipping his next shot. He soaks in my long legs and then says, “When you perform, you have beautiful lines.” He pauses. “It’s what every director said after you auditioned. It’s why you were brought here.”

I stiffen. I’ve shut out the audition, filed it away in that dusty folder.

Now that he’s retrieved it, a nauseous pit wedges between my ribs. Sex is a better agonizing thought, I realize.

But I take the opportunity to ask him, “What do I need to work on then?”

“They said that you were just background. Others onstage would outshine you. You don’t have the passion.”

My throat feels dry.
I don’t have the passion.
I’ve flown across the country to be here. I’ve risked everything. What is that if not passion? I know it’s not sexual or sensual, the passion they mean, but it’s
something.
There’s something in me.

I just have to translate it to everyone else.

“Okay. I’ll work on it.”
Somehow.