Amour Amour (22 page)

His hand on the small of her back.

This shouldn’t marbleize me, but I’m cold and unmoving.

“Fifty bucks she picks a tattoo,” Timo says.

“Don’t you do enough betting on the fucking floor?” John snaps.

“I’ll take that as a
no
.” Timo nods to me. “Thora?”

I can’t answer. My muscles coil, taut and inflexible. Nikolai sits on the chair first, his intense gaze never deterring from the girl’s. Her blue glow necklace contrasts her red mini-dress, one with sparkly stiletto heels. He says directions to her, not audible from where I stand.

Then she lies
over
his lap, hiking up the bottom of her dress to reveal her ass.

My stomach compresses without my permission—my heart on a strange, foreign descent. A burly man with a thick neck passes Nikolai a tattoo gun.

“I would’ve won,” Timo announces, disappointment lacing his voice. Though he squeezes my shoulder like
cheer up, Thora James. It’s okay.

I must look as horrible as I feel.

“Everyone wins eventually,” John says, his tone less hostile than usual. “It doesn’t mean you can’t lose.”

Nikolai places his hand on the girl’s ass, concentrating on the needle as it digs into her flesh. He tells her something, his lips rising in a charismatic smile that lights his gray eyes. And she laughs. I want to look away. I don’t want to watch this—because it hurts.

It shouldn’t hurt this much.

And yet, I can’t. Move. I can’t lift my foot or spin around. I torture myself by staying here.

The red glow of his necklace swathes his face, his features as devilish and masculine as that first night we met. Only I’m not the subject of his intensity.
You know this happens every Saturday, Thora.
I know. It’s nothing, really. It all means nothing—in every direction.

A couple brutal minutes pass and he’s finished, inking a well-drawn heart on her left butt cheek. Carefully, he places a bandage on the tattoo and tugs her dress down, covering her thong. She wobbles as she stands, and he rights her with a protective hand to her waist.

“Thora,” I hear Timo say in concern.

I open my mouth, but no words come.

In a millisecond, the girl goes from clutching his biceps. To leaning in.

Her lips are on his.

And he grips the back of her head, reciprocating the single kiss. My breath is padlocked in my lungs. Even after they disconnect. Nikolai kisses her cheek and gestures to a group of girls who cheer and shout things like
get it, Rachel!
They must be her friends.

The girl returns to them with the smuggest, happiest grin. She kissed the God of Russia and can now recount the tale. He’s already scanning the room with a charming smile, searching for his next volunteer. Hands shoot all around me.

Timo squeezes my shoulder again and then he shouts something in Russian. His voice overpowers the music and causes Nikolai to rotate towards us.

His eyes stop dead on me.

And that smile fades in an instant.

I can’t pick apart my feelings. Or his. But if I could assume anything at all—it’d be on the precipice of pain and distress. I’m rethinking my choice in glowstick. This is utterly complicated.

“Let’s go dance,” John tells me, reaching for my arm past Timo.

“Yeah, I could dance,” Timo nods.

“Not you—ugh, whatever, come on, Thora.” John guides me through the masses and closer to the mosh pit dance floor, people jumping or grinding, depending on their level of intoxication.

I’m surprised my feet moved at all.

John tips a waitress an extra twenty to steal the drinks off her tray, and he passes me the shot and keeps the other two for himself.

“You seriously aren’t going to share?” Timo asks with the tilt of his head. He rests his forearm on John’s shoulder.

“I’m seriously not sharing,” John replies, and to further his point, he throws back the first shot and then the second.

Timo isn’t discouraged in the least. He dances with better rhythm than most everyone here. The three of us group off in a cluster, blocking out the surrounding people. I’m less overwhelmed, and the shot will help too. Normally I’d take an economic sip, but I mimic John and toss mine back.

It burns my throat, and I cough into my fist.

“Easy, Thora James!” Timo shouts over the music. When I look at him, his eyes beam like he’s having the time of his life. In the prime of his youth. And it lightens my weighted body, immeasurably.

It’s ordinary when you’re simply happy.

It’s remarkable when you can make others feel what you do.

“Don’t stare into his eyes!” John shouts to me. “Little parts of you will die inside!”

He almost lifts my spirits.

A smile stretches Timo’s beautiful features. “So you’re admitting to feeling something from me, John?!”

John glares. “
Death
. I feel death!”

Timo whistles, but I can’t hear the sound from the pop song. “That’s a strong feeling.”

John looks like he wants to drown his irritations in an eighty-foot pool, though he’s still here. So there’s that. He snatches more shots off a tray, and this time, the server lets him take them. He knows her, I guess. And he passes me two shots and keeps one for himself.

I down both, the burn not as terrible. I actually like it. Then I sway to the music, and I notice older guys near a high-top table eyeing our three-person group. Only their attention is plastered to Timo—with lustful,
I want to fuck you
looks.

I realize that Timo has been scoping out the club, and he grazes that area a bit, knowing how many men are watching him. A weird pressure sits on my chest, and it takes me a second to discern the sentiment. Protective—I feel strangely protective over him.

He’s eighteen
, I remember. But he carries himself like the world is a playground for his appetite.
Vegas is his home.
He’s not a fish-out-of-water like I was—still am sometimes. He’s okay.

John follows my gaze to the other guys. He rolls his eyes and quite literally blocks them out with his back.

Hands touch my waist, and I jump and slide to the left to see Nikolai. I freeze cold. He stares down, his gaze deepening into mine, carrying a storm past comprehension. I don’t know what to make of it.

“Hi.” His husky voice solidifies my bones. Just one word. That’s all I get.

“…hey,” I manage with a nod. The liquor starts to churn my insides like molten lava, no longer warm and comforting.

Nikolai keeps his hand on my hip, filling the almost non-existent gap between me and Timo. I hone in on his hand, on each finger that slips further around me. I can’t—I step out of his grasp, and his arm falls. I stare at the red strobe lights on the ceiling as though God will impart me with some much-needed wisdom.

“Don’t you have an ass to tattoo?!” John yells, his surly tone sounding a hint more malicious.

It shouldn’t matter, Thora.

I know. I know.

I’m trying to make it not matter. How do I do that? My mind and my body are not on the same wavelength, clearly, and I’m having a difficult time reuniting them.

He grabbed a girl’s ass and sucked on her face.

Stop. Stop.

“I’m done for the night!” Nikolai shouts over the bass. “Are you two…” His voice dies in the music. I look up and see his grays darting between John and me. The look he wears—it matches the one I had earlier, when I saw him lip-locked with that girl.

His facial muscles tightening, his shoulders strict.

John seems highly unamused. “She’s not my type! While her ambitions are slightly endearing, they’re
mostly
delusional! But that’s not even the problem.” I did catch that compliment in there. I mean, this could be worse. Right?

“What’s the problem?” Nikolai asks, opening the floodgates.

“She has a vagina!” The music switched songs right when he screamed that. It came out so much louder than it should have.

I shut my eyes with a wince. Yeah, he just mentioned my vagina. To Nikolai. To make a point that he’s gay, and it’s just—a lot to take in. I just really, really hope I’m the only one picturing my vagina right now.
Please let this be true.

I tentatively open my eyes by the silence. Timo is smiling like he’s already known this fact about John. And I can feel Nikolai’s hot gaze penetrating me.

Don’t engage
—John basically said as much the first time I met Nikolai. Maybe I should’ve listened to him back then. I can still try now.

At least when we’re not at the gym.

Right?

I’m confused. I’m confusing myself.

“I’m going to get something to drink.” Timo speaks first. He begins walking towards the high-top table of men.

John curses under his breath before shouting, “The bar is the other way!” He shakes his head a few times.

Timo glances over his shoulder and grins, descending further into the throngs of dancers.

John sighs heavily and stares between me and Nikolai.
Stay here. Do not leave me
. I hope I’m expressing all of these things in my eyes. I wouldn’t be surprised if I just scowl harder though.

“Well this is unfortunate,” John says, and his gaze falls to me. “I just want you to know that I’m leaving for the alcohol and to avoid being a third wheel to whatever
this
is.”

It’s starting to set in: I’m going to have to confront my feelings. Head on soon.

John pats my shoulder and weaves between the bodies, picking up his pace to reach Timo.

Now I’m alone with Nikolai. Well…not
alone
alone. Technically there are bodies around us, some even pressing close to invade Nik’s space. I even spot girls gawking at him from the packed bar, whispering like they’re concocting plans to approach the God of Russia.

Good
, I think.

My heart plummets.

Body and brain, still not aligned.

Nikolai leans down, his unshaven jaw rough against my cheek, and I smell the tequila from his breath, reminding me of his bet.
Tattoo or piercing.

“Can I talk to you?” he asks lowly, his deep voice melting my defenses.

“Don’t you have to watch your brother?” I instantly regret adding more stress on him. Because whatever
this
is (as John called it) already weighs down his shoulders.

“It won’t take long.” His words send a shudder of alarm through me.
He’s going to stop training me.

I nod and start mentally preparing ways out of this:
I won’t see you outside of the gym
, for starters.
Or hang out at your suite anymore
, also goes with number one.

Or pretend that I have feelings for you
.

My eyes are burning.
Stop burning.

Nikolai glances at the VIP area of the club, but it’s packed with bodies, allowing for no privacy. He spins to the other direction, near the bathroom. And he guides me with his hand on my hip, dropping to the small of my back.

I wish he wouldn’t touch me at all. It’d make this clearer. Easier.

I side-step out of his grasp again, and when I catch a glimpse of him, his face is contorted like my action impaled him through the chest. We don’t say anything. But it’s hardly quiet.

The music never masks this vast, unyielding tension that tugs my senses. The line to the bathroom snakes along the wall, but he walks past it, aiming for a new door. One that says:
employees only
.

He turns the handle and slips inside, me right after. When he shuts out the cacophony behind him, I realize that we’re in a very cramped storeroom with extra bundles of napkins, stir-sticks, and racks of cleaning supplies.

With barely any space to move, my legs hit his, my head reaching the height of his shoulders. I’m tiny. In a tiny room. With a six-foot-five Russian man. And an even bigger elephant. His emotions, my emotions. There are many, many emotions here.

I tug at the hem of my dress that exposes my bare flesh. “What do you want to say?” I ask softly, avoiding his gaze. I fixate on the saltshakers that line the shelf in a neat row.

“Your eyes are black.”

My blood simmers, and I gape. “You brought me in here to tell me that my eyes are—”

His lips suddenly meet mine with force and urgency, his hands wrapping around my small frame like he’s wanted to hold me all night. My heart explodes.
I
explode, his tongue parting my lips in the fieriest kiss, one that grips my core. One that knocks my back into the shelves.

I struggle for breath—high on his touch, the way he lifts me around his waist, breaking open my legs. He deepens an already sweltering kiss, his hot hand protective on my neck, his thumb caringly brushing my skin while the rest of him—masculine, powerful—rushes through me.

I brace myself by clutching his arms; my body has won out to my mind. I’ve been overtaken, overpowered, overpleasured.

My lips sting as he slows down an already strong kiss, his chest rock hard against me. I feel unwound, flyaway strands of hair sticking up—like he electrocuted me.

He kind of did.

My spine digs into the metal shelf, and Nikolai kisses my cheek, my forehead, as though I’m precious enough for more than just the thrill. He gives me the unhurried, measured moments, the kisses that seem to ache more.

A noise trembles my throat, a breathless cry.

He lets out a deeper sound against my neck. And his red glow necklace stares back at me, a blinding reminder of all that I don’t understand.

What are we doing? What is this?
My mind has revived and come to haunt me.

“I…don’t understand,” I whisper.

He only draws back to cup my face. His lips are a stinging distance away. I can still feel the force of them, the heat of them, on me. His mouth curves upward some, as though he finds my confusion funny.

“It’s not funny,” I whisper.

“You’re cute,” he tells me. “I thought my actions said enough.”

He likes me.
“There is…something between us then?” I wonder. I haven’t been fantasizing about the tension. It hasn’t been one-sided. It’s just been ignored.