Infini

by Krista Ritchie

  She raises the beef patty towards me. “This beef patty. It may’ve let me down, but I’ve uncovered a huge mystery about how it would’ve tasted in comparison to all the others I’ve ever eaten. That is exciting.”

  I believe her because she says every word like it lives in the core of her heart. “Where does your millionth patty rank?”

  “Low to mid-tier.” Baylee takes another bite. “Crust is really good.” She holds the patty out towards me.

  I take a bite. It’s one of the better ones I’ve tried. I share a few jerk wings with Bay, which is why I picked her second food choice.

  “How’s your aunt?” I ask.

  “Happily married and in a successful career,” Baylee says, licking her fingers and tossing a bone back in the tray. “Also, very pregnant.”

  “Wow.” I’m actually surprised. I forgot that people aren’t stagnant. That in five years, people do really move on, even if we haven’t. “She still hate me?”

  “Aunt Lucy didn’t hate you.” Baylee passes the beef patty to me. “Trade?”

  I nod and give her the tray of wings. “There’s no chance she liked me after we were caught though.” Her entire family thought were just best friends, not also boyfriend-girlfriend and having sex.

  Bay shrugs. “She doesn’t like you, but only because she thought we were temporary.”

  “Yeah.” I understand.

  “My parents always liked you. Do you remember that breakfast where they invited you for ackee and saltfish?”

  “I wouldn’t forget that.” I remember the moment really well. I didn’t know her parents for long, but at the kitchen table, her mom would discuss music of all genres for hours, and she’d recount all of Baylee’s embarrassing childhood stories. Most about toddler Baylee dancing without a diaper and accidentally peeing on the floor.

  Bay claims she had an aversion to public toilets as a kid, and her mom loved to joke about it. I think she knew that Baylee wouldn’t be embarrassed. The stories only made her daughter laugh, which made me smile wider.

  Her mother was fun and protective and lively. Baylee used to say that her mom, she wasn’t just the life of the party—she was the heart.

  And we’d play Trivial Pursuit before dinner. Brenden won every time. I lost a lot, but her dad—he’d come in last place on purpose. I was sure he knew who the author of War and Peace was, but he didn’t want me to feel badly for coming up short.

  He’s someone I’d be proud to have as a father, so I know why Baylee cherishes the hell out of him.

  Baylee balls up the thin napkin. “I like those memories.”

  “Me too.” I felt so a part of her world. Sometimes, painfully so.

  I remember how her aunt invited me over for the same meal after Baylee’s parents passed away. Lucy didn’t ever learn how to cook ackee and saltfish like Bay’s mom. I sat at a table with Zhen, Brenden, and Baylee—and the silent consensus was that it tasted nothing like the traditional Jamaican dish.

  Lucy cried while eating and apologized profusely for being a bad stand-in for their mom. It was one of the most gut-wrenching things I’ve witnessed in my life.

  Yet, I remember Baylee and Brenden assuring their aunt that it was okay. That she tried, and they loved her for trying.

  We stop at a crosswalk, a red handprint flashing on the pole, and we dump our trash in a nearby bin. I think about offering to hold her to-go bag of curry chicken and rice, but I hesitate.

  Because I’m not her boyfriend. (I hate it.)

  “How much do you talk to your parents?” she asks.

  It wasn’t a lot when I first met Baylee. It’s even less now.

  We forget to cross at the light, and we end up lingering by the entrance to an Urban Outfitters, our hands brushing. I catch hers and hold strong.

  “I call my parents maybe a few times a year, more if they’re already talking with Nik and he passes me the phone.” Our eyes meet. “It is what it is.” I shake my head. “I’m not even friends with all of my cousins.” There are too many. And I realize, a cousin isn’t equivalent to a mother and a father, but my parents never really got to know me.

  Not even when they were around.

  It’s easy lumping them into the distant-cousin category.

  “I remember,” she says. “One time you forgot one of your cousins was lactose intolerant when you suggested ice cream, but you always said that some cousins you loved like siblings.”

  (Dimitri.) “Yeah. That hasn’t changed.”

  Baylee’s gaze drifts to the right, and she abruptly straightens up, eyes widening in alarm.

  Act Twenty-Two

  Luka Kotova

  “Luka, go—go.” She starts to shove me away, but then she changes her mind and pulls me into the Urban Outfitters, the door shutting behind us.

  Inside, we weave between jewelry stands and racks of purposefully ripped denim jeans. Her grip on my hand tightens, beyond panicked.

  “Bay—”

  “Shh.” She puts her finger to her lips and then slightly crouches behind the window-front manikins.

  I follow suit and through the glass, I spot what she saw.

  My stomach drops.

  Vince, an older dark-haired AE employee, the one who caught us almost five years ago—he stands authoritatively on the sidewalk, dressed in a suit jacket and white tee. I always thought he looked like Nicholas Cage, and he’s not alone.

  He speaks rapidly to Geoffrey Lesage, the young choreographer.

  “Geoffrey shouldn’t be with Vince,” Baylee says. “They’re not even in the same department.” Vince is the head of marketing.

  It seems weird. I can’t hear or read their lips, but Vince has several disgruntled lines on his forehead. Clearly, he’s not happy.

  Geoffrey points at the store.

  We duck behind the manikin’s platform.

  Baylee drops to her ass and shields her face. “Shit. Shit.”

  “They didn’t see us,” I try to assure her. “It’s okay.” I’m squatting and I’d reach out and hold Baylee, but that’s the issue right now. Us. Being close.

  She exhales heavily. “What if they did see, Luka?” She tries to peer at the glass door without breaching the top of the manikin’s platform.

  “They would’ve already rushed in here and caught us,” I whisper. “Look, we’re not even positive Geoffrey is aware of our past.” He always seemed oblivious. Case in point: he let us partner up on the trampoline.

  Baylee stares off as she says, “He was with Vince.”

  I see where she’s mentally headed. Marc Duval claimed that there were two AE employees informed about our contracts and watching us, just in case we broke them. We practically knew one had to be Vince. And now she’s thinking the second is Geoffrey.

  She’s forgetting something.

  “Geoffrey can’t be watching us. He’s new, Bay.”

  “There are shakeups every season.” Her hand is on her forehead, stunned at this scenario. “What if the person who was watching us left Vegas, and Marc needed someone new to keep an eye on us? Geoffrey would be the perfect person. He’s around us more than any other company member.”

  It makes sense.

  I just don’t want to accept that Corporate is that close, still breathing down our necks. “Then it’s a good thing,” I say, trying to hang onto the positives. “We know exactly who to watch out for.”

  Baylee nods to herself and then tries to peek over the platform but she hesitates. “I’m scared.” Her voice spikes. “Luk.”

  I reach out and clasp her hand and squeeze. “I’m not going to abandon you at the end of this. Hey, Baylee, look”—I cup her cheek, and her widened gaze meets my calm—“I’m here for you. You’re not alone in this.”

  Baylee leans towards me, and I wrap my arm around her shoulders, careful of her neck. Pulling her close, I kiss the top of her head.

  “You know what’s strange?” she says softly, glancing once to her right. We’re secluded from most of the shoppers, and I don�
��t see Geoffrey or Vince nearby.

  “What’s strange?”

  She looks to me. “I feel the safest in your arms, but in reality, it’s the most dangerous place to be.”

  I wear a weak smile. “Being with me is a dream.”

  “The best dream,” she says confidently.

  For the sake of our reality, I remain alert, and I risk a glance above the platform. I don’t see anyone from Corporate.

  “It looks like they left.”

  She tugs me down when I take too long, and anxiety surfaces in her features.

  “I’ll go out first,” I whisper, “and head back to the hotel. I’ll text you if the street looks completely clear. You can leave whenever you want after me.” I know it’ll give her peace of mind if we split apart here.

  “I want to see you again,” she says, so assured that I don’t even ask if she’s certain.

  “I’ll text you a time and location for tonight.”

  She starts smiling off my smile. “Okay.” Fear lowers her lips, but I squeeze her hand one more time before I let go entirely.

  Then I rise to my feet. I have trouble tearing my gaze off of hers, all the way to the door. I push outside, people meandering down the Vegas strip.

  Cars honking.

  Life moving quickly.

  I look left and right down the long stretch of sidewalk. No Corporate in my view. And I text Baylee as I leave.

  All clear. 10 p.m. Meet me in the lobby at Two Kings Hotel. See you later, krasavitsa.

  Act Twenty-Three

  Baylee Wright

  Stuck in an agonizingly slow cab, I check the time on my phone again. Two minutes past 10 p.m.—casually late.

  That’s not bad, right? I’ll start panicking when it hits fifteen minutes.

  My curls hang loosely against my chest, and I fix the buckle to my red high heels that match the prettiest and newest dress I own: a rose-red strapless cocktail number. The fabric hugs my hips and pushes up what little cleavage I have.

  Luka never said if this was fancy or a really laidback outing, but we can barely find a moment to spare outside of the Masquerade together. At least not without being interrupted. So I’m taking advantage of the moment and dressing up for once.

  The cab halts by a curb, and the rich, glittering purple words 2 Kings stands out amongst surrounding neon signage and flashing billboards. I’ve never been here, but I’m sure Luka has casino-hopped with Timo before.

  10:12 p.m.

  I pay my fare, exit the cab, and carry my silver clutch as I push through the revolving doors. The lobby is the casino floor, boisterous with multicolored slots and gamblers. Packed tight.

  I’m not out of place. The average age is young. About twenties to mid-thirties, and most are dressed like they’re ready to hit the nightclubs.

  I look up as I walk further inside, thousands of crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling. Modern with a regal touch—it’s breathtaking.

  “Baylee.”

  My gaze falls, straight ahead, just as Luka rises off a velvet bar stool. My lips part at how utterly gorgeous he is in formalwear.

  Black slacks fit him perfectly, and his white button-down contrasts his dark hair but brings out his emotive gray eyes. His hair is slightly wet. Like he didn’t have time to dry the strands.

  His hot gaze travels down my body in an intoxicating once-over, his desire so apparent. My neck instantly heats.

  I can’t contain a smile as we near one another, my pulse pounding. “Hey,” I say, my voice more breathy than I intend.

  He clutches my hip and whispers, “You look gorgeous.”

  Butterflies. I feel them tenfold. “Funny,” I say seriously, “I was going to say the same about you.”

  “Gorgeous?” His lips stretch.

  I go off of impulse. Feeling. I touch his cheek with a tender hand, and our gazes devour one another. My fingers trace the hard, dominant line of his shaven jaw, and I intake the soft, virtuousness around his eyes.

  “Yeah,” I breathe, “gorgeous.”

  Luka shifts my hand towards his lips, places a warm kiss on my palm, and then threads our fingers together. He nods towards the elevators. “You can say no, but I got us a room for the night.”

  My new overwhelming smile, I try to tame a bit more. “I’m not going to say no.” There’s no practice tomorrow. It’s our one free day this week, and I already texted Brenden I was going to Netflix and chill alone tonight.

  I’m ready for Luka to really touch me. So ready that I’m wearing pink lacy underwear instead of my usual cotton.

  Luka smiles a captivating, panty-dropping smile. “This way.” He takes charge, guiding me to the elevators, our hands never separating.

  We slide into an elevator that quickly compacts with other twenty-somethings, chatting loudly. He pushes the 25 button and slips further back with me. As the doors shut, I scoot closer to Luka, and he leans his arm against the wall-mirror.

  He catches me staring at him, and the corners of his lips lift again.

  “Your hair is wet,” I say. “Did you leave fast?”

  He sighs at a recent memory. “You don’t want to know.”

  “Now I really do.” The elevator jerks to a stop, letting off only one person on the fourth floor. This may take a while. Now that I’m with him, I don’t mind at all.

  “I couldn’t get in the bathroom until ten minutes before I left.”

  “Why?”

  He lowers his voice. “Dimitri was jerking off.”

  I cringe, not wanting to picture Dimitri masturbating.

  “Exactly why I didn’t want to tell you.”

  “You didn’t see him, did you?” I wonder, too curious not to ask.

  “No. I have seen too much of my cousins, but that’s not something I’ve ever stumbled in on.”

  Tenth floor. His hand slips around my waist, to my lower back. I’m nervously stiff, so I try to bring up casual conversation again. “Have you ever walked in on someone having sex?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  My mouth falls. This must be a Vegas thing because it never happened to him in New York. “Who?”

  “Erik, Robby, Timofei. All different occasions. I didn’t mean to see them. They were fucking in the living room of their suite, and I wasn’t always alone when I went inside.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I walked right out.”

  I nod. “Smart.”

  He starts laughing.

  “What?” My smile grows.

  Sixteenth floor. “That’s literally the first time I’ve been called smart with zero sarcasm. Thank you, Bay.”

  “Anytime.” I smooth my lips together, restraining my smile some.

  Nineteenth floor, the elevator almost empties. We’re left with two couples in matching tuxes and shimmery gold gowns.

  We go silent, but his eyes practically undress me. I breathe shallowly, and his hand descends to my ass. My body curves towards him, wanting his whole build to press up against me. I imagine the power, the strength and force—and my knees feel weak and my skin bare.

  His other hand travels discreetly up my hip. Then he brings me close, pretending to hug me, but really his hand is making a scorching trail up to my chest.

  “One,” he whispers against my ear. One: over-the-clothes touching.

  He memorized my list.

  I feel wet and hot all over. But I’m more rigid than I want to be. “I’m nervous,” I admit in a soft breath.

  He draws back, just to study my expression, and I have trouble making direct eye contact. I watch the two couples leave on the twenty-second floor.

  The doors close.

  We’re alone, and the elevator ascends.

  “I’ll take care of you,” he assures me. “You tell me to stop, at any point, and I’ll stop.”

  “I don’t want you to stop. I’m just overwhelmed.” I haven’t been this consumed by someone. It’s more than just being physically attracted to each other. It’s knowing him. Loving who he is
.

  And him loving who I am.

  He nods. “Just remember to breathe, and you’ll be fine.”

  “Planning to steal my breath away?”

  His hands return to my hips as he whispers, “Caught me.”

  I grip his button-down. Our bodies aching to meld together, but we wait. And the elevators spring open. Our floor.

  Luka walks me backwards. His large hands sear through my dress. We enter the empty carpeted hallway, chandeliers dangling in a long row.

  I pop a button of his shirt. His palm runs up the curve of my body, veering to my boobs again. No bra, his thumb skims my hardened nipple, fabric of my dress keeping his skin from my skin.

  I quiver from the drawn-out sexual tension, my lips parting in a heady breath. I undo his shirt halfway.

  His clutch strengthens on my body, and his left hand descends my hipbone…lower and lower. Reaching the hem of my dress, he pulls the fabric up, just slightly and his hand moves to my bare, inner-thigh.

  Oh God. I have to hang onto his biceps, throbbing. I’m throbbing for him to push his cock hard inside of me and pump and pump.

  And Luka says, “I’m going to kiss the fuck out of you.”

  I almost fall against him, but he has me. Pulls me against his body. Seizes me completely. His hand to the back of my head, he kisses me so passionately that a noise catches my throat. I grasp his neck for support as the kiss drives deeper.

  He cups my heat—and I’m so soaked. His fingers skim my panties between my legs. I shudder against him. Where the hell are we?

  I’m barely coherent to see.

  A hallway.

  An empty hallway, thankfully.

  I kiss back. Just as hungrily. Our tongues dancing together. My hips arch towards his cock.

  “Up,” he says in one breath. He hoists me, my legs wrapping around his waist. One hand on my ass, the other free, he takes out his keycard while we’re lip-locked.

  Door open.

  He carries me inside and kicks the door closed.

  Then Luka sets me on my feet and spins me around, seamlessly pulling my back to his chest.

  I catch my breath and digest my new surroundings: a king-sized bed with a wine-red comforter, a sleek dresser with a TV on top, a sultry velvet chaise, and drawn curtains to reveal tinted glass and a view of gleaming sin city.