Amour Amour

by Krista Ritchie

I can’t make sense of this question. Is it a weird cover charge? Instead of cash, I have to tell her my relationship status? The longer I take to respond, the more her brows knot in aggravation.

  “Yeah…” I say, not loud enough. Her eyes widen like what was that? “I’m single!” I scream it. And she passes me a blue glow necklace.

  More people start to push through the curtains, easily snatching a necklace from the hostess. So I take mine without question and hightail it to the crowded bar. My heart drills into my ribcage. I hate looking lost, like a tourist—or worse, a goldfish slowly flapping and gasping for air outside of its bowl.

  I don’t want to be a water-starved goldfish.

  So I stand taller, straighter. No more curved shoulders. And I roll my suitcase like I have important places to be. Like I’m an important person altogether. I march straight to the crowded bar. I’ve memorized Camila Ruiz’s features on her Facebook profile: curly brown hair, caramel skin, and honey-colored eyes.

  My suitcase bumps into a dancing couple. “Sorry,” I tell them. Important people can still apologize.

  The girl gives me a royal stink-eye. I wonder if my RBF is flaring up.

  I scoot near the bar, unable to reach the stools just yet. I crane my neck and scope out the bartenders. Within a couple minutes, my anxiety pops. I spot her loose braid, her green glow necklace on her mane of pretty curls, like a crown. Her lips are bright yellow with pink eye shadow just as bold.

  I haven’t been catfished.

  I take this moment to text Shay: She’s a girl. And pretty cool from what I can tell.

  In seconds, he replies: Still, keep your guards up. Stay safe. – Shay

  I kind of wish he just said I’m glad and left it at that.

  By the time I squeeze to the bar, she’s pouring shots for a couple girls on the other end. I try and fail to scoot my suitcase closer to me. The hard frame hits a guy in the ass. He gives me a world-class glower for the accidental assault.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  He makes a grunting noise and mutters under his breath.

  I notice his blue necklace before I turn away. “Camila!” I shout over the music. She slides the shots to the girls and then grins widely as she sees me.

  “Hey, Thora!” she yells back and starts pouring another shot. Then she slips closer to my end. She doesn’t bat an eye at my wardrobe. She merely says, “We’ll swap! Give me your suitcase and you can have this.” She already passes me the shot of vodka.

  I stare between my giant, hefty suitcase and the bottles of expensive liquor on the bar. I imagine tossing her the suitcase and knocking over all of them. This sounds like a strategy made from hell.

  She reads my features and nods to the guy next to me, the one my suitcase most definitely struck. “Hey, John.” She leans forward on her forearms. “If you can hand me my friend’s suitcase without breaking any of this.” She motions to the bottles of liquor. “I’ll give you a free shot.”

  He wears an unamused smile. “Three shots.”

  She snorts. “This isn’t a negotiation, cuz. If you don’t like the price, I can find someone else who does.” I try to find the family resemblance, but it’s hard in the dark.

  “You just gave her a free shot for showing up.” He’s already standing off the stool. “Pardon me for trying to barter a better deal.” He grunts as he hoists the heavy suitcase. Much taller than me, he’s able to pass it to Camila and avoid any collisions with breakables.

  In her possession, she drops the suitcase on the ground, not able to hold it for long. I watch as she stores it underneath the bar.

  John gives me a weird look. “You know, you could have just left that with concierge.”

  I shift my weight uneasily. “They do that here?” Now I feel strange. Like that dry goldfish. I need to put myself back in water. But honestly, I’m not sure how.

  Camila mouths to him, stop. And then she says to me. “He shouldn’t be bitching. He just got two free shots.”

  “Oh two free shots?” John wears mock enthusiasm. “My cousin, the real giver.”

  “I am a giver. What do you call this?” She waves towards me.

  “Crazy,” John says flatly. His honey-brown eyes meet mine again. “Are you a lunatic or a sociopath?”

  Uhh…

  “Hey.” Camila snaps her fingers at him.

  “What?” He steals my free shot and sips it innocently. “Can I not be concerned for my little cousin? You’re letting some stranger crash on your couch, who could very well murder you in your sleep.” He makes a slashing motion across his neck.

  Okay. At least the worry works both ways when it comes to couch-surfing.

  Camila plants her hands on the bar. “Are you a sociopath, Thora?” Her lips twitch into a smile, finding it way more entertaining than John.

  “No. I’m normal, I guess.”

  “See, she’s normal,” Camila says.

  “She guesses,” John retorts. He downs his shot and says to her, “The longevity of your life dwindles each day I talk to you, Camila.”

  “And your pessimism, cynicism and general attitude is going to turn you into a big dark raincloud that vacuums all your energy like a vortex.” She inhales deeply like she’s sucking out his soul.

  He doesn’t disagree. He just sits back on his stool and spins to me, outstretching his hand. “John Ruiz.”

  “Thora James.” I shake his hand, his grip firm. Not surprising, since he was able to lift my fifty-pound suitcase with relative ease. Closer to him, I now notice his darker features: the caramel skin, an unshaven jaw, and pieces of wavy dark brown hair hanging along his forehead.

  He’s about to say something to me when a huge commotion erupts from the center of the dance floor. Everyone breaks apart, forming a circle. People begin to cheer and whistle, hands clapping together at something beyond my view.

  At first, I think it might be some sort of break dancing competition. But John starts cursing, “When the fuck is The Red Death going to ban these acts of juvenile delinquency?”

  Camila passes me a new shot, and John steals that one too. “When Aerial Ethereal doesn’t provide for fifty percent of Saturday night sales,” she tells him. “And stop taking Thora’s shot.”

  He downs it in one gulp.

  I fixate on the name of the circus troupe. My heart keeps skipping. “The performers from Aerial Ethereal come here?”

  Camila opens her mouth, but it’s John who replies.

  “Every godforsaken Saturday,” he snaps. “You’d think since they’re athletes or acrobats or whatever—they’d choose somewhere that isn’t a floor below where they work. It’s lazy.”

  “It’s convenient,” Camila retorts.

  Aerial Ethereal has three different shows running at The Masquerade Hotel & Casino, about fifty artists in each. But only locals probably know where they all blow off steam after a performance.

  “You know,” Camila begins with a grin, “Thora is here to audition for one of Aerial Ethereal’s shows.”

  John gapes. “You’re one of them?” he says it like I’ve suddenly turned into a cyborg.

  “I still have to audition,” I tell him the truth. I’m not an artist yet. I’m just a wannabe acrobat with large hopes. Which Shay says will be crushed soon.

  More cheering erupts and splinters my thoughts. People clap and chant, so loud that I distinguish the words over the music: “TAT! TAT! TAT!”

  “The God of Russia wins again,” John says sourly, searching the counter for another free shot. It’s empty. He suddenly stands. “Want to see what your kind is up to?”

  “My kind?” My brows rise.

  He latches onto my wrist. “Come on. The ‘fun’ is this way.” He makes air quotes and the word fun sounds just the opposite. I glance over my shoulder, expecting Camila to interject, maybe even save me from the unknown. But she’s a few feet down the bar, filling beers from the tap.

  John maneuvers me around a couple who kiss aggressively, their hands lost in each other’
s hair. Both wear matching green glow necklaces.

  “It’s really not that interesting,” he shouts back while he tows me along. “In fact, it’s pretty stupid. But you should see the stupidity you’re about to associate yourself with.”

  I stiffen, and my shoulder knocks into another girl’s, so hard it makes a pop noise. I wince, “Sorry.” I barely catch a glimpse of her pained features before I’m whisked further into hell’s inner circle.

  I don’t want to believe John. About Aerial Ethereal being stupid. I always place my money and chips on me, even if it’s the losing side. But I imagine AE’s set decorations: the night sky of Viva, said to be painted so realistically that people believe they’re watching from a forest. The intricate costumes: where every performer glows like lightning bugs and they move as swiftly too. I’ve seen pictures.

  It looks majestic.

  Not stupid.

  “It can’t be stupid,” I suddenly tell him, aloud.

  He gives me another weird look.

  I clarify, “The circus is art.” Which is nothing short of precious. I don’t add this last bit, on account of his humored smile, more mocking than appreciative.

  He actually laughs, and when I don’t share it, his smile fades. “Good God, you’re serious.” He mutters something under his breath like, Camila needs to stop bringing in strays.

  One minute later, he carts me to the front of the packed circle, whispering to some buzz-cut guy to scoot over. Strangely, they shake and bro-pat like they’re friends or acquaintances. When he frees up the space, we gain a view of the clearing—basically what everyone is so excited about.

  I slowly turn my head, not sure what to expect. Only one guy stands within the circle, an empty chair a few feet behind him. First impression: he’s tall.

  And very masculine. With needle-sharp focus, he inspects his surroundings. Us. The audience. My heart thumps as his gaze drifts closer. Why? I swallow hard, and I realize it’s his daggered, concentrated expression. It’s his muscular, I-catch-women-for-a-living body. And his powerful stance, exuding confidence like he’s in charge, even if he’s alone. Even if he’s in the circle. The center of a show.

  All eyes on him.

  The red strobe lights comb over this area every five seconds, like clock-work. His features are bathed in the red hue, devilish and dangerous: black slacks, a white shirt, a few buttons popped open to reveal firmly cut muscles. His dark brown hair brushes the tops of his ears, the thick strands pushed out of his face.

  With a strong, unshaven jaw, I predict he’s in his late twenties. I check for a ring on his left hand. Just out of curiosity. I think. Or at least, I hope. And I notice that his fingers are free of any shiny jewelry.

  He begins to walk forward, around the circle. Closer. Thump. His movement launches a series of hands in the air. Girls wave them like pick me, pick me, eagerly bouncing on their feet to be seen by this man. Like they’re offering themselves up for sacrifice.

  My arms stay awkwardly attached to my side, watching his gray irises graze the crowd with that I know what I want intensity. It lassoes everyone’s attention. Weirdly enough, mine included. I find myself leaning forward, magnetized. The whole thing is bizarre—like being front-row to a show that I didn’t buy a ticket to. And I’m not even sure what this show entails.

  He steps closer. A natural reaction would be to flee. But curiosity cements me here. Maybe because he’s in Aerial Ethereal. Maybe because he’s roped me in like everyone else.

  Closer. He searches the audience.

  I stay still. Compelled to watch him.

  Five seconds pass. And his eyes flit around my area. My heart aggressively pounds. I don’t even know if I can handle direct eye contact with him. I silently pray it doesn’t happen.

  There’s a good chance it won’t, right—

  His gaze suddenly lands on my…

  Sneakers.

  Pinning there for an extended moment. Confusion takes hold of me, my pulse speeding. His lip tics into what I think is an amused smile.

  Then he beelines for me.

  Just like that.

  “Shit,” John curses under his breath. “Don’t look into his eyes.” It’s too late. My heart has abandoned me. I’m not just a voyeur anymore, a bystander, languidly observing…something. Dear God, my brain isn’t even thinking intelligent things anymore. I can’t even process what something is.

  I’m dead.

  Cardiac arrest. If I had a friend like Shay nearby, I’m sure they’d grab some paddles. But unfortunately, I’m friend-less. Internally flat-lining in sin city. The sin part—that’s what I’m scared of most.

  He stops maybe two feet from me before cocking his head. Waiting—it seems—for me to say something first.

  I am frozen in a state of muddled shock. My joints are rusted together, and I think there’s no hope to be oiled and set free. I breathe heavily through my nose, like I’m sprinting instead of standing in place.

  Someone yells to him in Russian, and all I catch is Nikolai from the jargon. My brain works well enough to assume it’s his name. Without breaking his gaze from mine, he replies back to the person in fluent Russian. Then he says to me, in the deepest, huskiest voice, “You’re wearing running shoes.”

  I feel my facial muscles tighten. “And…?”

  In my peripheral, John shakes his head from side to side like no, no, do not engage.

  Too late again.

  But John doesn’t pull me out of this mess. He barely knows me. Maybe he wants to see how I’ll react. What I’ll do. I have no clue. I am not prepared for this.

  “Very few people prepare for this,” Nikolai says. If only he could read my mind. He studies my small frame like he’s picking apart pieces of my life and filing the information.

  What a useful tool. I need it.

  Even standing like a confused statue, I still can’t back away. Nikolai has a stronghold over my curiosity, concentration and poise—or whatever little poise I possess. A bit of jealousy flares in my belly. Yeah—I wish I had this type of power. To dominate a performance. To allure an audience. It’s what separates an athlete from an artist.

  He abruptly steps forward, into my space. I flinch back, a breath caged in my lungs, but he seizes my bicep to keep me stationary. What…is happening?

  When I meet his pulsing gray eyes again, they only say, don’t be afraid. Trust me.

  I blow out a trained breath, my ribs expanding more.

  He towers above me. Six-five maybe. I strain my neck just to fix my gaze on his. He stares down, lifting my arm like he’s inspecting my muscles. He even brushes the sleeve of my Ohio State shirt. His large hand dwarfs my limb. I feel entirely little compared to him. In Shay’s presence, I never felt like this.

  He squeezes my shoulders. “You’re an athlete,” he declares, never asks. He even places a hand on my head, like he’s examining my tiny height and my frame. He’s having a bit of trouble determining what kind of athlete I am. “…a gymnast.” Or I guess not that much trouble.

  “Maybe…” Something about him makes me want to hold cards to my chest. I hear faint mutterings from the crowd, but the music drowns out most. I’m very much a part of the spectacle now. The entertainment for tonight.

  Like a magician calling upon a volunteer from the audience.

  Only I haven’t really volunteered. Somehow, I think my sneakers did for me.

  “Maybe?” he repeats, scanning me from head to toe again. He drops my arm. “No, you’re definitely a gymnast. And I don’t know you, which means you’re not a part of the troupe.” He tilts his head again, satisfied with his own conclusion.

  I struggle for a good retort, open-mouthed and stupefied.

  His lips tic, and this time they really curve upward. “You have some demonic-looking eyes, myshka.” He stares right into them, and I barely graze over the foreign word myshka. “They’re nearly black.”

  They are. Add that to RBF and I can’t really denounce my demon-like qualities. My eyes flit to the
red glow necklace that he wears. “If I’m a demon, then you must be the devil.” It may be the corniest thing I’ve ever said.

  “Maybe I am,” he replies, very deeply. “And yet, here you are.” His gaze remains on me and only me. “And myshka…” His voice turns to liquid sex. “You can’t possess me, even if you tried.”

  “Ohhhh!” People laugh and hop up and down. But Nikolai never acknowledges them or feeds into the heckling. He just watches me.

  “I’m not trying to,” I tell him under my breath.

  His charismatic smile wanes. And his eyes briefly flit to my chest.

  Did he just stare at my boobs?

  “Your tits are huge,” he states it like a fact. Thumpthumpthump. I open my mouth to retort—but he continues, “Which means you hit puberty earlier than you should have. Most gymnasts end up stunting their growth.”

  He’s right again. I started the sport later in life.

  His eyes make a very slow travel from my mouth, to my chest, to my hips and legs and—he kneels. Right in front of me.

  What…the…

  With one hand on my thigh, to steady me, Nikolai knots the laces of my untied shoe. How he makes this seem sexual—I have no idea. And I think he knows the effect he carries, the charm and power. That devilish smile pulls at his lips again, before he even rises and acknowledges me.

  “Guess what, myshka?” The glow necklace and strobe lights swath him in deep red.

  “What…?” I hesitate.

  He stands. Towers, really. And he tilts my chin up. With grays like gunmetal skies, bearing down from up above, he says, “I choose you.”

  Not because I’m the prettiest girl here. I’m definitely not.

  Not because I’ve caught his eye in a daring fashion. I didn’t.

  But because I’m wearing sneakers.

  Shoes.

  And I’m standing right in the middle of a mystery with them.

  Act Two

  Nikolai clasps my hand and draws me to the middle of the circle. I catch John pinching his eyes and muttering something like, Camila is going to kill me.

  “You know what I think of gymnasts?” Nikolai says lowly.

  I shake my head.