Amour Amour

by Krista Ritchie

  “Straight-laced…” His hand glides along my spine. My pulse kicks up an extra notch. “Back rigid, legs locked upon landing.” His fingers brush the nape of my neck, and heat gathers across my skin. “Never split apart.”

  I keep breathing deeply from my nose. “I take risks,” is all I say. I’m here. I’m in Vegas. That is a bigger risk than anything I’ve done before.

  He digests this fact. Or maybe he considers it an opinion. “Tell me your name,” he says. “And speak loudly and clearly so everyone can hear.”

  I lick my dry lips. “Thora,” I say proudly.

  “Thora,” he repeats, that charming smile rising again. “You know the game.” I don’t. “But for everyone who’s just arrived, I’ll explain.” He rests his hand on my shoulder, and he addresses the gathering crowd. “I bet Thora, this cute gymnast…” I space out at that.

  Cute.

  Shay called me that once, and he added with a laugh, “That’s what you call an unsexy friend.” I pushed his arm, and he nearly tripped into a campus bench. Shay’s definition blinds me now.

  An unsexy friend.

  “…that she can’t beat me in a handstand competition.”

  Wait. I blink a couple times, retraining my mind on the important parts of Nikolai’s statement. Backtracking: I bet Thora that she can’t beat me in a handstand competition. A handstand competition? It nearly squashes my fears. I can do that. Easy.

  “One-handed,” Nikolai adds.

  Okay…that increases the difficulty. And he’s a guy, but I can beat him. Right? Yes you can, Thora James. Pom-poms are waving in my brain (Go, Thora, Go!) My own cheering squad. Confidence builds. Maybe misplaced confidence, but I try not to think about that.

  The crowd breaks to let a server pass through. She enters the circle with a tray of shots.

  Nikolai gestures to the shot glasses, a shiny silver watch attached to his wrist. “Three for her, three for me.” His eyes drop to my feet. “The shoes won’t really help you, myshka. But it was a cute gesture.”

  It clicks.

  He thought I wore workout clothes for this specific reason—to participate in this bet. Wrong place. Wrong time.

  “I didn’t mean for it to be anything,” I tell him.

  He remains stoic, not really commenting on my comment. He just passes me a shot and takes one for himself. “I’ve been drinking since ten, so I don’t have much of an advantage. This is as fair as it can be.”

  “Okay…”

  “Tattoo or piercing?” he asks.

  Inside, I startle like a frightened cat. Outside, I can barely move enough to shake my head. I’m about to say, I have neither, but he speaks before I can.

  “If you lose,” he clarifies, more to the crowd than to me again, “I tattoo or pierce you. I choose where. If I lose, though I never have before, you can tattoo me. Anything you like, any place on my body.”

  I restrain this fear that swarms my insides. So the terms of the bet are more than a little steep. They’re insane. I glance around, and the spectators watch in crazed anticipation, beady-eyed and alert.

  The stupid thing: I don’t want to back out.

  I want to obtain his power. I want his magic and his confidence. Maybe it’s my competitive spirit or Vegas insanity, but I stay put. It’s like watching a tornado through the window, the windstorm blowing the curtains and peeling off the roof. I don’t disappear into the basement for safety. I watch in curiosity, to see how near it reaches. Leaving means never feeling the pull, never seeing the mighty force up close—never experiencing something that I’ll always re-envision. I’ll construct that tornado piece-by-piece, a replica of what it really was. A fragment of what I could’ve seen.

  I no longer want to live in fantasy.

  I want the images in my mind to be real.

  It’s why I’m in Vegas after all. Following my dreams.

  I lick my chapped lips and straighten my back. “A piercing,” I choose. It’s more temporary than a tattoo.

  He nods, like he thought I’d pick that option. Then he clinks his shot glass to mine. “Cheers, my demon.” His eyes never leave mine as he throws back the tequila. He waits for me to do the same.

  I hesitate for a few seconds.

  He rubs his thumb over his lower lip, wiping off residual liquor. “This is your first time in Vegas,” he says, figuring me out.

  “Yeah.”

  “And you don’t drink often.”

  He’s peeling away my layers like he’s stripping a bed. Quickly. Hurriedly. With little care of the mattress underneath. It makes me feel feeble. Nervous, even.

  “One shot. You don’t have to drink three.” Okay, maybe he does care about the mattress more than he lets on.

  “I can do three,” I tell him, nodding a few times to myself in encouragement. I want to at least try. I put the rim to my lips and walk along a new path, one that’s dark and full of potholes. Please don’t fall into one, Thora. The sharp liquid slides down my throat. I withhold a grimace.

  He passes me the second shot, and I realize that he’s already consumed his three without falter. People chant, “Faster! Faster!”

  I’m working my way up to it. Okay? Baby steps. The tortoise always beats the hare in the end.

  “I can get you a Diet Fizz as a chaser,” Nikolai says, “or a Fizz Life.” He’s about to order the server to fetch a soda, but I suddenly reach out and grasp his forearm. My hand very small around his muscles.

  “No,” I tell him. “I can do it.” I try to emphasize this phrase, and I wonder if I scowl too much.

  If I do, he’s not perturbed by it. He just nods and lets me continue.

  Holding in a breath, I down the second shot. And I gag by the third one, still trying to forget the taste of the second. I wait for his laugh or peeking smile.

  But when I raise my head, I see none. Just those gray gunmetal eyes. Lowering down on me. “Vegas is going to swallow you whole, myshka.”

  I don’t want him to be right about this. I set the shot glass on the server’s tray, and she departs to the bar, leaving me alone with Nikolai in the center circle.

  He takes a couple steps back to prepare for this bet.

  I instinctively tuck my baggy shirt into my spandex pants, thicker than leggings but just as tight. Then I tie my hair into a ragged, uneven pony. Tentatively, I glance back at Nikolai.

  While scrutinizing my movements, he slowly unbuttons his white shirt. Some people whistle in the crowd. Others catcall him. “I love you!”

  “Marry me!”

  They have to be drunk. Or way bolder than me.

  Nikolai’s eye contact is killing my resolve. I swallow a bubble, and openly check out the definition in his muscles: an eight-pack, biceps that are only awarded to athletes that can carry and toss and cradle women. His body deserves the godly title that he’s been given. All sharp cuts and brawn.

  “On the count of three,” he tells me as he tosses his shirt aside.

  Okay.

  “One,” he starts.

  I jump a few times, warming my blood.

  “Two!” the entire crowd counts.

  You can do this, Thora James.

  My pep talks are the most cliché in the history of pep talks, but it always works well enough. I am my biggest cheerleader. Always have been. Probably always will be.

  “THREE!”

  I don’t take a second glance at Nikolai or the stiletto-heeled girls surrounding us. I just rest a single palm on the cold concrete floor and hoist my legs in the air. Thighs pressed tightly together. My muscles stretch in this familiar position.

  My shirt is secured in my workout pants, unable to fall to my neck and flash the audience. While upside-down, I catch a glimpse of Nikolai across from me—his strong build supported by a single hand. Unwavering. His thick hair spills over his eyelashes, and his flexed muscles carve in defined lines, running up his arms, veins protruding.

  Still, it seems so easy for him.

  He’s like a rock that juts out o
f the ocean, the thing people cling to when they’re caught in an undertow. No matter how powerful a wave crashes against him, he’ll always just be.

  Blood rushes to my head, the alcohol setting in minute by minute, flushing my skin in a hot, sticky sweat. More nauseous than dizzy.

  The boisterous spectators overpower the electronic music with a new mantra: “God of Russia! God of Russia! God of Russia!” It has to take more than winning handstand competitions to achieve that title.

  “God of Russia!” Not helping.

  “Go, Thora!” a lone guy cheers for me, the underdog. It’s not John—that I can tell. “Kick his ass!”

  Nikolai lets out a short, irritated laugh and says something in Russian.

  The guy responds with the same lilt. I take it, they know each other. When Nikolai speaks English, it’s perfect. No accent really, and part of me wonders if he’s Russian-American. Born here. Parents from there.

  Concentrate, Thora. I inhale a breath, blinking as my stomach roils in violent protest of this position. And of what I ingested. My confident, focused glare morphs into unease. I glance at Nikolai again, and he switches hands on the concrete floor without even teetering.

  Perfect balance.

  My core tightens, and I sense my downfall before it even happens. Before he even gives me a look that says, you’re about to lose, myshka. I know. I know.

  Alcohol, handstands, and Thora James do not mix. Lesson learned.

  It’s not my arm that gives out.

  It’s my stomach.

  An acidic liquid rises, and I impulsively drop to my ass, swallowing the vomit before it escapes. While the burn sets in, the cheers escalate, blistering my ears.

  Nikolai effortlessly returns to his feet, and he takes the applause with less self-gratification than I thought he would. No blinding grin or smirk. It’s not about the win, then. He likes this part, maybe. Where he pushes someone out of their comfort zone.

  He squats right in front of me, almost eye-level. I watch him comb a hand through his dark brown hair, the strands out of his face, but pieces still brush his ears and neck. Then he says in that low, husky voice, “I won’t lie to you. This is going to hurt.”

  My nose flares as I restrain more emotion. I can do this. “Okay.”

  He clasps my forearm and literally pulls me to my feet in one swift motion. The air plunges out of my lungs. His hand lingers on my hip. “Follow me,” he says, heading to the empty chair.

  I do. He leads me there, and someone hands him a piercing gun.

  “Sit,” he commands.

  I cautiously lower my ass onto the seat, wondering which body part he’ll puncture with a needle. My ear, I hope.

  The silence between us pounds my heart. I’m left with those gray eyes, that strong jaw, and the red devilish hue that casts down on us. I’m breathing too heavily, and since he’s so perceptive, he calls me out on it.

  “Relax,” he says, resting a hand on the frame of the chair.

  How can I relax? He’s a foot from my body, and he’s holding a giant needle. I can’t do anything other than pant like an out-of-shape linebacker.

  “Breathe,” he instructs, waiting for me to calm down. Though his eyes flit around me, trying to determine what to pierce.

  “I am breathing.”

  He shoots me a look. “Breathe normally,” he clarifies. He places a hand right below my collarbones. His palm feels heavy, weighted, but it carries an electric current that zips through my nerves. “Match me, myshka.”

  He takes my hand and places it on his bare chest, his muscles unintentionally flexing beneath, warm on my skin. My ribs want to padlock my lungs. I swear.

  But I try to exhale and inhale, trained breaths this time. And his hand falls lower, towards my heart. His brows rise at me, and I realize he must feel my heart hammering, pulsing in a sporadic way.

  I sink lower in the chair, and he lifts me up with his free hand, grabbing my waist. He says a couple words in Russian that I don’t understand.

  I shake my head at him.

  “You’re cute,” he translates vaguely. Unsexy friend. “But you need to stay still.”

  I nod. “I can do that.”

  “Good.” Then he uses his foot to push mine aside, abruptly breaking my legs apart. What… I open my mouth to ask what’s happening, but he sits on the edge of the seat, facing me. He swiftly lifts me by the hips, setting me on his lap.

  I’m straddling a Russian man. I can’t tell if my eyes are about to pop out or if I’m scowling again. I’m rigid. Like he said I’d be. A straight-laced gymnast.

  “Deep breaths,” he coaches. A fraction of a smile peeks at his lips. He knows that he’s driving me to an edge. A sexual, exhilarating one that I can’t compute. My brain is frying too fast.

  I don’t know where to put my hands. “I don’t…” I start. But I can’t finish because he takes my hands in his and puts them on his shoulders. My arms must’ve been hesitating midair.

  “Thora,” he says, training my focus on his eyes. “You have a choice. I’m going to tell you what I’m piercing. If you want out, there’s the exit.” He motions to the literal club exit, a door in the far-right corner.

  “What are you piercing?” I ask, not letting my mind mull over quitting. I’ve come this far. Right?

  Without balking or breaking eye contact, he says, “Your nipple.”

  I gape. What? “What?” I think I’ve heard him wrong. My voice is lost in the shouts of glee from the guys around the club. Some even high-five and slosh their liquor.

  “Thora,” Nikolai says again. “Focus.”

  What? I pull my gaze off the surrounding people and back on him. “You said my nose,” I say, wishful thinking, I guess.

  He laughs. “No, myshka. I said your nipple.” Again, he’s unflinching. Like he’s done this before.

  “Have you done this before?” I question. “Pierced a nipple, I mean.” I grimace at my own words. Why am I grimacing? He said nipple without flinching. I should be able to too. It’s on my body.

  “On men, yes. On women, no.” He says, “You’ll be my first.” This lessens what little to no excitement I had. But he seems okay with the idea. “Most of my firsts are crossed off, so you’re lucky.”

  Lucky. “I think…that’s a strong word.”

  He rephrases, “I may remember you for a while, Thora.” As though that’s a prize people seek with him. Maybe they do. He’s a performer—someone people observe from a distance. To be on his mind for even an ounce of time, that must be special to fans.

  “Why my…nipple?” I ask, trying not to scowl or wince or cringe. None of the above.

  “You tucked in your shirt before doing a handstand,” he explains. “You didn’t want to flash the crowds. I always choose the hardest consequences, the things people fear. You should know this.”

  Because I stalked him and wore sneakers, just so he’d choose me tonight? He’s so off-base, but he never asks. He just assumes everything.

  Waiting for my answer, guys start yelling at me to not pussy out and to grow a pair of balls. It makes me mad and angers me enough that my chest puffs out.

  I nod to Nikolai, my mind spinning at this agreement. Standing up and leaving in front of this crowd would take more strength than I have right now. It may be the gutsier move than staying here, half-under peer pressure, half-under my own stubbornness.

  “Sports bra,” Nikolai guesses.

  I inhale. “Maybe.” Yes.

  “I’m about to find out,” he tells me, “so there won’t be any maybes between us.”

  I’m keenly aware that his hand is on my thigh while the other holds the piercing gun. My legs hang loose around him.

  “One piercing,” he says deeply. “If you’re frightened, leave now. I don’t want you crying or suing me or the bar or Aerial Ethereal. We have a verbal contract that you’re consenting to this, yes?” This sounds rehearsed, like he’s said this plenty of times before to other girls and guys.

  “Yes,” I
nod.

  And then he removes his hand off my thigh, slipping it underneath the cotton of my tee. My breath hitches, his fingers skimming the smoothness of my bare skin, up to the line of my tight sports bra.

  Without removing my shirt, he rolls up the bra to my collarbone. Okay, I can do this. He moves inconspicuously—thankfully. The sandalwood scent of his cologne dizzies my head.

  He searches my eyes for reactions, reading me like an unraveling book. He hesitates for a prolonged second, and his eyes narrow at my blue glow necklace. “You’re single.”

  It clicks. It should’ve clicked way before now, but I must’ve had sensory overload to compute the necklaces to relationship statuses.

  Blue = single.

  Green = ?

  Red = ??

  I glance at his red necklace, more curious. “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m making sure you didn’t lie,” he tells me. “I don’t want an angry boyfriend in my face tonight.”

  “I didn’t lie,” I breathe. “You know…you could’ve just asked me if I was single.” Instead of guessing based on my reaction to the statement.

  He doesn’t say anything. His hand simply ascends to my left boob. Dear God. And he rubs my nipple between two of his fingers. My back arches in stiff awareness, the tequila from earlier doing nothing but covering me in a hot blanket.

  “Your eyes are black again,” he says casually, as though he’s not massaging my boob right now. “Thinking of sucking out my soul?” He actually asks this. A real question. His gray eyes penetrate mine for an answer.

  “No,” I whisper. “You already said that you’re the kind of guy who can’t be possessed.”

  “But you seem like a girl who’d try, even if it’s a losing battle.” All because I accepted the handstand challenge—that’s how he concluded this.

  Even if I could respond, I wouldn’t know what to say. He drops his gaze, and my nipple hardens for him. He slips his other hand beneath my shirt, piercing gun now closer to my boob. And it dawns on me.

  “You’re doing this blind.”

  He pauses off my fear. “Either that or I remove your shirt.”

  I shake my head repeatedly.

  “I won’t miss. Trust me.”

  “I don’t even know you,” I say softly, adrenaline pulsating through my veins. He has led me to the precipice of a cliff, pushed me off, and now he’s clasping my wrist. He can let go at any moment, and I will fall.