Amour Amour

by Krista Ritchie

  “Surlier than now?” I ask with the raise of my brows.

  “You’re meeting the most cheerful me there is. I can’t help it if the world is fucking lousy. There’s not much to take pleasure in. And the only reason more people aren’t like me is because they’re living in a fantasy world of cupcakes and daffodils and—”

  “Glitter,” a guy suddenly interjects, sliding onto a stool, two separating us. “Can’t forget the glitter, old man.”

  John solidifies, and he shoots the new guy a glare as dark as thunderstorms and lightning. It’s a look only reserved for people you know.

  I whip my head from one to the other. It’s like they’re silently having a conversation through their eyes. I scan the young guy’s features: dark brown hair, long in the front so the tips brush his eyelashes. Pale skin. Thin, almost gangly build underneath a leather jacket. Topping off his look with high-cut jean shorts and boots.

  By the shorts alone, he seems a bit brazen. And not one of the tobacco-chewing, sunglass-wearing assholes that I’m supposed to repel.

  John breaks the death-stare first. “There are ten other blackjack tables, Timo. Go find another one.”

  Unperturbed, Timo places a tall stack of chips on the green felt. “I would, definitely, go find another one. You are my least favorite dealer in all of The Masquerade. Congratulations on that, by the way. And yet, I have this feeling—” he touches his chest dramatically “—that today you’re going to bring me some luck, old man.”

  “Stop calling me old man,” John retorts, his mood darkening as the seconds pass by. “I’m twenty-fucking-five. Don’t make me bring over security again.”

  Timo shrugs. “Do it,” he eggs on and then nods to me. “Sorry about this. John doesn’t understand that I’m twenty-one, and he can’t throw me off his table.”

  John lets out a short, humorless laugh. “He’s eighteen. And he has a fake ID that everyone in this place overlooks because his last name is Kotova.”

  What? My eyes threaten to pop out of my face, and my mouth falls. I focus on Timo again. His hair is the same dark shade as Nikolai’s and his eyes are the same light gray. But his body is built differently, less muscle mass than Nik. My mind reroutes to John’s statement—about how The Masquerade provides special privileges to Kotovas.

  That seems highly unlikely. Right?

  “I’m sure he’s twenty-one,” I say. “A casino can’t let someone underage gamble just because of his last name.” Don’t they have undercover cops to crack down on that law?

  Timo grins, his smile magnetic. “I like you,” he announces and leans forward, holding out his hand. “Timofei Kotova. Born in Munich. Raised in New York, mostly. You are?”

  I shake his hand. “Thora James. Born and raised in Cincinnati.”

  John gives me a supreme withering glare, as if I just made a blood pact with the enemy.

  “Cincinnati,” Timo muses, his eyes shimmering. “I’ve been to Cleveland once. I was four, I think.”

  “Riveting,” John says, surly.

  “We’re not all John Ruiz. Born in Las Vegas. Raised in Las Vegas.” Timo’s eyes fill with mock enthusiasm. “You are stupendous, my friend.”

  “We’re not friends,” John retorts. “And my family is from Colombia.”

  Timo raises his brows like so what? “And my family is from Russia, old man. Want to battle?”

  John pinches the bridge of his nose, his sour expression overtaking his features. He lets out a heavy sigh.

  I tentatively slip back into the conversation. “I still don’t understand why the Kotovas get a reprieve.”

  “Because we’re awesome,” Timo tells me, eating some of the Chex mix.

  John steals the bowl back, setting it away from us. “Let me break it down for you, Thora. There are three different Aerial Ethereal shows just at The Masquerade.” He counts on his fingers. “Viva, Infini, and Amour. The Kotovas make up over one-third of the cast for each show.”

  Timo raises his fist in the air.

  John’s expression says: I so want to smack the back of your head. He huffs and continues, “Some Kotovas are even the directors and coaches. The Masquerade acts like they’re demi-gods, so yes, they let the underage kids pass through security as long as they look twenty-one-ish.” His stormy gaze returns to Timo. “And by the way, you can’t pass as twenty-one. You look like a child.”

  “So wait,” I cut in before Timo can reply. I extend my arms, my head spinning from the info. “Is your beef with Aerial Ethereal performers or the Kotovas?”

  Timo’s eyes brighten. “Great question.”

  “Both,” John growls.

  “Alright then,” Timo says, “seeing as how I’m doubly hated by the dealer, beating you will be doubly rewarding.” He pushes his chips across the green felt and nods to me again. “You playing?”

  “Just watching,” I tell him.

  John grumbles something under his breath as he reluctantly shuffles the cards, clearly surrendering despite his speech. This must happen a lot.

  He deals the cards quickly: a king and seven for Timo and a queen for himself. John flips the edge of the face-down card to peek beneath it.

  Timo raises his brows. “Anything interesting?”

  John stays silent and maintains his I loathe the world, my job, and everyone in the universe face.

  “That bad, huh?” Timo grins, unzipping his leather jacket.

  “Just play,” John says roughly. When his gaze falls to Timo’s torso, he rolls his eyes. “Why the fuck aren’t you wearing a shirt? Seriously? Seriously.” He looks to me. “Do you see this?”

  Oh yeah.

  Timo is bare-chested beneath the leather. I try desperately to restrain a smile at John’s distress. There’s something about it that’s more comical than anything.

  “Is there a shirt policy?” I ask, biting my gums.

  “Yes, there’s a shirt policy. Everywhere there’s a shirt policy. People don’t just gamble without clothes.”

  “He’s wearing a jacket,” I say. I can’t be a fashion police. Sweats. Leotard. Sneakers. My regular ensemble.

  “I am wearing a jacket,” Timo says to John. “She makes a perfect point.” He has that same intense eye contact that Nikolai does, the one that sucks someone into his vortex. John has great, moody defenses, but clearly he’s fallen into Timo’s trap more than a few times. Or else Timo would’ve been kicked off the stool from the get-go.

  “Are you staying or not,” John snaps, referring to the card game.

  Timo waves his hand like he’s slicing air. I’ve seen the movie 21, so I know that he’s staying this round. John flips his card: a five.

  He turns another: a ten. John busts.

  Timo’s face breaks in pure elation, and his excitement bubbles into me.

  “Congrats,” I say with a brighter smile. John hands him a couple of red chips, and Timo gives me a thumbs up before he places another bet.

  “You shouldn’t be congratulating him,” John tells me as he deals the cards again. “Not after what his brother did to you last night.”

  I go cold, like the air conditioning wafted a chilly gust on me. Did he really have to bring that up? I’ve been doing an okay job of forgetting The Red Death and that piercing. My hand almost flies to my boob, as if protecting it on impulse.

  “Which brother would that be?” Timo’s brows furrow slightly as he skims his cards. A five and a seven against John’s eight.

  “Oh you know, the one who gets off on tattooing question marks and arrows on girls’ asses.”

  I internally cringe.

  Timo taps the table, and John deals him a ten. I add the numbers in my head quickly. Nikolai’s little brother busts at twenty-two.

  “Fuck,” Timo curses, setting his hands on his head. Then he glances at me. “Nikolai tattooed your ass last night? That was you?” He appraises me swiftly like he’s trying to fit an image to the memory.

  He was there? I wonder if I saw him… “No…” I trail off, half in
thought as I scrutinize his features a little more. “He pierced me.”

  Timo’s face breaks into a giant grin. “That’s right. You’re the titty piercing. I thought I recognized you.”

  Titty piercing. My eyes bulge. That’s what I’m being referred to as?

  Timo snaps his fingers in remembrance. “I even cheered for Nikolai to lose that round.”

  So he was the lone guy, rooting for me. Wait—I hone in on the way he phrased that. He just wanted his brother to fail that time, not necessarily hoping I’d win for any other reason. Way to go, Thora.

  His gaze flits down my body for a quick second. “You look different in the day, you know…maybe it’s because I’m sober right now.” He stretches his arms over his head and turns back to the table like let’s do this thing.

  Just like that, the ordeal rolls off his back, like it was a small moment, insignificant and ordinary. It encourages me to do the same, even if Nikolai believes it was monumental.

  “The world has laws for a reason,” John tells him as he deals the cards. “You should abide by them. It’s called being an adult.”

  “Really?” Timo asks. “I think it’s called being a stiff.”

  I ask John, “Are you one of those people who never cross the street on a red signal?”

  “Yeah, because I want to fucking live. I like my life.”

  “Really?” Timo says again, actual surprise coating his face. “You should be an actor, man, because you have the whole ‘I hate everything’ vibe pretty down pat.”

  John’s gloomy face actually darkens, and Timo connects with it, locking eyes, never shying away. His pink lips slowly curve upward the longer John glowers.

  Then Timo puckers his lips, kissing the air and winks at him.

  “God,” John groans and looks to the ceiling like why me? I’ve had those moments with God myself. Usually I feel like I’m complaining to the ceiling tiles though.

  Timo waves his hand to stay over his cards, and he wins the next round. John shakes his head, aggravated the longer he has to endure Timo. After a few more hands, a server swings by and asks for drink orders. I pass since I may head to the gym later, for more practice.

  “Can’t,” Timo tells the server. “I have a show tonight.”

  His easy brush-off of the liquor surprises me. Maybe because he seems more irresponsible than I thought. But being in John’s presence doesn’t help. He makes everyone under seventy-five look like a rebellious teen.

  Timo wins another round and throws his hands in the air. He laughs into a grin as he looks to me, and he points. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re lucky, Thora James?”

  I think back to the piercing. “I’m usually not.”

  “You are for me,” he says. “Stay comfortable. We’re in this for the long haul.”

  John grumbles under his breath like Timo just speared him in the chest. And he starts dealing again. Timo leans forward, and when he glances my way, with sparkling, dazzled eyes—full of youthful energy—he ropes me in. Lassoing me with charm. Just like his older brother.

  Nikolai possesses a darker version of it, but it’s a talent that I find myself envying again. It’s something that separates an ordinary person into something captivating. Spellbinding and extraordinary.

  I can’t take my eyes off Timo, and he’s not even on stage.

  I wonder if this is a gift you’re born with. If it’s something that I’ll never be able to learn. Part of me, the more cynical side that I try to stomp away, believes so.

  But the brightest side says—maybe. Maybe I can be something more than I am. If I can learn at all, the best place is here. Vegas. Where the Kotovas reside.

  Act Six

  I lie wide awake, not because I’m tormented by tomorrow’s final cut or the discomfort of Camila’s couch.

  My mind snaps alert because of the sounds that emanate from Camila’s bedroom. Her breathy moans puncture the air, mixing with her boyfriend’s heavy groans. The squeak of the mattress springs is even audible through the thin walls. I’ve only ever heard noises like this from HBO’s True Blood.

  And as soon as the sounds of ecstasy in the apartment end, a new type of sound begins. Screaming. Yelling. Not-so-pleasurable noises that vibrate the air. My imaginative mind starts to create visions of Camila having rough, angry sex with a vampire. Only this vampire is a giant asshole who ends sex by arguing about stupid things.

  Needless to say, my imagination is wrong.

  Vampires don’t exist.

  And just as Camila’s non-vampire boyfriend stops screaming, the pleasurable moaning begins again. It’s a cycle that has kept me awake all night.

  In college, I chose to live in a single dorm after my freshman year fiasco. My roommate brought her boyfriend over almost every night, and I slept on Shay’s futon more than I did my own bed. I managed to avoid other people’s sex noises for that long.

  My clean record is now broken.

  Camila’s boyfriend must be stellar because the bedposts thump against the walls. I smash my pillow over my face and exposed ears. I just don’t want to be half-asleep tomorrow. Zombies can’t act like felines in heat.

  Sleep, I command myself.

  Camila cries out in pleasure.

  Sleep, Thora.

  Please.

  * * *

  My eyes are heavy-lidded, and the gym’s fluorescent lights sear my pupils. I yawn into my jacket sleeve as Kaitlin slumps down on the blue mat beside me.

  “Late night?” she asks with a mild look of disdain. I catch the very, very hidden meaning.

  “Not with anyone,” I tell her. Definitely not Nikolai. “I was by myself.” That sounds like a lie for some reason. “I just had bad sleep.”

  She nods, her guards dropping. “Me too.”

  Not only did Camila go at it on the bed last night, but she switched to the shower. To top it off, when I finally caught some shuteye, I had a nightmare.

  And I fell off the couch, face-planting, hard. Which triggered a bloody nose. Now I have a bruise on the bridge and another bruise on my cheekbone to show for it. Concealer covered some of the purplish tint but not all.

  “You nervous?” Kaitlin asks. Her brunette bun is so tight that the follicles along her hairline look ready to snap.

  “Kind of,” I say honestly with another yawn in my arm. “Are you?”

  She nods and leans in close to me to whisper, “Elena has been chatting with Ivan in Russian all morning.”

  Her gaze drifts to the aerial silk, where Ivan and Elena stand. As though about to instruct her. Like she’s already been awarded the role.

  Kaitlin reaches for her toes, stretching. “I swear these things are made for people who can talk their way into them.”

  I’m not a fan of that reality—the one that says the hardest-working individual will always lose out to the most sociable. And I don’t want to live in that world. Shay would tell me that I have no choice, that this isn’t fiction. I have no say in which world I live in.

  As I spread my legs open into a split, I reach as far as I can, my muscles extending with the position. The back doors suddenly burst open, and the directors march into the gym, carrying folders, tablets and clipboards. They exude an air of superiority, vacuuming all oxygen.

  Nikolai is among them.

  He chats with Helen as they near the long table. Dressed in his usual gym attire (shorts, red bandana, shirtless), I wait for him to turn his head and acknowledge the four of us left to audition. But he’s in a heated discussion with Helen, and I catch him gesturing to Ivan by the aerial silk more than once.

  Helen raises her hands in defense, and Nikolai’s lips snap shut, his nose flaring. She speaks calmly, it seems. And then her eyes plant on me.

  I freeze, wondering if I was just caught eavesdropping. Everyone was doing it though—I assume. I’m about to look to Kaitlin for verification when Helen calls my name, “Thora.”

  I instinctively jump to my feet. Glancing briefly at Nikolai, I can’t read him beyond his
six-foot-five, masculine dominance. He’s an intimidating fortress in a gym full of straw huts.

  “You’re first today,” Helen tells me. “We’d like to see some basic acro dance lifts. We want to know how well you work with Nik. He’ll lead you through them.”

  I try to bottle some of my nerves, slowly approaching the center of the mat. In the corner of my eye, I spot Elena twisting the red silk in her fist, clearly being instructed by the choreographer to practice. My stomach twists and backbends and somersaults—in the worst ways.

  “Thora,” Nikolai breathes, very close. He grips my attention, his concentrated gaze on me. “Don’t watch them. Right now, this is about you and me. Do your personal best, so that whatever happens, you have no regrets.”

  I inhale a deeper breath, flooded with more confidence. I nod and retrain my mind, blocking out my competition.

  He steps even closer, and I sense my ribcage jutting out in a heavy rhythm. He notices, concern knotting his brows. Which only causes me to breathe harder. Fantastic.

  His intense steel gaze searches my features with headiness, care and lust. Intimate. A combination for long-time lovers, for something greater than a friend. Than anything we are. His acting is up to par. That’s for sure.

  His large hand cups my oval face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. His frown darkens, and heat builds across my skin at one thought: what if he’s not acting?

  “Did someone hit you?” he asks lowly. His jaw muscles tic.

  The bruise. “No, I, um.” I roll my eyes at myself. “I fell.”

  Doubt crosses his features.

  I realize falling is a cliché excuse used to cover worse things. But it’s sadly the truth here.

  He says slowly, “You fell. On your face?”

  I sound like a royal klutz. Someone you would definitely not want as an acrobatic partner. “I had a nightmare,” I explain, my throat closing. I’m a ball of hot lava right now, the swelter spreading and it’s not just from embarrassment. It’s just—he’s so close. Of course he is, Thora.

  “Must have been some nightmare.”