Because I feel him towering. I feel him studying me. He slips into the closet for a second, and I tighten my legs together for heat, my shoulders locked and curved forward. When he returns, he carries a black Aerial Ethereal sweatshirt and he holds it out to me.
I’m not too prideful to reject it. I pull the sweatshirt over my head, the soft fabric dwarfing my build, the hem at my knees. The longer we share company in silence, the longer my chest constricts. I strain my neck to look up at Nikolai. He nears me, and very slowly, he kneels, his hand on my thigh, now more eye-level than before.
I remain fixed and unmoving. My face tight. I just wait for him to fill the cavernous quiet.
The first thing he says is, “Are you okay?”
“Can’t you read me?” My voice is stilted and as cold as I feel.
His eyes finished their dance across my features long ago. “You’re angry and confused, and you wish I hadn’t hit your friend. You’re also upset that he left early, but you won’t admit that to me. And you’re freezing right now.”
My nose flares at his on-point assumptions.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “But I’m not the kind of man who’d stand by while someone berates you. Even if he’s your friend.”
“You’re twice his size,” I refute.
“It’s not like he was defenseless, Thora. He’s an athlete.”
And he assumed right. Again. Probably based on Shay’s height, frame, build—like he did me that first night in Vegas. “Can you at least pretend to be full of remorse and regret?” This would be so much easier.
“No. A devil protects his demon.”
I scowl.
His gaze flits all over me, branding me like the tip of a fire-poker. His sandalwood scent dizzies my head, and I try to stay resilient under his masculinity, the dominance that is nearly begging him to stand up, lay me back against his mattress and take control of me.
I can tell that he struggles to keep still on his knees. “Have you slept with him before?” There’s something in Nik’s eyes, something kept secret from me. I wonder if it’s jealousy. Or fear.
“No,” I say. “Shay set me up on a date with his teammate. He has no interest in me like that.” A chill runs up my spine, and a shiver snakes back down.
Nikolai rubs his hands along the tops of my thighs, the friction immediately warming the coldest parts of me.
I shut my eyes for a second, thinking. Trying to place why I feel so strange. And the thought clicks. I have to release this off my chest. When I open my eyes, his gray irises pierce me in questioning, a raging powerful storm.
With a sharp inhale, I’m swept in it.
“I didn’t choose you,” I tell him. The pain of the statement is a hot, metal knife, wedged between my ribs. “I chose the circus.” It barely alleviates the sting. Why does that hurt? If it was the truth, it shouldn’t hurt this badly. Right? It can’t be a lie. Because then Shay is right. Everything he said—
“I’m glad,” Nikolai says each word like they’re weighted with cement. His eyes redden the longer he holds my gaze, suppressing more emotion.
My chin quakes. He’s glad. I nod a couple times, letting this sink in.
And then he lifts me in his arms and tucks me to his chest, warmth blanketing me. We’re on his bed, beneath his comforter in seconds, and he just holds me, strong, muscular arms wrapped around my frame.
I press my forehead to his collar, trying not to shiver so much. He kisses my cheek and whispers soft Russian words that bathe my skin in heat. I turn them over in my mind, clinging onto what sounds like: Vot moe serce. And then others…that I can’t uncover.
I tilt my chin up, silently asking.
He repeats the Russian words, so deeply, but refuses to translate this time. It’s enough as it is. Whatever the meaning, it leaves me sweltering.
Act Twenty-Nine
“Are you still complicated, Thora?!” the hostess of The Red Death yells at me for the countless time. I now know her as Erin, twenty-four, aspiring model, friend of Camila’s.
I’ve been snatching the red “it’s complicated” necklace since Nikolai and I started dating, and likewise, I’ve never seen him without the red glowstick. So my choice is an easy one.
“Yeah!” I shout.
She passes me the red necklace, and I snap it on as I slip past the black curtain. I inhale hot, sticky air. The club is suffocating, the heat, the bodies—I immediately tie my dirty-blonde locks into a low pony, grateful for my white halter dress that lets my arms and legs breathe.
Camila presses a cold beer bottle to her forehead behind the bar. “The air conditioning is broken!” she shouts at me. She’s switched out her green “taken” necklace for a red crown. “We’re on a break!” She must notice me staring.
“Sorry!” I yell back.
She shrugs and slides me my usual drink: a tequila sunrise. “You look like you need this.”
I’d say it’s my RBF, but I’ve had a shit week. On top of the Shay and Nikolai fight, a guy grabbed my ass after my aerial hoop act—about an hour ago. And training has been difficult. I struggle to do these challenging drops on aerial silk. No matter how hard I try, I just freeze up.
The mental block keeps me from progressing. Being graceful and lithe is out of the question if I can’t perform the trick.
Self-doubt is a real killer.
“I did not sign up to drink in the pits of hell,” John grumbles as he plops on the barstool next to me. He wipes his sweaty forehead with his arm and wafts his black shirt away from his chest.
I raise my brows at him.
“Don’t give me that look.”
“You’re in a club called The Red Death. You don’t think what you just said was a little ironic?”
“Everything I say has a level of unamusing irony. It’s just the way it is. And unfortunately I have to live with myself longer than you do.” He motions to Camila.
“No,” Camila says, swatting his hand with a towel before she wipes the bar.
“At least quench my thirst while I’m dying here.” He huffs and I tug at the collar of my dress. “I say we leave in five minutes if they don’t fix the AC.”
Camila gapes. “What about me?”
“What about you? You’re being paid to suffocate. If I don’t get free booze, there’s no reason I should stay.”
I lift my drink. “Comradery.”
His eyes narrow at my tequila sunrise. “Is that free?” I see his eyes say: You call that comradery?
I suck the straw and bat my eyelashes innocently. “Bad day.”
John swivels back to his cousin. And very seriously says, “I’ve had the most tragic Saturday—”
“You consider every day a tragic one,” she cuts him off. “Nice try.”
He extends his arms and then touches his chest. “My life is excessively shitty. I should be given twenty shots for that.” He taps the bar aggressively.
Camila slaps his hand away again. “You cry wolf, there’s a difference.”
John rolls his eyes. “You’re delirious from the heat, Camila. Cry wolf…” He snorts. “I don’t cry wolf.” If he had a beer, he’d chug it right now.
I check the clock behind the bar. Nikolai should be here soon if Amour ended about an hour ago. As the thought exits my brain, a squish noise triggers all around the club.
Sprinklers lower from the rafted ceiling and spray the dancers, drinkers, and bartenders with ice-cold water. Splitting cheers of excitement and glee crack through the pop music, and my muscles even relax in the chilly sheets.
Camila mutters curses, her purple mascara running down her cheeks already. “A warning would’ve been nice!” she shouts at the backroom and removes her makeup with a towel. I didn’t put too much on tonight, so I think I’m safe on this front.
I turn to my left, to John. His dark brown hair dampens and sticks to his forehead. With his surly expression, you’d think a flock of birds just shit on his head.
I can’t help it—I laugh. Really hard
. It’s honestly like a raincloud has sprung and decided to trickle on his head. Ironic, yes.
John latches his surly gaze on me and flashes an ill-humored smile. “What are you laughing about? I’m not the one wearing white.”
My face falls, jaw drops. No. I’m not wearing a bra.
No.
I’m cool. It’s not that wet…but even as I think it, my hair is soaked already. The sprinklers never dialing down. I slowly glance at my body…my nipples visible. The barbell piercing visible. My orange boy-short panties.
Visible.
What. Do I do?
John says, “I’d cheers to this shitty day, but oh—I can’t. I’m just crying wolf.”
Camila sighs and gives in to his incessant bickering, twisting the cap off a Bud Light. She slides it over to him. “Shut up.”
He collects the beer. “Trust me, I would love nothing more than to stop hearing my voice, but I have vocal cords, so—blame God. I should’ve been mute.”
“Truer words, old man.” Timo fits in between our stools and rests his elbows on the wet bar. He’s shirtless, in tight black jeans and when he pushes back his dark, drenched hair, I catch John giving him a clear once-over, swigging his beer. If Timo notices, he doesn’t let on. “I need four shots of your best vodka.” He places two hundred dollar bills on the bar, soaking in water, and catches me looking. “Won a grand this afternoon.”
“Yeah, and you lost five grand yesterday,” John retorts. I cringe. That much?
Timo chooses to ignore John. When Camila reaches for shot glasses, she slips on the wet floor, and just barely catches the counter before she goes down.
I give her the thumbs-up and then act like I’m rubbing the back of my neck, my arm successfully covering my nipples. I just…can’t stand up. That’s okay. It’s all good. I’m living…life.
It feels hot in here again and it’s still raining.
Hell.
John was right.
We’re in hell. Where the reigning devil throws you in and says step out of your box, Thora James. My box consists of dark-colored clothes that can’t possibly turn see-through. My box has back-up plans and emergency tampons. I can only leave it on two accounts: under the influence of tequila sunrises or under the charming persuasion of Nikolai Kotova.
The latter is missing.
Drink up.
I guzzle my cocktail.
“Whoa, slow down, Thora James!” Timo yells at me, his hand on my shoulder.
I raise a finger at him, still chugging.
Both John and Timo watch me until I finish the last drop.
“Bad day?” Timo asks me with furrowed brows, his lips near my ear so I can pick up his words.
“Sort of,” I say, more softly, staring at the bottom of my cup. It’s a sad cup now.
“Sort of?!” John shouts at me. “You got a free fucking drink for sort of?” He glares at Camila.
Camila points at his beer. “Ah, no complaining, cuz.”
Timo laughs. “That’s asking too much of him.”
Camila finishes pouring Timo’s shots, and I’m about to order another drink but she winks at me, already snatching the carton of orange juice. Good friends, I think with a smile.
John rotates to Timo fully. “At least I don’t fuck middle-aged, pot-belly bastards.” This took a…weird turn. My eyes uneasily dart between them.
Timo stares straight ahead at the bar, wearing a pained smile, his abs constricting in his lean build. “Potbelly bastards…” He lets out a weak laugh. “Wow, that’s a new one for you, John.” Timo downs a shot.
“You can’t be offended by what you sleep with,” John retorts, his jaw locking.
Camila thankfully passes me the tequila sunrise and she unfortunately gestures to my boobs. Nips, she mouths.
I’m well aware. I’m a walking Saturday tragedy.
Or—technically I’m sitting. Fantastic.
Timo laughs weakly again. “Right.” His palms are on the soaked bar, a chill wringing the air from the sprinklers.
While he swigs his beer, John stands, an inch taller than Timo, and smoothly slides behind him. I’ve never seen Timo tense before. But he does, especially as John rests his hands on the counter, on either side of Timo, essentially caging him in.
Damn.
It’s hot.
It’s even hotter when Timo turns his head, just slightly, to look at John. And John stares down like you deserve better than middle-aged, pot-belly bastards.
Camila has her fingers to her smile, watching them like me.
John’s hand falls to Timo’s waist, and he takes another step towards the bar, Timo’s chest pressing against the counter’s lip and John’s pelvis up against Timo’s ass. Okay, I’ve never seen Timo so flushed. John whispers in his ear, and there’s no way I can make out the words from the pop song and spray of water.
“God of Russia! God of Russia!”
My shoulders lift at the new chant.
“Go get ‘em,” Camila tells me with another wink. She hands me my glass of liquid courage, and I spring off the barstool, forgetting for a moment that I’m in a see-through dress with a pierced nipple and bright orange panties.
I gulp the tequila sunrise, no longer feeling the burn of the alcohol. I leave my post at the bar to find Nikolai in the crowds. He hasn’t stopped doing the Saturday night piercings and tattoos.
I told him not to.
I’ve noticed that out of every day of the week, he lets loose the most on this one. He allows himself one night to be uninhibited, to drink past his limit, to observe crowds, to read their body language and push them out of their comfort zone. It’s a small glimpse of the kind of man he would’ve been—had he never raised three preteens and taken on more responsibility.
I would never take this fun from Nikolai.
But he’s been kind enough not to choose body parts that are overtly sexual. No boobs, no asses, no thighs, definitely no nipples (his words). And he picks more guys now than girls, which is nice.
“God of Russia! God of Russia!”
I follow the chant towards the side entrance, where he usually enters as a “Masquerade employee”—John calls it bullshit since he can’t even use that door. Me either.
“Hey, dance with me, baby!” a drunk preppy dude says behind me. He clasps my hips, both of us doused and the spray of water seems to be heavier here. I try to wiggle out and slip on the wet marble. He catches me before I face-plant, my heart rocketing to my throat.
I dropped my drink. On my strappy white heels.
No.
One fail after another.
Something pokes at my butt. He’s grinding up against me without permission. This. This is what happens when you meet drunken fools in clubs. And you’re not a drunken fool yet yourself.
“God of Russia! God of Russia!”
The chanting is closer. Louder. Come here. Light bulb moment. I do have a voice. “NIK!” I shout. Then I try to squirm out of the guy’s grasp again. “Hey, no thanks.” He cups my butt.
Honestly.
This is more than rude now.
I spin around on the green collared-shirt guy, pushing him physically in the chest, but he thinks I’m doing a creative dance move and clutches my wrists, tugging me closer. “No,” I tell him.
He either can’t hear me or he’s too drunk to process the very important word. Ice cold sheets rain on us. His eyes are right on my hardened nipples. As though they’re laser beams, shooting out rainbows.
And no—they’re not even that magical.
“God of Russia! God of Russia!” That sounds right next to—
Nikolai hooks his arm around my waist, physically pulling me into his body and then shoving the other guy away with his hand. The groping guy squints at Nikolai, his lids droopy. “We were dancing—”
“No you weren’t.”
The guy seems to finally register Nikolai’s size and territorial glare. And what’s crazier, the energetic crowd that followed him spreads out into a circl
e, leaving us in the open center like Nikolai is about to breakdance. A burly Red Death employee even slides over a chair.
I guess this is where his stage will reside tonight.
Smack dab in the middle of the club.
You are in a see-through dress in the center of a circle, Thora.
Dear. God.
I spin into Nikolai’s chest, and he rests a hand on the back of my neck, still watching the preppy guy closely. He motions to a bouncer near the door and they thread the masses to escort him away.
The power he has on Saturdays is not as foreign anymore.
But it still shrinks me.
I know I can never be like him, not to this extent. Some forms of confidence are natural, a gift that can’t be learned. Like Timo. Nikolai once told me that he couldn’t remember a time where Timo didn’t know who he was. No questioning. No doubt. But he said it didn’t make it easier.
Timo charged at life.
But life wasn’t always ready for him.
I’m not as envious as I used to be. I’m more satisfied with who I am. Thora James: a series of fails but she’ll stand up again.
I can most definitely live with that.
Nikolai tilts up my chin, and he studies my current clutch onto him. I study his wet hair, pushed out of his face. The water that rolls along his skin and drips off his lashes. It’s not the most profound case study, but it warms my chilled blood.
“God of Russia!”
“They’re calling for you,” I say. Step back, Thora. I will. Baby steps.
“I hear that.” And then he snaps off my glow necklace.
I flinch at the abrupt motion and notice his… “Nikolai…” He wears a green glow necklace. He’s been wearing that this whole time. I shuffle back from him, forgetting about my see-through dress. I just have to see him, it.
Red strobe lights still comb over the club, but for the first time in months, he’s declaring to everyone that he’s taken.
I’m smiling.
He’s not. Because his gaze rakes my body with conflicting expressions: arousal and concern. Maybe he’s worried that I’m leaping out of my box tonight. Maybe he’d rather push me than unforeseeable circumstances do it for him.
Amour Amour Page 23
