Amour Amour

by Krista Ritchie

  I nod once. It’s the only confident choice I can make in this moment. Everything else is fragile and gray.

  Act Thirty-Four

  I curl up on the couch in Nikolai’s suite while I wait for him, silent tears leaking onto a decorative pillow. Katya and Luka whisper quietly at the kitchen bar, her phone pinging each time she receives a new text. I’m mentally and emotionally spent, but these silent tears won’t cease.

  Minutes pass in a daze before I hear the door open. “Where is she?” Nikolai’s worried voice fills me whole.

  “Sleeping,” Katya says. “I think she may leave, Nik.” The sound of his feet dies midway.

  Luka interjects in a whisper, “We don’t know that, Kat.”

  “You saw her. She was thinking about it, and her parents looked upset. It’s all because she’s here. Normal parents don’t want their kid in Vegas.” She sniffs. “She can’t leave, Nik.”

  He speaks in hurried, low Russian, pain—I hear pain in his voice.

  “No,” Katya suddenly cries. “Don’t say that.”

  His tone carries so much weight. “It’s not our choice to make, Kat.”

  “But you love her. And she loves you.”

  I shut my eyes, tears sliding down my slick cheeks. My whole chest heavy. My whole heart full. One has been crushing the other.

  He whispers Russian that I can’t understand. That I don’t even pretend to.

  “You have to fight for her,” Katya cries. “Nik, you have to.”

  “Katya, listen to me,” Nikolai says. “That’s not what this is about.”

  She speaks Russian.

  For the first time since I’ve known her—she speaks to him in clipped, pained Russian. A sob attached to her words.

  He replies in the same language with finality. And Luka has to be the one to say, “It’ll be okay, Kat.”

  Seconds later, strong arms slip underneath me, and Nik carries me to his bedroom. I keep my eyes closed, afraid to see Katya’s expression. I never thought I’d make a mark on someone’s life. I never thought people could love me that way. I’m average. Ordinary.

  But I’m beginning to realize something…

  We all traverse in and out of people’s worlds, leaving footprints. Some larger, some smaller, but there is always a mark. We can’t sweep it away.

  In this moment, I think I’d like to sweep every mark. Every footprint. Every trace of me. No one will be hurt from my aspirations. From my pursuit of happiness.

  It’s best that way.

  My back sinks into the soft, metallic comforter, his fingers stroking my cheek, a gentle breeze. I’m scared to open my eyes. To meet his. I’m supposed to stay in Vegas for my career, not for love. And I wonder if I’ll forget this. If he’ll flood me with sentiments too strong to let go.

  I sense his knees on either side of my build. I sense his hands on either side of my head. “Open your eyes, Thora,” he whispers.

  Wake up.

  I do. I am.

  He hovers over me, his eyes directly in line with mine, matched, unwavering. Those gunmetal skies bearing down from up above. I can see, clearly, that he knows everything. His sister must have texted him the entire story that she overheard.

  Tears slide from the creases of my eyes. “I’m a fool.”

  “No.” He rubs my cheek with his thumb, drying the wet streaks. “You’re brave.”

  I’m about to shake my head, but he clutches my face, keeping my gaze fixed on him. It hurts so badly. The truth. Every word my parents said. The ultimatum. My end. “It’s over.”

  “It’s only over if you want it to be,” he refutes.

  Instinct, I try to shake my head again. He clutches me tighter. “Nik…” My face twists as I cry. “You don’t understand. I’m not good enough.” I shield my face with my palms, and he brings both down, grasping my wrists.

  His beautiful gray gaze is reddened but hard, determined, assured. Confident. Powerful. As though he has faith in me. As though his belief will carry me further than their doubt.

  “You’re better than you were,” he says lowly. “I promise you that.”

  I remember what Shay said at the pool party. He gives you false hope, so he can sleep with you. “You’re designed to say good things to me,” I breathe, my eyes raw, my throat dry. “You’re my boyfriend.”

  He inhales a strong breath and his jaw muscles tic. “You have to separate what I say as your trainer and as your boyfriend.”

  “It’s hard,” I whisper, “because both my trainer and my boyfriend are in agreement, aren’t they?”

  He stays quiet, not denying that he wants me here, in Vegas.

  I ask the most painful question of the night, each word opening me whole. “How much of you wants me to stay because you love me…and how much because you know I will succeed?”

  “Thora…” His gray eyes glass, distraught. He tries to rope me in, to lasso me one last time. Not even his intensity can lift me higher. He lowers his body closer to mine. And then he says, very slowly, “I don’t love you.”

  My body collapses.

  And his eyes begin to pool. “I don’t love you, Thora.” Why does he have to repeat it? He clutches my cheek as I try to turn away. He forces my tearful gaze to his watery one. “I will tell you this every single day if that’s what you need to hear. Just to believe these truths. You’re good enough, myshka. Because you work hard. Because you’re willing to learn. And because you have talent. You wouldn’t be able to pick up skills this quickly if you didn’t. And if you go home now, you’re giving up.”

  His words rush through my veins, a drug that tries to soothe the painful parts of me. “But if I stay, there is no guarantee that I’ll land a contract.” I hear my parents in my ear. I hear Shay. I hear everyone else but him.

  “There was never a guarantee. And still, you flew out here. You still made a life here. All on your own.” His hands warm my cheeks. “There are so many people in this world afraid to do what you’ve done. They’ll wait around hoping that something will make it easier—a stable job, a friend in the city, any extra security. When it doesn’t happen, they spend the rest of their lives without their passion, wondering what could have been. Don’t latch onto their fear. Not now.”

  I hear him. I hear his words that come from a place of love for me. But nowhere in them does he convince me to stay for him. Not once.

  My seesawing mind starts to lean towards him. “I think I know why people are so afraid to do this,” I whisper, my face scrunching as I try to hold back another wave of tears. “It feels greater than me.”

  Nikolai pulls me into his chest, lying on his side, so that I’m cocooned against him. I bury my face in the warmth of his body, and he strokes my hair, one hand protectively on my neck. “I made one choice in my life that scared me,” he says, “and it felt much bigger than I was at the time.”

  I think I know. When he was twenty. When he took on raising his brothers and sister. I lift my chin up to him.

  He stares down. “They weren’t little kids—Timo, Luka and Katya. They were at the parts of their lives that would affect them, shape who they were. I felt a responsibility to make sure they turned out okay. Every day was hard. Every day is hard. But the things we love—the people we love—give us reason to keep living. To keep trying.” He wipes the last of my tears with his thumbs, my attention all his. “The things greater than us, Thora, they’re not impossible. It’s just fear talking, telling you that you can’t when you can. I know you can.”

  I stare in awe of him, wondering how someone can fill me with so much more than I’ve ever been able to give myself. I was always my number one cheerleader. My number one fan. I think I’ve been replaced. “Where did you come from?” I ask what he asked me once.

  He just gives me a small smile, tucking a strand of my hair, less distressed by my hesitance. Maybe he sees what I feel.

  I can do this.

  It’s not over.

  You’ll be good enough. But I press my forehead to his ch
est, silently drifting into the fragile memory of tonight. My parent’s offer and my father’s ultimatum. If I reject both, I may damage my relationship with them. I’m not even sure if it’ll be beyond repair—since I’ve never hurt them before.

  “What is it?” he asks me, studying my complex state of mind.

  “Is this worth hurting my parents?”

  “They should be happy if you’re happy, Thora.”

  It’s not that simple. I wish appearances didn’t matter—but they do. I don’t want to shame them for having a daughter who works in Vegas, in a risqué club. Or for dropping out of college. And likewise, I don’t want to feel ashamed for what I do with my life.

  “This sucks.” My voice cracks.

  He hugs me closer. Tighter, small in his protective, strong arms. And his lips brush my ear. “Sleep on it,” he breathes. “And I’ll be here when you wake up.”

  This is an offer that I can say yes to, without falter.

  Act Thirty-Five

  “If you stay in Vegas, you have to support yourself,” my mother tells me over the phone. I lie on my stomach, still on Nikolai’s bed. Only six in the morning, still dark outside.

  “I have been.” I block out Phantom firing me and the second decision I have to make in a short period of time. This has to be resolved first.

  She inhales sharply, like she may start crying. I exhale deeply, trying to combat my own emotions. Round two.

  Nikolai rubs my back, leaning against the headboard. Here for support. It’s a little easier.

  My cellphone is cold to my ear.

  “I thought your father and I taught you that college is more important than…” Her voice breaks. Than a boy. I hear the unsaid words.

  “I’m staying because I have a better chance at landing a contract here, Mom. I can still train until January.”

  She’s quiet for a moment, but a muffled voice leaks onto the line. It must be my dad. Then she asks, “Are you still going to work at that club?”

  Had I not been fired, I would’ve said yes. I feel that answer in my bones. “I think so,” I say what my gut tells me. “I need the money.”

  I imagine my father’s gutted expression, the disappointment, the rage, frustration. It seeps into me, but I don’t back down.

  “Did this boy sway you?” my mom asks, her voice shaking with hurt. I already know she probably didn’t sleep last night.

  But neither did I. My thoughts were set to a noisy radio channel that I couldn’t turn off.

  Before I answer, my father’s anger is apparent from the background, “He’s not a boy, Dana. He’s a man.” As though Nikolai is old enough to take advantage of me, to brainwash me, to force me here.

  Nikolai must’ve heard him through the speakers, even though it’s pressed to my ear. His hand stops its rhythmic motion, placed on my lower back. And he removes it altogether. I watch him stand up and disappear into the walk-in closet, simultaneously giving me space and getting dressed for the day.

  I tell my mom, “He just reminded me why I’m here.” I don’t need them to express their doubts, in any part of my life, so I quickly speak again. “This is the hardest choice I’ve had to make. But I’m not going back on it.” I’ve gotten this far.

  “We love you,” my mom cries. “Our door is always open for you. When you’re ready, you come home.”

  My chest tightens. “Thanks, Mom. I love you both too.” After another reiteration of these sentiments—with no interjections of good luck or love you from my father—we hang up. And I stuff my face in the pillow, groaning. You’d think after that I’d feel weightless, a certain kind of relief.

  But I’d prefer to sink into this bed and wallow for a good hour or two.

  Nikolai emerges from the closet, already in workout shorts, shirtless: his abs chiseled, the V of his muscles prominent by his waistband. He ties a rolled red bandana behind his head, strands of his hair already hanging over the fabric. “You okay?” he asks me, concern in his voice.

  “I’ve been better,” I whisper. I’ve never cried for that long or been that emotional in my entire twenty-one years of living. My eyes and throat feel like sandpaper. “Are we training?”

  He nods after he finishes tying the bandana. “Right now.”

  Right now?

  I glance at the bedside digital clock. It’s only six-thirty in the morning. My body is too heavy to move. I collapse back onto the pillow with another muffled groan, working my way up to rolling over. Roll over. You can do this.

  My muscles don’t budge.

  “Get dressed,” he orders, his tone already all business.

  I’ve left some clothes here, in case he calls an impromptu training session like this one. It happens often, but rarely this early.

  I mumble something that sounds like: in a minute. But with the pillow in my face, I doubt he hears me. The bed suddenly rocks, Nikolai kneeling on either side of my body.

  Lips to my ear, he whispers, “I’m giving you ten seconds.”

  That’s not long enough for my rusted joints to cooperate. Or maybe it’s all in my mind. That’s a definite possibility. “Thirty,” I mumble.

  “This isn’t a negotiation. My rules.”

  Okay. Okay—I’ll get up. I try propping my elbows, but I honestly end up hugging the pillow above my head. Mind and body, at war once again.

  “Five seconds left,” he warns me. Still on my stomach, I try to crane my neck over my shoulder.

  He’s practically straddling me. His pelvis in line with my ass. It’s a position I’ve never been in with another guy—especially not one who stares at me with harsh, tireless gray eyes. He gives me an expression like you’re here to train, myshka, not collapse in self-pity. Or have sex with him.

  And he’s right, of course.

  Get up, Thora. I prop my elbows on the mattress this time, but I hesitate, a mental, emotional, physical block. I think my pity party needs one more hour.

  Nikolai isn’t having it. “Time’s up.” He pulls my baggy tee off, leaving me in my lacy red bra, part of my Phantom costume. He won’t let me slack off, not for my emotions, not for him. Not for anything.

  I think I love him more for it.

  Love.

  It’s a strong word, but I’m not sure what else to call this. It’s greater than just like. It’s more powerful than friendship. If I’m not falling in love with him, then I’m missing the definition of the level right below it. Sort-of-love. Almost-love.

  Maybe-one-day-love.

  “You’re a slug,” he says, unclipping my bra. “A melancholic, defeated slug.”

  He’s trying to put a fire under my ass by insulting me, since I’m rarely sluggish or defeated. My lips rise in the pillow. I definitely love him.

  And then he yanks down my pants and lacy underwear, exposing my bare bottom. I feel him tense, and I look over my shoulder again. His severely stern gaze is locked on a new reddish bruise along my ass, which has begun to purple.

  From when the drunken guy slapped and grabbed me at Phantom last night.

  Out of instinct, I try to roll onto my back, to hide the shape of the mark, but his firm hand bears on my shoulders, keeping me in place.

  His chest rises and falls in a heavier rhythm. “Someone slapped you,” he deduces, his voice hollow, like the depths of a cave. My stomach overturns. I can’t see as well as him, but there must be five dots like fingerprints.

  “Hazards of the job,” I say under my breath.

  His unflinching, hot eyes burn holes right into me. And then he climbs off the bed, his muscles more flexed. I uneasily lift my pants back to my waist and clip my bra. “Nikolai…?”

  He stops short by the bathroom door, his back facing me. “Just…give me a second.” He’s collecting his anger, his volatile emotions that burst and harden his broad shoulders. Since Coco Roma, the costume shopping, we rarely talk about Phantom, almost not at all.

  I slide to the edge of the bed, waiting for him to turn around. “It rarely happens.”

&nb
sp; “Rarely?” He finally faces me, so much anguish contorting his features. “You think that’ll make me feel better?” His cold voice stings more. “I don’t want it to happen at all, Thora.”

  “I get bruises from training,” I defend. “Can you pretend that I just fell?”

  He looks at me like I stuck my fist in his chest. “No. I can’t pretend, because you didn’t just fall. A man assaulted you. I’m never going to be okay with that.”

  The weight of Roger’s proposition still hangs over my head. I need this job, and it’s become a whole hell of a lot risker than what it was. “I know you’re angry at me, but—”

  “I’m not angry at you. I’m furious at every piece of shit that walks into Phantom and believes they have the right to touch you.”

  I hang my head, the guilt pummeling me down. This probably wasn’t the reaction he hoped for.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” he asks lowly, reading me too well.

  I twist my small simple pinky ring, avoiding his gaze. “They cancelled my act last night, at Phantom.” I swallow hard. “It was right before my parents showed up.”

  “And?” His voice sounds tight, knowing this doesn’t end on a happy note. I wouldn’t be this sullen if it did.

  “They said the only way that I can still work there is if I perform my act in private shows.” I pause, but he stays quiet. So I continue on, “I don’t have many details to go on, but they said that I’d make a lot of money. And that I have to give them a decision today.”

  He rubs his face with his hands, as though he’s trying to wake up. Then he meets my eyes. “You already said yes.” It’s not a question. And the pain in his voice hurts me more.

  “I was going to…”

  He shakes his head repeatedly. “Thora, you have no idea what you’re getting into.”

  “It’s probably not as bad as you think.”

  He stares at me like I’m out of my mind. “You’re completely naïve if you believe there won’t be a sexual favor involved. They’ll make you strip, suck him off, give him—”