My eyelids slowly close, drowning in the way he thumps against my body: the melodic, hard, fast rhythm. Each time he slams into me, it’s like he’s trying to expel his pent-up emotions. I realize I should’ve asked how his day was, instead of worrying about a shower.
He rocks harder, and my noise dies in his palm.
Then he pulls out—ow—still erect, and he carries me to his bed. He tosses me on the mattress, tiny and little enough to throw me around. Usually it’s fun. But tonight, I think I need to ask, “How was your day?” I pant out the words.
He gives me a look like I asked about nuclear warfare in bed. And he crawls on top of me, kissing me deeply before he grips his shaft and slides right back in. Owww. I let out an audible cry, of pain, and he combs my hair affectionately, slowing his movement, only for a second.
This position is harder for me. Regular missionary—it’s like our hips don’t align right unless I have a pillow under my ass. And he’s not putting one there. Normally, he’ll turn on his side, making it more comfortable and easier.
My breath is shallow, and I close my eyes and just relax more. If he doesn’t want to talk yet, then I’d rather this be pleasurable. After another minute or two, he hits a peak. He’s gentler when he pulls out of me this time. So I think he’ll finally exhale, slow down, and hold me.
But he steps off the bed and yanks me to the edge. My heart hammers. And he lowers his head between my legs, kissing the spot—holy…shit. I reach out and clench his hair. I turn my cheek into the metallic comforter, noticing that he strokes himself at the same time his tongue flicks—
I moan.
He stares at me with a smile in his eyes.
This is more. Than what I thought would happen. Right now. I can’t even quantify how much time has passed. All I know is that he’s harder and I’m wetter. He flips me over, lifting me on my knees and hands. This is not going to go well.
“Nik,” I warn him, my heart thrashing. This is the worst position for us. He climbs onto the bed, kneeling behind me. He’s too tall. I’m too short, and our pelvises do not line up.
“Stay still,” he says.
Well no way am I going to move. He grasps my hips, lifting me higher so that I meet his cock, but now my knees are no longer on the bed. He slips in from behind. My arms quake, my fingers just barely touching the mattress.
I have very little support, but he has no trouble bracing my body weight. He leans forward, pushing even deeper, just to kiss the back of my neck. I shut my eyes and drift in the pulsing pleasure.
Maybe fifteen minutes later, he’s successfully fucked his emotions out. And I’m too exhausted to move or even consider a shower.
He holds me to his chest, brushing his fingers through my hair. I listen to his heartbeat slow, and I mentally try to reroute my brain to him, to his day. I hate when I’m so consumed by my own that I forget to ask. And I just hope that whatever went down, it’s not catastrophically bad.
It still feels likes he’s inside of me, even though he’s not. I cross my legs some, and then I ask, “What happened today?”
He exhales deeply and stares down at me.
I look up.
“Why do you think something happened?”
I’m not crazy. Am I? I didn’t make this up. “You’re just…more aggressive than usual.”
His brows furrow and his eyes flit down my naked body. “I didn’t hurt you…”
“No,” I say. “I mean, no more than usual.”
He glares. “I don’t enjoy hurting you when I sleep with you, just so you know.”
“It’s better than before,” I assure him.
He nods, relaxing a bit. “You’re right.”
“About…?”
He sighs heavily, another deep breath. “About something happening today.” He licks his lips and stares off for a second. When his eyes meet mine, they’re full of power, of what he always possesses, the unwavering contact. “I don’t know how to say it.”
My nerves escalate, and I sit up, not much. I just place an arm on his chest while he lies on his back. So that I’m the one staring down at him. So that he’s looking up at me. “Let me guess.”
His lips tic upwards. “Okay, myshka.”
I read his body language. He’s content now. Of course. But before, he was stressed. He’s been at work all day, so… “It has to do with Amour.”
He nods.
I take in the time. It’s almost at that five-month mark. Which means— “Elena,” I suddenly say. “It has to do with your partner.”
Surprise coats his face. I guessed right. “I’ve taught you well,” he murmurs.
He can’t dodge this. “What happened?” Elena is supposed to be in her first show next week, the aerial silk act returning to Amour.
His fingers skim the bareness of my shoulder blades. “She was fired.”
My face falls. “What?”
“She wasn’t improving to Aerial Ethereal’s standards, ‘not ready to perform’ they cited, and so management revoked her contract. They let her go this evening.”
My mind spins, trying to determine his sentiments on the situation and my own. He’s upset, I realize quickly. Really upset. The nonstop sex says enough. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “What does this mean for you?”
“They’re putting the aerial silk act on hiatus, not retiring it but not actively seeking a replacement. I spent five months with Elena, training her, working with her. And it’s all a waste.” His gray eyes storm below me.
I touch his strong jaw and kiss his lips gently. “It’ll be okay,” I say. “Helen and the rest of the directors love you.” But I can’t forget how Elena looked at me—in the gym. And I wonder how much time I ate from her training. He’s reading me right now. My lost expression.
“It’s not your fault,” he says.
Why didn’t I question it though? “Did you train her more than you did me?”
He’s quiet.
My stomach drops and I gape. “Nik.”
“I wouldn’t have practiced with her any more than I did, regardless if you were in Vegas or not.”
I want to believe him. Otherwise, it hurts too much to think that I may be the reason his act is shelved for eternity. And the reason why Elena was sent home.
That’s not how this is supposed to go. Not at all.
Act Forty-Two
It’s midnight, the gym empty and only half the lights turned on. The trapeze and Russian swing are shrouded in darkness. I’ve been here since noon and still no one has really filtered inside. It’s Thanksgiving, and instead of sulking about not being with family, not having the money for a plane ticket, I just focus on training.
I breathe heavily, lying supine on the blue mats. I still can’t land everything I saw in Amour, during that climatic group act. Not without being harnessed.
But I’m closer to nailing the aerial silk drop. When I fall, I’m now five feet from the floor, not seven. That has to count for something. Right?
The heavy double doors click open, and I prop my sore body on my elbows. The hall light streams into the darker area of the gym, until the door shuts. For a split second, I wonder if coming to the gym alone was such a good idea. But Nikolai had Thanksgiving festivities with his whole extended family, and I didn’t need him to miss that for me.
“You look exhausted.”
My shoulders sag at the familiar, deep voice. “It’s been a long day.”
Nikolai emerges into the light, his hands in his black slacks. He removes them as he sits in front of me, resting his forearms on his bent knees.
I notice a bit of…I motion to his hairline. “Pie?” I smile.
He brushes the pumpkin residue. “Dimitri.”
“Did you get him back?” I ask, slightly sad I missed it. You needed to train. That’s why you’re here, Thora. I know.
“With a butter cream pie.” His lips curve up in that charming smile, the one I see on Saturday nights. “I wish you were there.”
“This is m
ore important.” I hate that each word hurts to say and to hear.
He nods, this tension stretching between us, from the uncertainty of our futures. It’d be easier if we knew where we’ll stand. But we’re riding towards a big gray cloud.
The double doors click open again, louder voices emanating. “He was not flirting with me,” Katya refutes. Nikolai stiffens, but Katya is still in darkness, the door thudding closed.
“I fear for you, sister,” Timo says. “Said boy tells you that you’re pretty, that you have nice legs, and he touches your hair. Said girl thinks he’s friendly. Next thing you know, you’ll be in bed with him and think oh wait, he actually likes me.”
“He didn’t compliment me like that,” she refutes.
Timo whistles. “Someone’s in denial. What do you think, Luka? Flirting or no flirting?”
“Honestly, I want to self-eject from this conversation.”
Timo laughs, and all three siblings step into the light. Literally. “Thora James,” Timo exclaims with a wide, dazzling grin. He carries a half-eaten apple pie and a bundle of forks. Luka has a pumpkin one in hand. Katya, a chocolate.
“Hey,” I say, a smile growing. “How was the family feast?”
“Boring,” Luka says, sitting next to Nikolai.
Timo plops next to me, slinging his arm around my shoulder. “Entertaining.”
“Draining,” Katya adds with a sigh. She chooses the spot between me and Nikolai. Which is really the only free place in the circle, since I face him.
Boring. Entertaining. Draining.
“In that order,” Nikolai says to me, lightness in his eyes. I’m having a hard time not smiling right now, even sweaty, muscles achy and heart on a slow descent.
Timo passes me a fork. “Luka’s pie is the worst.”
Luka looks uncaring. “No one taught me how to cook.”
“No one taught me how to cook, but mine still turned out edible.”
Katya pushes the chocolate one towards me. “Mine is actually the best.” When I first met her, I doubt she’d ever consider herself better than her brothers, in any arena.
I believe it. I try a small portion, the taste richer than I expected, making me smile. It’s really good. I give her a thumbs-up, and her orb-like eyes brighten. After another bite, I ask, “So who’s this boy?”
She groans. “You heard that?” Her eyes flicker nervously to Nikolai. What is he going to do? I think about all his rules with me and training. Yeah—I’m sure he has an equally long list for Katya and dating.
“How old is he?” Nikolai layers on the no bullshit, no humor expression to the millionth degree.
“He’s no one,” Katya refutes. “I met him in the hallway.”
Nikolai almost chokes on a bite of pie.
“The hallway?” I say. I don’t get it. Is that a meeting spot for people in the circus—like code for under the bleachers?
“He was just here for the weekend,” she clarifies.
It clicks. “Like a bachelor party kind of thing?”
“Yeah.” She nods.
Nikolai starts, “You didn’t give him your number—”
“I know the rules. Okay? I wouldn’t do that.”
“And plus, she was oblivious.” Timo points his fork at Katya. “You need to take my class: Timofei 101. I’ll teach you the ways of men, little sister.”
I don’t see all three siblings together often, only because they spend more time together than they do with Nikolai. And I’m usually with him. So I eat silently, my eyes pinging between the Kotovas.
“She’s sixteen,” Nikolai says sternly.
Katya sighs like she’s heard this all before.
Luka rips open a packet of Junior Mints, exiting the conversation and stepping away from the spotlight that his little brother adores.
Timo gives Nikolai a look, as though he’s living in the wrong decade. “And I lost my virginity at fourteen.”
Nikolai pinches his eyes. “I don’t want to know this, Timo.”
Timo redirects his attention to me. “Thora James.” His grin seems to twinkle in his eyes, in a sprightly evil way. “When did you lose it?”
A piece of pie lodges halfway down.
Nikolai smacks the back of Timo’s head and says something in Russian that I’m almost certain has to do with tact.
Timo touches his chest innocently. “I’m friends with her.”
“That doesn’t mean you can ask her that.”
“Do you not know the answer?” Timo wonders with the tilt of his head.
I can’t let this progress any further. I simply say, “I was eighteen. But in all honesty, I wish I waited for the right person.”
“Nikolai?” Luka adds.
Nik is about to smack his head, but he sways out of his reach with a humored laugh. And with the extension of Nik’s arm, I notice his tattoo again: long black lines, inked on the inside of his bicep, creating trees at the end. I’ve never asked what it meant to him. There are questions that always sit on the tip of my tongue, but I struggle to let them out. Not knowing the perfect time. Not knowing the perfect way to ask.
I’m not good with words.
At least I’ve known that for a while.
Timo catches me scrutinizing Nikolai’s arm with confusion. He waves his fork at one of the shorter lines. “That’s me.”
My heart skips, and Nikolai meets my gaze with a nod, like he’s right. He motions to the other series of lines that form trees, starting with the shortest. “Katya, Timo, Luka, Peter, Sergei, and…my parents.”
His family.
The symbolism is sweeter than he realizes.
Katya asks softly, “What do you think they’re doing today?”
“Eating pie,” Luka states plainly.
“They don’t celebrate Thanksgiving,” Timo interjects, deconstructing any fantasy that Luka and Nikolai fog her in.
“You don’t know that,” Katya retorts with a frown.
“Ask Nikolai. It’s an American tradition. Dad hates that shit, doesn’t he?”
Nikolai has his eyes on me, more rigid. He sets down his fork. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Does she not know?” Timo squeezes my shoulder. “He didn’t tell you, Thora James?”
Chills snake up my spine. What am I missing? “Tell me what…?”
Nikolai runs a hand through his hair. “She knows, Timo. Let it go.”
“Then why are you being so weird about it?” Timo asks, his features darkening. “You’re keeping something from us then…?” They stare at each other for a long moment, both good at reading body language. Both superior at compelling one’s attention. Both exceptionally talented. And yet, it’s clear who’ll leave with the upper-hand.
Timo shakes his head first, more confused than before. Same. I sit in a mystery with the rest of them.
“Talk about something else.” Nikolai looks to Luka, to save him from this. His younger brother opens his mouth, but Timo springs to his feet, silencing Luka.
He gains a height advantage that he probably rarely has over Nikolai. “I hate when you do this,” Timo proclaims. “I’m not a little kid anymore. I can handle whatever you’re keeping from me. We all can.” He gestures to Luka and Katya. “It’s not fair to us.”
“It makes no difference,” Nikolai says to him. “Just sit down, Timo.”
Timo shouts something in Russian, pained, and he points to his chest. His determined tone reminds me of when he had a long screaming match with Nikolai. Months ago, in The Masquerade’s lobby. It didn’t end well.
Katya leans into me. “I hate when they fight.”
I hug her, an arm around her waist. She rests her head on my shoulder. I realize, right now, that I’m not an interloper anymore. I have a place in the Kotova circle, albeit not the loudest place, but there is only so much room for Timo’s and Nikolai’s. I think Katya knows that more than anyone.
I hear Nikolai reply to Timo in calmer, sterner Russian.
In the brief si
lence between them, Timo stares at the ceiling. Then his glassy gaze returns to his brother. “Don’t lie,” he says. “You resent us. Every day. Peter and Sergei got off free, and you were forced to look after him and her—” he jabs a finger at Luka and Katya “—and me.”
Forced. I hone in on Timo’s choice of words while he continues on.
“How many times a day do you wish you were with them? Be honest.”
Nikolai’s eyes flicker to me.
Forced.
Oh my God.
Nikolai lied to them. He never told his siblings that he had a choice to be here, in Vegas, and before that, New York—that he could’ve been with the brothers around his age, all this time. If he wanted.
Sounding wounded, Timo adds, “I think it has to be five times a day. Maybe six. What do you think, Luka?”
“Shut up,” Luka mutters, staring right at me. He’s beginning to figure it out, I think. Maybe I wear the answers on my face. The realization.
Katya whispers, “What’s going on?”
I open my mouth, but my lips press together quickly. This isn’t my truth to share.
Nikolai rubs his eyes wearily and then looks up to me. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
I give him one of my patented encouraging smiles. You can do this.
And he nods like, I know, I have to tell them.
He stares up at Timo, who has yet to sit down. “You want honesty?” He pauses, gathering his thoughts. “My life would be drastically different if I lived with Sergei and Peter, if I never had to take care of you.” He shrugs tensely. “Is this what you want to hear: you drove me crazy, you fucking worried me sick every day of your life, and I kept chasing after you, expecting you to slow down, just once, to make it easy on me. And you never did.”
Timo is crying. “No, I didn’t want to hear that, you asshole.”
“It’s fucking true.” Nikolai’s eyes are past reddened, restraining his own emotion.
I hear Katya sniff beside me, and my emotions begin to rise. Luka watches like someone is unveiling blinds to his world—intently, keenly, cautiously.
“Every day I wonder what my life would’ve been like had I stayed with them,” Nikolai says. “And I know I wouldn’t be the same person. I don’t even know who’d I’d be, but it’s not someone I ever want to meet. Not for a moment or a second. I love this life, with you three.” He pauses. “So every day, Timo, I am thankful for you, for Katya, for Luka—for giving me more than I had.”
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