Amour Amour (3 page)

He actually laughs, and when I don’t share it, his smile fades. “Good God, you’re serious.” He mutters something under his breath like,
Camila needs to stop bringing in strays.

One minute later, he carts me to the front of the packed circle, whispering to some buzz-cut guy to scoot over. Strangely, they shake and bro-pat like they’re friends or acquaintances. When he frees up the space, we gain a view of the clearing—basically what everyone is so excited about.

I slowly turn my head, not sure what to expect. Only one guy stands within the circle, an empty chair a few feet behind him. First impression: he’s tall.

And very masculine. With needle-sharp focus, he inspects his surroundings. Us. The audience. My heart thumps as his gaze drifts closer. Why? I swallow hard, and I realize it’s his daggered, concentrated expression. It’s his muscular, I-catch-women-for-a-living body. And his powerful stance, exuding confidence like he’s in charge, even if he’s alone. Even if he’s in the circle. The center of a show.

All eyes on him.

The red strobe lights comb over this area every five seconds, like clock-work. His features are bathed in the red hue, devilish and dangerous: black slacks, a white shirt, a few buttons popped open to reveal firmly cut muscles. His dark brown hair brushes the tops of his ears, the thick strands pushed out of his face.

With a strong, unshaven jaw, I predict he’s in his late twenties. I check for a ring on his left hand. Just out of curiosity. I think. Or at least, I hope. And I notice that his fingers are free of any shiny jewelry.

He begins to walk forward, around the circle. Closer.
Thump.
His movement launches a series of hands in the air. Girls wave them like
pick me,
pick me
, eagerly bouncing on their feet to be seen by this man. Like they’re offering themselves up for sacrifice.

My arms stay awkwardly attached to my side, watching his gray irises graze the crowd with that
I know what I want
intensity. It lassoes everyone’s attention. Weirdly enough, mine included. I find myself leaning forward, magnetized. The whole thing is bizarre—like being front-row to a show that I didn’t buy a ticket to. And I’m not even sure what this show entails.

He steps closer. A natural reaction would be to flee. But curiosity cements me here. Maybe because he’s in Aerial Ethereal. Maybe because he’s roped me in like everyone else.

Closer. He searches the audience.

I stay still. Compelled to watch him.

Five seconds pass. And his eyes flit around my area. My heart aggressively pounds. I don’t even know if I can handle direct eye contact with him. I silently pray it doesn’t happen.

There’s a good chance it won’t, right—

His gaze suddenly lands on my…

Sneakers.

Pinning there for an extended moment. Confusion takes hold of me, my pulse speeding. His lip tics into what I think is an amused smile.

Then he beelines for me.

Just like that.

“Shit,” John curses under his breath. “Don’t look into his eyes.” It’s too late. My heart has abandoned me. I’m not just a voyeur anymore, a bystander, languidly observing…something. Dear God, my brain isn’t even thinking intelligent things anymore. I can’t even process what
something
is.

I’m dead.

Cardiac arrest. If I had a friend like Shay nearby, I’m sure they’d grab some paddles. But unfortunately, I’m friend-less. Internally flat-lining in sin city. The sin part—that’s what I’m scared of most.

He stops maybe two feet from me before cocking his head. Waiting—it seems—for me to say something first.

I am frozen in a state of muddled shock. My joints are rusted together, and I think there’s no hope to be oiled and set free. I breathe heavily through my nose, like I’m sprinting instead of standing in place.

Someone yells to him in Russian, and all I catch is
Nikolai
from the jargon. My brain works well enough to assume it’s his name. Without breaking his gaze from mine, he replies back to the person in fluent Russian. Then he says to me, in the deepest, huskiest voice, “You’re wearing running shoes.”

I feel my facial muscles tighten. “And…?”

In my peripheral, John shakes his head from side to side like
no, no, do not engage.

Too late again.

But John doesn’t pull me out of this mess. He barely knows me. Maybe he wants to see how I’ll react. What I’ll do.
I have no clue. I am not prepared for this.

“Very few people prepare for this,” Nikolai says. If only he could read my mind. He studies my small frame like he’s picking apart pieces of my life and filing the information.

What a useful tool. I need it.

Even standing like a confused statue, I still
can’t
back away. Nikolai has a stronghold over my curiosity, concentration and poise—or whatever little poise I possess. A bit of jealousy flares in my belly. Yeah—I wish I had this type of power. To dominate a performance. To allure an audience. It’s what separates an athlete from an artist.

He abruptly steps forward, into my space. I flinch back, a breath caged in my lungs, but he seizes my bicep to keep me stationary. What…is happening?

When I meet his pulsing gray eyes again, they only say,
don’t be afraid. Trust me.

I blow out a trained breath, my ribs expanding more.

He towers above me. Six-five maybe. I strain my neck just to fix my gaze on his. He stares down, lifting my arm like he’s inspecting my muscles. He even brushes the sleeve of my Ohio State shirt. His large hand dwarfs my limb. I feel entirely little compared to him. In Shay’s presence, I never felt like this.

He squeezes my shoulders. “You’re an athlete,” he declares, never asks. He even places a hand on my head, like he’s examining my tiny height and my frame. He’s having a bit of trouble determining what kind of athlete I am. “…a gymnast.” Or I guess not that much trouble.

“Maybe…” Something about him makes me want to hold cards to my chest. I hear faint mutterings from the crowd, but the music drowns out most. I’m very much a part of the spectacle now. The entertainment for tonight.

Like a magician calling upon a volunteer from the audience.

Only I haven’t really volunteered. Somehow, I think my sneakers did for me.

“Maybe?” he repeats, scanning me from head to toe again. He drops my arm. “No, you’re definitely a gymnast. And I don’t know you, which means you’re not a part of the troupe.” He tilts his head again, satisfied with his own conclusion.

I struggle for a good retort, open-mouthed and stupefied.

His lips tic, and this time they really curve upward. “You have some demonic-looking eyes, myshka.” He stares right into them, and I barely graze over the foreign word
myshka
. “They’re nearly black.”

They are. Add that to RBF and I can’t really denounce my demon-like qualities. My eyes flit to the red glow necklace that he wears. “If I’m a demon, then you must be the devil.” It may be the corniest thing I’ve ever said.

“Maybe I am,” he replies, very deeply. “And yet, here you are.” His gaze remains on me and only me. “And myshka…” His voice turns to liquid sex. “You can’t possess me, even if you tried.”

“Ohhhh!” People laugh and hop up and down. But Nikolai never acknowledges them or feeds into the heckling. He just watches me.

“I’m not trying to,” I tell him under my breath.

His charismatic smile wanes. And his eyes briefly flit to my chest.

Did he just stare at my boobs?

“Your tits are huge,” he states it like a fact.
Thumpthumpthump.
I open my mouth to retort—but he continues, “Which means you hit puberty earlier than you should have. Most gymnasts end up stunting their growth.”

He’s right again. I started the sport later in life.

His eyes make a very slow travel from my mouth, to my chest, to my hips and legs and—he kneels. Right in front of me.

What…the…

With one hand on my thigh, to steady me, Nikolai knots the laces of my
untied
shoe. How he makes this seem sexual—I have no idea. And I think he knows the effect he carries, the charm and power. That devilish smile pulls at his lips again, before he even rises and acknowledges me.

“Guess what, myshka?” The glow necklace and strobe lights swath him in deep red.

“What…?” I hesitate.

He stands. Towers, really. And he tilts my chin up. With grays like gunmetal skies, bearing down from up above, he says, “I choose
you.
”

Not because I’m the prettiest girl here. I’m definitely not.

Not because I’ve caught his eye in a daring fashion. I didn’t.

But because I’m wearing sneakers.

Shoes.

And I’m standing right in the middle of a mystery with them.

Act Two

Nikolai clasps my hand and draws me to the middle of the circle. I catch John pinching his eyes and muttering something like,
Camila is going to kill me.

“You know what I think of gymnasts?” Nikolai says lowly.

I shake my head.

“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.