Amour Amour (30 page)

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 circle, 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.

I wrap my arm around my boobs.

“God of Russia!” Hands are now shooting into the air.

But Nikolai ignores them, his intensity all mine. He approaches the burly employee, and they switch glow necklaces. When Nik returns to me, he has a green one.

“Awwww,” girls in the crowd
actually
make that noise, rooting for us.

His gaze never leaves me as he snaps the new necklace around my collar. “There’s no confusion anymore, myshka.”

I touch the necklace, wondering about his ex-girlfriend. I haven’t ever asked about her, but the deeper we go, the more I know I’ll have to.

I can’t move past that gaze, the one that strips layers with rapid efficiency. It’s even more intrusive than the first time we met. Because he knows for certain what lies beneath the sheet.

Then he kisses me soft, then harder, his tongue parting my lips. An ache tickles my throat, the drunken encouragements like a Greek chorus. Courage lifts my shoulders. It’s not from booze. It’s just from being near him.

His breath warms my ear. And he whispers, “I choose you.”

My heart pounds.

He breaks away, fingers laced with mine, and his long once-over heats my core…and a lower place, clenching.

The cheers are even louder than before. I look up and
so many people
have gathered. The sprinklers don’t shut off yet and everyone starts clapping to the beat of “
Temperature
” by Sean Paul, splashing water.

“They’re excited—” he watches me absorb my surroundings “—because I’ve never done this with a girlfriend before.”

Girlfriend.
“I’m your girlfriend?” My smile is an uncontrollable one, where I can’t for the life of me restrain or hide it.

He says something in Russian.

I don’t have to wait for him to translate. He’s said this phrase so many times.

You’re cute.

I inhale strongly,
a handstand competition.
In a see-through dress. I can do this. I can. I know, for a fact, I can. However, I’m not sure if I’ll beat him. That’s the mystery.

Quickly I climb back over his earlier proclamation. He’s never done this with another girlfriend. He’s sharing this with me, his spectacle, his after-show—that’s all him.

He’s letting me experience his entire world.

“Can she even push you over!” someone shouts.

“Can you?” Nikolai asks me, his lips rising in an alluring smile.

I can try.
I rest my palms on his chest, beads of water still rolling down. And I take a runner’s stance and I try, with all my might, to shove him back.

He’s a fortress.

A laughing fortress. “Try harder, myshka.”

“I am,” I retort, putting all my strength in my quads and biceps. My face reddens as I push, but I realize that he’s positioned his legs in a way that deadens my force. I breathe heavily and crane my neck up to him.

He’s way too entertained by this. “Little mouse,” he says. “You can’t knock me back, even if you tried.”

“Oooh!” The crowds collectively make the noise. I hear the jest that I missed the first time against him, all lighthearted.

I catch my breath, my hands on my hips. “One day. I will. Even if it takes me years.”
Years?
It sounds like I’m assuming we’ll be together for that long. I open my mouth to clarify my slip, but he speaks first.

“Even if it takes you forever,” he rephrases, his eyes bearing on my heart. “Are you ready?” He means for the handstand competition. But beneath his words there is so much more. Am I ready for a life with him?

“Yes.” I nod, without hesitation. “I’m more than ready.”

Act Thirty

I lost.

I can handle my liquor now. But I still can’t beat him. My arms gave out, and I had to drop. I picked a piercing. He picked my other nipple.

Thankfully, though, he buttoned his black shirt on me before doing anything. I could tell it wasn’t just for my benefit. He didn’t want any of them to see my boobs as much as I didn’t want them to be seen.

The Red Death shuts off the sprinklers about ten minutes before we head out, his hand on the small of my back, weaving through dancers.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay longer?” I ask him, my boob throbbing. He only did the bet with me. “I can wait at the bar—”

“I’m positive.” He wraps his arm around my shoulders, as though to say
I just want to be with you.
I inhale a heady breath, his soaked button-down suctioning to parts of my body. I shiver, and we’re not even out in the cold yet.

The red strobe lights stroke us, and as we near a staircase to the VIP area, I spot John. And Timo. I zero in on them, and my mouth instantly drops. John has Timo pressed against the wall, their lips touching, their tongues—it’s a make-out session that brings the heat back to this club. No parting, eyes closed, like no one is watching. Timo clutches John’s hair, their bodies welded together. And John drives the kiss deeper, more skilled than he lets on. They fit perfectly: their heights, their builds. On equal territory and footing.

Nikolai abruptly stops, causing me to stumble back into his chest. He places his hands on my shoulders, steadying me, and I follow his gaze back to his brother. Nikolai wavers uncertainly behind me.

If he could, he’d accompany his brother through every minor and major wreck of his life. But he can’t. Timo will fall whether or not Nikolai is there. But he has so many people that’ll help him stand back up if he struggles. That’s what matters.

“He’s okay,” I tell Nik. If what John says is right—about Timo being promiscuous—then it’s probably better that he’s with John. And if Nikolai tries to split them apart right now, Timo will just run to someone else—someone not worthy of his attention.

Nikolai stays quiet, contemplating the situation. Whether or not he should intervene. “The hardest part is not knowing,” he says lowly to me. I think I understand.

There are moments that do not belong to us.

Lives that we can only see fragments of, and as painful as it is to say goodbye to the whole picture, we’re not supposed to have it anymore.

I imagine, for my parents, it was harder on them when I left for college. But it must’ve been so much worse when I moved across the country. It hurts them more than me. Just as this hurts Nikolai more than Timo.

“Can you imagine that wherever he is, he’s happy?” I ask Nikolai.

He nods a few times. “I’m going to try. I
have
to try,” he realizes. After another moment, he leads me away from them, through the club, towards the exit.

And he lets his brother go.

Act Thirty-One

“Who is she?” I ask aloud, surprising myself. I snap off the green necklace, my bare feet cold on the bathroom tiles. He runs the tub while I tremble from the sopping button-down and chilled air.

“Who are we talking about?” He unbuttons his slacks, distracting me as he steps out of them. Wearing only charcoal gray boxer-briefs.

I train my eyes on his tattoo, the inked lines along the inside of his bicep that create trees. It distracts me from his cock.

I open my mouth to say
your ex-girlfriend.
But the words stick. And I end up waving the green glow necklace in response.