Amour Amour (36 page)

“Last night, Helen told me that Aerial Ethereal is reviving Somnio. They’ll need performers, so you have a much better chance…” he trails off, maybe at my contorted expression, but his seems to reflect mine. “Myshka…” His muscles constrict and his Adam’s apple bobs.

Chills snake up my skin, at the thought of leaving him. For the circus.
That’s the right thing.
Months ago, I would’ve been elated by this news. My reaction now—it frightens me.

He tucks my comforter around my shoulders and presses me closer, to warm me. Lips to my ear, he whispers, “You can’t choose me over the circus.”

I know.

My heart clenches, a fist squeezing the life out of it. I never thought it’d be this hard to choose between the two. “I don’t want to think about it.” It hasn’t happened yet. I don’t have to decide now. This is just all hypothetical. Right?

He holds me, as though remembering this moment. Like there’s a countdown to a time where this all ends.

Act Thirty-Eight

I’ve never seen so many Kotovas in the gym before. They pile around the teeterboard/metal cube contraption, some of the guys messing around like they’re at recess, shoving each other’s arms, laughing and cracking jokes. But this is their work.

I remember Nikolai mentioning that they’ve all wanted to increase the difficulty of the teeterboard act, but the creative director has been telling them to stick to the regular choreography.

Apparently they’re ignoring that suggestion.

I stretch my legs on the blue mats near the aerial silk, waiting for Nikolai to finish up. Usually I’m here at odd hours, when people are sparsely strewn on different structures, but Nikolai texted me to train now.

With a pop song blasting, sounding like Bruno Mars, Timo hops on one end of the teeterboard, the apparatus resembling a seesaw. Dimitri, much larger, jumps on the other side, catapulting Timo in the air. Instead of flailing about, he gracefully lands on a metal rung.

Timo sings to the song, clapping his hands to the beat and moving his body like he’s in an episode of
Dancing with the Stars.
As the professional. Not the uncoordinated celebrity.

It’s impossible to stop staring.

I glance around, wondering if anyone else is entranced—and surprisingly, this is not all in my head. The girls on trapeze, a couple on a trampoline, and the cluster of guys by the Russian swing pause for longer than a second.

All eyes on him.

He’s dancing. For fun. Only he’s spinning, shifting his hips, and tilting his head back while walking the bar like a tightrope.

I feel a smile grow on my face.

Timo’s movements are effortless, and I see a bit of Nikolai in him. Even though he’s more energetic, spirited, he compels everyone’s attention the same way as his older brother.

His dangling cross earring whips back and forth with his head. His sweaty dark hair hangs in his eyes, the sides shorter though. He jumps onto another rung, and my heart nosedives. But he easily makes the gap, and claps his hands over his head before doing a backflip and spinning on the tips of his toes.

I’m surprised there’s not a crotch-grab in his freestyle routine.

“Ready?”

I flinch at Nikolai’s sudden appearance, too hypnotized by Timo. Nik towers above me, his hands on his waist as he breathes heavily from finishing his own workout. I scan the length of him, flashbacks of yesterday morning and afternoon playing on rewind and repeat. We had sex in my apartment. Again. And again. Apparently Nikolai’s speed is not only fast but frequent.

Even the memories heat me another time around.

“Yeah.” I rise to my feet, my pulse racing. I expect there to be weirdness between us, for him to silently acknowledge that we’ve had sex. Or maybe it’s just all me.

Thinking about it. Obsessing over it.
Focus, Thora James.
Right. I’m here for training. I exhale. I inhale. Breathing
normally.

Nikolai remains completely strict, the same as usual. He acts like the hardass coach, who in no way would sleep with his trainee. Because that would be unprofessional.

“Give me your hands.” He studies my reaction and gives me a strange look.

“What?” I flip them over, not able to read his expression.

“You’re glowing.” He sprays resin on my palms.

I gape, my mouth slightly falling. “No, I’m not. I’m just…happy.” I need to work on my excuses and my words. Always my words.

His lips barely tic upwards. All business. “You need to execute the modified straddle slide smoothly.”

Smoothly?

I haven’t been able to execute it higher than ten feet from the mat. Smoothly isn’t on the menu if I can’t even perform it at all.

Nikolai wants me to climb fifty feet and fall head-first to the ground, with my legs extended in a split. If wrapped correctly, the silk is supposed to catch me right before my face smashes into the mat. But if I screw up the intricate wrap, I could break more than just my nose.

“Can we call it what it is?” I ask him softly.

He hands me the silk. “It’s a modified straddle slide.” His no-nonsense voice tries to put my head in the game.

“It’s a
death
drop,” I emphasize.

I’m not being dramatic about this either. The longer title is a butterfly drop
into
a death drop with some alterations. Honestly, I’ve never even heard most of the tricks he’s taught me so far. Some he flat-out created from scratch. And others, he’s tweaked so they appear more dangerous.

Modified straddle slide
really does not encompass the fear that I feel from this one.

“If I thought you’d die, I’d never let you try this above twenty feet.” He steps back from me. “Climb.”

I inhale a motivational breath and start my ascent. Since the beginning of my training, I doubt I’d be able to scale the silk this easily and this fluidly. Nikolai’s instruction has been invaluable. When I begin wrapping my legs in the silk, I try to harness whatever grace I possess.

“You look angry!” Nikolai calls up from the bottom. “Relax your face.”

He knows that’s my “concentration face” and he says if I exhibit that expression during auditions, no one will want to hire me. I open and close my jaw.
Go away, bitch face.
I think it’d be more amusing if I didn’t just refer to my own face as a bitch.

Now fully wrapped and facial muscles softened, I’m ready for the drop. I think.

Catch yourself, Thora. You can do this.

Nikolai is at the base, his arms crossed over his chest. With a fixed gaze, lines crease his forehead, his focus only on me.

Do it, Thora.
My heart slams into my ribcage.

Wait.

“Am I wrapped right?” I ask Nik, just double-checking.

“You know you are.” Though his eyes flit around my body, just to confirm it himself.

Do it.

I hesitate.

“Drop, Thora.”

I pull my knees through loops in the silk, and legs spread, I shoot downwards without the support. I squeeze my eyes closed, scared. Rarely am I ever scared about heights in general. Then I feel my body jerk upwards, the silk tightening around my thighs and catching my fall.

I open one eye. And then two.

I’m upside-down. And still too high up. About seven feet, maybe a little less.

Nikolai approaches, straight-faced. When he stops, our lips are in perfect symmetry, but he stays still, a commander that refuses to kiss his soldier. A teacher unwilling to make a pass at his student.

At least not in the classroom.

“Your face should be an inch from the mat, not right in front of me.” He grips the fabric above my foot.

“I realize this,” I say softly.

“When you begin the wrap, you need to give yourself more slack, more than you think is necessary.”

But the terrifying part is what happens if I give myself too much slack.

He reads me well. “Don’t be afraid.” His gaze flickers to my lips, like he may break his own rules this once.

My heart is on its own death drop.

“Nikolai…?” That’s not me. The voice, with a string of Russian jargon, comes from a petite, willowy platinum-blonde a few feet behind him.

I recognize Elena from tryouts months ago, and I’ve had the good fortune of never running into her here. Nikolai spins around and listens to her talk. I roll out of my position, climbing down from the aerial silk. Elena jabs her finger in my direction, her cheeks flushed with what appears to be anger.

Nikolai runs his hands through his hair, pushing back the longer strands. He replies in gruffer Russian.

I uneasily shift my weight from one foot to the other, noticing how she steps near him. Noticing how her body language isn’t closed off, despite being frustrated and incensed. She leans towards him. Like they’re good friends.

I’ve blocked out his dynamic with Elena, the
passion
they’re supposed to exude on stage. I just pretend that she doesn’t exist.

The same way he pretends I don’t work at Phantom.

My chest caves, and I realize that training is going to be cut short. By me. “I’m going to go,” I tell Nikolai when there’s a pause in his conversation.

He rubs his eyes, exhausted, by whatever she’s telling him. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

Elena is throwing knives into my body, glowering like I’ve stolen her time with him. In this situation, maybe I have.

“You should practice with her.” I let go of the silk. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tonight,” he rephrases.

I shake my head. “I’m going to head home.” It’s weird that I consider my apartment my home now, when Ohio still exists. Waiting for me. I guess I’m not waiting for it anymore.

Nikolai looks more conflicted, but Elena distracts him with a barrage of Russian. I’m too used to not understanding three-quarters of conversations to be annoyed. I simply wave him goodbye and depart, planning on a hot shower and a night with my paranormal book.

I still have time to conquer the death drop, RBF, gracefulness, and passion before auditions. I hope. It feels like a lot.

Like more than me.

Act Thirty-Nine

Luka plops down in the auditorium seat with two buckets of popcorn, offering me one. I raise my brows at him, not exactly trusting how he acquired it. Our “Skittles” pact still exists—I won’t rat him out.

He smiles, a contagious one that his brothers usually possess too. “I paid for them, I swear.” He shakes the tub.

I accept one graciously. “That’s sweet of you then.”

He kicks his feet on the empty velveteen seat. “It still would’ve been sweet regardless if I paid for it or not.”

“But this is better.”

“Why?” He scoops popcorn, a smirk playing at his lips. He knows I suck at back-and-forth.

And now I’m open-mouthed, trying to find a suitable answer. “Because…”
it just is.
In another life, I hope to be a wordsmith. And a chef. A chef with great words.

“I like
because
.” He lets me off the hook, seeing my struggle.

Thankfully.

I return my attention to the round stage, the surface cherry wood, sleek and more elegant than concrete.

Nikolai surprised me with a ticket to Amour tonight, rerouting my plans to fall asleep to a vampire and werewolf battle. I think this is his way of apologizing for Elena’s appearance at practice. I couldn’t turn him down. I’m not that prideful, and I’ve really, really wanted to see this show since I first arrived in Vegas. The tickets are so expensive that I haven’t been able to watch Nikolai perform.

Artists don’t even receive complimentary tickets for family and friends, so I know Nik paid for me to be here too. From middle-center seats, I drink in the atmosphere for the first time, trying to stare at everything at once.

The long icicle lights drip from seemingly nowhere, a city skyline painted as a backdrop. It’s like Amour takes place in New York, during the holidays. While more people find their seats, music plays, a serene violin tune, romantic and subdued. Layers of fog already ooze across the stage in white puffs.

A flash of light goes off in my face.

I scowl at Luka who has his phone braced at me. He snaps another photo with a laugh.

“Is that necessary?” I shield my eyes, wondering if we’re going to be in trouble. We’re not supposed to take pictures in the auditorium.

“Oh yeah,” he says. “I promised my brother I’d get your first reaction. And the pissed off one is an added bonus.” He clicks into the photo and holds his cell to me so I can see myself.

I’m drooling at the sight of the stage: my eyes wide in awe and a fool-hearted smile spread across my cheeks. I look like a little kid about to witness a Christmas miracle. “I’d say delete it, but I know you won’t.”

He grins like I’m correct. “Nikolai will love it.”

That fact swells my heart. I twiddle my fingers, nervous for the show to begin, for Nikolai. And he’s done this so many times before.

Ten minutes later, the seats fill a little more than half up, which should be decent for a weeknight, but I know The Masquerade feels differently.  The lights dim, shrouding the audience into blackness. The violins echo, beautiful and haunting music. And then red silk descends from the cavernous ceiling.

Soon Nikolai emerges, arms spread out, the silk wrapped around each wrist, head hanging. His sculpted, chiseled body is the sole object of everyone’s gaze. He lifts his build, using the power in his biceps and broad shoulders. His legs straight, he strikes masculine poses that show off his strength and agility. Men like Nikolai were the muses of Renaissance sculptors—their strong figures carved in marble and stone.

My heart slows, waiting to stop all together.

He’s…
There are no perfect words for what I feel. For what I see. It’s staring at a Michelangelo painting and being intimate with the subject beneath the brush strokes. It’s falling to your knees and looking up at a god, who belongs to you.

Another flash goes off. This time, too apparent in the dark auditorium.