Amour Amour (8 page)

“You shouldn’t be congratulating him,” John tells me as he deals the cards again. “Not after what his brother did to you last night.”

I go cold, like the air conditioning wafted a chilly gust on me. Did he really have to bring that up? I’ve been doing an okay job of forgetting The Red Death and that piercing. My hand almost flies to my boob, as if protecting it on impulse.

“Which brother would that be?” Timo’s brows furrow slightly as he skims his cards. A five and a seven against John’s eight.

“Oh you know, the one who gets off on tattooing question marks and arrows on girls’ asses.”

I internally cringe.

Timo taps the table, and John deals him a ten. I add the numbers in my head quickly. Nikolai’s little brother busts at twenty-two.

“Fuck,” Timo curses, setting his hands on his head. Then he glances at me. “Nikolai tattooed your ass last night? That was you?” He appraises me swiftly like he’s trying to fit an image to the memory.

He was there? I wonder if I saw him… “No…” I trail off, half in thought as I scrutinize his features a little more. “He pierced me.”

Timo’s face breaks into a giant grin. “That’s right. You’re the titty piercing. I thought I recognized you.”

Titty piercing.
My eyes bulge.
That’s what I’m being referred to as?

Timo snaps his fingers in remembrance. “I even cheered for Nikolai to lose that round.”

So he was the lone guy, rooting for me. Wait—I hone in on the way he phrased that. He just wanted his brother to fail that time, not necessarily hoping I’d win for any other reason.
Way to go, Thora.

His gaze flits down my body for a quick second. “You look different in the day, you know…maybe it’s because I’m sober right now.” He stretches his arms over his head and turns back to the table like
let’s do this thing.

Just like that, the ordeal rolls off his back, like it was a small moment, insignificant and ordinary. It encourages me to do the same, even if Nikolai believes it was monumental.

“The world has laws for a reason,” John tells him as he deals the cards. “You should abide by them. It’s called being an adult.”

“Really?” Timo asks. “I think it’s called being a stiff.”

I ask John, “Are you one of those people who never cross the street on a red signal?”

“Yeah, because I want to fucking live. I like my life.”

“Really?” Timo says again, actual surprise coating his face. “You should be an actor, man, because you have the whole ‘I hate everything’ vibe pretty down pat.”

John’s gloomy face actually darkens, and Timo connects with it, locking eyes, never shying away. His pink lips slowly curve upward the longer John glowers.

Then Timo puckers his lips, kissing the air and winks at him.

“God,” John groans and looks to the ceiling like
why me?
I’ve had those moments with God myself. Usually I feel like I’m complaining to the ceiling tiles though.

Timo waves his hand to stay over his cards, and he wins the next round. John shakes his head, aggravated the longer he has to endure Timo. After a few more hands, a server swings by and asks for drink orders. I pass since I may head to the gym later, for more practice.

“Can’t,” Timo tells the server. “I have a show tonight.”

His easy brush-off of the liquor surprises me. Maybe because he seems more irresponsible than I thought. But being in John’s presence doesn’t help. He makes everyone under seventy-five look like a rebellious teen.

Timo wins another round and throws his hands in the air. He laughs into a grin as he looks to me, and he points. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re lucky, Thora James?”

I think back to the piercing. “I’m usually not.”

“You are for me,” he says. “Stay comfortable. We’re in this for the long haul.”

John grumbles under his breath like Timo just speared him in the chest. And he starts dealing again. Timo leans forward, and when he glances my way, with sparkling, dazzled eyes—full of youthful energy—he ropes me in. Lassoing me with charm. Just like his older brother.

Nikolai possesses a darker version of it, but it’s a talent that I find myself envying again. It’s something that separates an ordinary person into something captivating. Spellbinding and extraordinary.

I can’t take my eyes off Timo, and he’s not even on stage.

I wonder if this is a gift you’re born with. If it’s something that I’ll never be able to learn. Part of me, the more cynical side that I try to stomp away, believes so.

But the brightest side says—
maybe.
Maybe I can be something more than I am. If I can learn at all, the best place is here. Vegas. Where the Kotovas reside.

Act Six

I lie wide awake, not because I’m tormented by tomorrow’s final cut or the discomfort of Camila’s couch.

My mind snaps alert because of the sounds that emanate from Camila’s bedroom. Her breathy moans puncture the air, mixing with her boyfriend’s heavy groans. The squeak of the mattress springs is even audible through the thin walls. I’ve only ever heard noises like this from HBO’s
True Blood
.

And as soon as the sounds of ecstasy in the apartment end, a new type of sound begins. Screaming. Yelling. Not-so-pleasurable noises that vibrate the air. My imaginative mind starts to create visions of Camila having rough, angry sex with a vampire. Only this vampire is a giant asshole who ends sex by arguing about stupid things.

Needless to say, my imagination is wrong.

Vampires don’t exist.

And just as Camila’s non-vampire boyfriend stops screaming, the pleasurable moaning begins again. It’s a cycle that has kept me awake all night.

In college, I chose to live in a single dorm after my freshman year fiasco. My roommate brought her boyfriend over almost every night, and I slept on Shay’s futon more than I did my own bed. I managed to avoid other people’s sex noises for that long.

My clean record is now broken.

Camila’s boyfriend must be stellar because the bedposts thump against the walls. I smash my pillow over my face and exposed ears. I just don’t want to be half-asleep tomorrow. Zombies can’t act like felines in heat.

Sleep
, I command myself.

Camila cries out in pleasure.

Sleep, Thora.

Please.

* * *

My eyes are heavy-lidded, and the gym’s fluorescent lights sear my pupils. I yawn into my jacket sleeve as Kaitlin slumps down on the blue mat beside me.

“Late night?” she asks with a mild look of disdain. I catch the very, very hidden meaning.

“Not with anyone,” I tell her.
Definitely not Nikolai.
“I was by myself.” That sounds like a lie for some reason. “I just had bad sleep.”

She nods, her guards dropping. “Me too.”

Not only did Camila go at it on the bed last night, but she switched to the shower. To top it off, when I finally caught some shuteye, I had a nightmare.

And I fell off the couch, face-planting, hard. Which triggered a bloody nose. Now I have a bruise on the bridge and another bruise on my cheekbone to show for it. Concealer covered some of the purplish tint but not all.

“You nervous?” Kaitlin asks. Her brunette bun is so tight that the follicles along her hairline look ready to snap.

“Kind of,” I say honestly with another yawn in my arm. “Are you?”

She nods and leans in close to me to whisper, “Elena has been chatting with Ivan in
Russian
all morning.”

Her gaze drifts to the aerial silk, where Ivan and Elena stand. As though about to instruct her. Like she’s already been awarded the role.

Kaitlin reaches for her toes, stretching. “I swear these things are made for people who can talk their way into them.”

I’m not a fan of that reality—the one that says the hardest-working individual will always lose out to the most sociable. And I don’t want to live in that world. Shay would tell me that I have no choice, that this isn’t fiction. I have no say in which world I live in.

As I spread my legs open into a split, I reach as far as I can, my muscles extending with the position. The back doors suddenly burst open, and the directors march into the gym, carrying folders, tablets and clipboards. They exude an air of superiority, vacuuming all oxygen.

Nikolai is among them.

He chats with Helen as they near the long table. Dressed in his usual gym attire (shorts, red bandana, shirtless), I wait for him to turn his head and acknowledge the four of us left to audition. But he’s in a heated discussion with Helen, and I catch him gesturing to Ivan by the aerial silk more than once.

Helen raises her hands in defense, and Nikolai’s lips snap shut, his nose flaring. She speaks calmly, it seems. And then her eyes plant on me.

I freeze, wondering if I was just caught eavesdropping. Everyone was doing it though—I assume. I’m about to look to Kaitlin for verification when Helen calls my name, “Thora.”

I instinctively jump to my feet. Glancing briefly at Nikolai, I can’t read him beyond his six-foot-five, masculine dominance. He’s an intimidating fortress in a gym full of straw huts.

“You’re first today,” Helen tells me. “We’d like to see some basic acro dance lifts. We want to know how well you work with Nik. He’ll lead you through them.”

I try to bottle some of my nerves, slowly approaching the center of the mat. In the corner of my eye, I spot Elena twisting the red silk in her fist, clearly being instructed by the choreographer to practice. My stomach twists and backbends and somersaults—in the worst ways.

“Thora,” Nikolai breathes, very close. He grips my attention, his concentrated gaze on me. “Don’t watch them. Right now, this is about you and me. Do your personal best, so that whatever happens, you have no regrets.”

I inhale a deeper breath, flooded with more confidence. I nod and retrain my mind, blocking out my competition.

He steps even closer, and I sense my ribcage jutting out in a heavy rhythm. He notices, concern knotting his brows. Which only causes me to breathe harder. Fantastic.

His intense steel gaze searches my features with headiness, care and lust. Intimate. A combination for long-time lovers, for something greater than a friend. Than anything we are. His acting is up to par. That’s for sure.

His large hand cups my oval face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. His frown darkens, and heat builds across my skin at one thought:
what if he’s not acting?

“Did someone hit you?” he asks lowly. His jaw muscles tic.

The bruise. “No, I, um.” I roll my eyes at myself. “I fell.”

Doubt crosses his features.

I realize
falling
is a cliché excuse used to cover worse things. But it’s sadly the truth here.

He says slowly, “You fell. On your face?”

I sound like a royal klutz. Someone you would definitely
not
want as an acrobatic partner. “I had a nightmare,” I explain, my throat closing. I’m a ball of hot lava right now, the swelter spreading and it’s not just from embarrassment. It’s just—he’s so close.
Of course he is, Thora.

“Must have been some nightmare.”

I was being drained of blood by vampires.
I purposefully leave this part out. “Yeah…it was really gruesome.”

“Let’s hope you don’t land on your face again, myshka.” His finger lightly brushes along the ridge of my nose, like a feather tickling my skin. If I blinked, I would’ve missed it. “What’s your favorite lift?” he asks before I can process anything else.

I go cold, despite his hand that falls to the base of my neck. “I…”
have never done an acro lift.
Or worked with a partner on aerial silk. I’ve been solo since no one would practice with me.

His eyes dance around my face, reading me quickly. “Do you have any formal circus training? Even a summer camp?”

“Not formal.” I watch him glance cautiously over his shoulder at Helen and then focus on me again. His closeness and deep, hollow voice cement my joints to stiff, unbendable shapes. When I should be just the opposite. Flexible and lithe.

“You’ll follow my lead then,” he says. “I’m assuming you can do that unless you tell me otherwise.”

“I can,” I nod, more eagerly than usual. I want to learn. As much as possible.

He stares down at me again, his gaze raking my small frame in a long wave. “This isn’t about executing the best pitch tuck or vault somersault. There’s no score at the end of a show. People attend the circus to see the impossible become possible, and it’s up to
us
to create that illusion.” His hand descends to my hip, his grip firm. “And we do that using our bodies.”

I’m wide awake, all yawns vanishing. His touch leaves hot imprints across me.

“We’ll try something simple first…” He clasps my hips and swiftly lifts me to his waist, and I instinctively wrap my legs around him.
Thump. Thump.
I can feel my heart slam into my ribs.

One of his hands rises to my hair, clutching the back of my head. And his unwavering bedroom eyes try to melt parts of me. On purpose. This is purposeful lust that I cannot defend myself against. It’s too strong.
He’s
too strong.

“Whatever passion you’ve ever encountered in your life, you use it now, Thora,” he tells me, reminding me that this is more than gymnastics. This is a performance.

Passion.

I wrack my brain. And I see a sloppy drunken night. And I see an awkward, short-lived one. Passion has never been in the cards for me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t fake it. That’s what acting is, right?  

We’re all putting on a show here.

I take another strong breath, fixating on his lips in hopes that I look sultry enough. I’m tiny in his arms, little and breakable but still strong.
Not as strong as him
, my conscience retorts.
I’ll get there
, I snap back, attempting to snuff out any self-doubt.

“We’ll try a handstand on my shoulders,” he instructs. “I’ll be able to tell if you’re struggling, so don’t worry about falling.” He searches my eyes for affirmation that I understand. But his hand caresses my cheek, my whole body warming and my mind jumbling. “Thora?”