Amour Amour (29 page)

“I liked him at the beginning too, with Rose, but it almost seemed forced at times. I mean, they
rarely
stood even two feet near each other.”

“I know, it was weird. I always thought she had more chemistry with Connor.”

“Who’s your favorite?” I ask her as the show switches to a series of commercials. “Of all the Calloway sisters and their men?” I expect her to say Ryke Meadows or Loren Hale—the two most popular guys of the bunch. One is overly protective, the other in complete I-would-die-for-you love with his childhood friend.

“Easy.” She eats a scoop of ice cream before saying, “Rose Calloway.”

I flinch in surprise. “Rose?” I think I prefer Lily Calloway, the one who’s a bit shy, but in the face of so much publicity, so many warring voices, she’s stood strong in the end. It’s bravery that I think I need.

“Rose is always so well-dressed and put-together. And she’s smart.” Katya shrugs. “When she speaks, everyone listens. You know, when the show first aired, I’d often think What Would Rose Calloway Do?” She smiles with the spoon in her mouth.

I contemplate this. “What would Rose do in my situation?”

Katya’s smile fades. And I think we’re both mulling over the same answer:
she’d choose to be on her own.
Be independent. And try, stubbornly, to succeed without help. Without handouts. But she’d have an advantage in the end. She’s rich.

Her family owns Fizzle—one of the largest soda companies. My parents are like gold fish on the career pyramid. I’m more alone in that sense. Less lifelines and opportunities to phone a friend.

“Rose doesn’t always do the right thing,” Katya points out. “She makes mistakes too.”

I think about how the one-and-only season of
Princesses of Philly
ended, my eyes growing big. “This is true.”

The door suddenly opens. Only Nikolai enters, tensely. I can’t read him well enough to see if his strict demeanor derives from guilt. His quiet rage could just sprout from Shay and the fight.

I quickly peruse his body, a slightly reddish tint to the side of his ribs. That’s it. Clearly he outmatched Shay. He knows he’s bigger than him. And he still hit him. My blood runs cold and not even the fleece blanket stops me from shivering.

“Thora, can I talk to you alone?” He nods to his bedroom, and his chest rises and falls in a heavier breath, maybe preparing for me to say no.

But I want to hear what he has to tell me. I stand, setting the blanket down, and I head to his bedroom in my bikini, Nikolai trailing me. The temperature drops below zero when he shuts the door behind him.

My body shakes, the hairs on my arms rising. To distract myself from the cold, I sit on the edge of his metallic comforter, his bed made, his room minimal and modern. Spotless, the perks of hotel maids, I guess.
Why are you thinking about hotel maids, Thora?

Because I feel him towering. I feel him studying me. He slips into the closet for a second, and I tighten my legs together for heat, my shoulders locked and curved forward. When he returns, he carries a black Aerial Ethereal sweatshirt and he holds it out to me.

I’m not too prideful to reject it. I pull the sweatshirt over my head, the soft fabric dwarfing my build, the hem at my knees. The longer we share company in silence, the longer my chest constricts. I strain my neck to look up at Nikolai. He nears me, and very slowly, he kneels, his hand on my thigh, now more eye-level than before.

I remain fixed and unmoving. My face tight. I just wait for him to fill the cavernous quiet.

The first thing he says is, “Are you okay?”

“Can’t you read me?” My voice is stilted and as cold as I feel.

His eyes finished their dance across my features long ago. “You’re angry and confused, and you wish I hadn’t hit your friend. You’re also upset that he left early, but you won’t admit that to me. And you’re freezing right now.”

My nose flares at his on-point assumptions.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “But I’m not the kind of man who’d stand by while someone berates you. Even if he’s your friend.”

“You’re twice his size,” I refute.

“It’s not like he was defenseless, Thora. He’s an
athlete
.”

And he assumed right. Again. Probably based on Shay’s height, frame, build—like he did me that first night in Vegas. “Can you at least pretend to be full of remorse and regret?”
This would be so much easier.
 

“No. A devil protects his demon.”

I scowl.

His gaze flits all over me, branding me like the tip of a fire-poker. His sandalwood scent dizzies my head, and I try to stay resilient under his masculinity, the dominance that is nearly begging him to stand up, lay me back against his mattress and take control of me.

I can tell that he struggles to keep still on his knees. “Have you slept with him before?” There’s something in Nik’s eyes, something kept secret from me. I wonder if it’s jealousy. Or fear.

“No,” I say. “Shay set me up on a date with his teammate. He has no interest in me like that.” A chill runs up my spine, and a shiver snakes back down.

Nikolai rubs his hands along the tops of my thighs, the friction immediately warming the coldest parts of me.

I shut my eyes for a second, thinking. Trying to place why I feel so strange. And the thought clicks. I have to release this off my chest. When I open my eyes, his gray irises pierce me in questioning, a raging powerful storm.

With a sharp inhale, I’m swept in it.

“I didn’t choose you,” I tell him. The pain of the statement is a hot, metal knife, wedged between my ribs. “I chose the circus.” It barely alleviates the sting.
Why does that hurt?
If it was the truth, it shouldn’t hurt this badly. Right? It can’t be a lie. Because then Shay is right. Everything he said—

“I’m glad,” Nikolai says each word like they’re weighted with cement. His eyes redden the longer he holds my gaze, suppressing more emotion.

My chin quakes.
He’s glad.
I nod a couple times, letting this sink in.

And then he lifts me in his arms and tucks me to his chest, warmth blanketing me. We’re on his bed, beneath his comforter in seconds, and he just holds me, strong, muscular arms wrapped around my frame.

I press my forehead to his collar, trying not to shiver so much. He kisses my cheek and whispers soft Russian words that bathe my skin in heat. I turn them over in my mind, clinging onto what sounds like:
Vot moe serce
. And then others…that I can’t uncover.

I tilt my chin up, silently asking.

He repeats the Russian words, so deeply, but refuses to translate this time. It’s enough as it is. Whatever the meaning, it leaves me sweltering.

Act Twenty-Nine

“Are you still complicated, Thora?!” the hostess of The Red Death yells at me for the countless time. I now know her as Erin, twenty-four, aspiring model, friend of Camila’s.

I’ve been snatching the red “it’s complicated” necklace since Nikolai and I started dating, and likewise, I’ve never seen him without the red glowstick. So my choice is an easy one.

“Yeah!” I shout.

She passes me the red necklace, and I snap it on as I slip past the black curtain. I inhale hot, sticky air. The club is suffocating, the heat, the bodies—I immediately tie my dirty-blonde locks into a low pony, grateful for my white halter dress that lets my arms and legs breathe.

Camila presses a cold beer bottle to her forehead behind the bar. “The air conditioning is broken!” she shouts at me. She’s switched out her green “taken” necklace for a red crown. “We’re on a break!” She must notice me staring.

“Sorry!” I yell back.

She shrugs and slides me my usual drink: a tequila sunrise. “You look like you need this.”

I’d say it’s my RBF, but I’ve had a shit week. On top of the Shay and Nikolai fight, a guy grabbed my ass after my aerial hoop act—about an hour ago. And training has been difficult. I struggle to do these challenging drops on aerial silk. No matter how hard I try, I just freeze up.

The mental block keeps me from progressing. Being graceful and lithe is out of the question if I can’t perform the trick.

Self-doubt is a real killer.

“I did not sign up to drink in the pits of hell,” John grumbles as he plops on the barstool next to me. He wipes his sweaty forehead with his arm and wafts his black shirt away from his chest.

I raise my brows at him.

“Don’t give me that look.”

“You’re in a club called
The Red Death
. You don’t think what you just said was a little ironic?”

“Everything I say has a level of unamusing irony. It’s just the way it is. And unfortunately I have to live with myself longer than you do.” He motions to Camila.

“No,” Camila says, swatting his hand with a towel before she wipes the bar.

“At least quench my thirst while I’m
dying
here.” He huffs and I tug at the collar of my dress. “I say we leave in five minutes if they don’t fix the AC.”

Camila gapes. “What about me?”

“What about you? You’re being paid to suffocate. If I don’t get free booze, there’s no reason I should stay.”

I lift my drink. “Comradery.”

His eyes narrow at my tequila sunrise. “Is that free?” I see his eyes say:
You call that comradery?

I suck the straw and bat my eyelashes innocently. “Bad day.”

John swivels back to his cousin. And very seriously says, “I’ve had the most tragic Saturday—”

“You consider every day a tragic one,” she cuts him off. “Nice try.”

He extends his arms and then touches his chest. “My life is excessively shitty. I should be given
twenty
shots for that.” He taps the bar aggressively.

Camila slaps his hand away again. “You cry wolf, there’s a difference.”

John rolls his eyes. “You’re delirious from the heat, Camila. Cry wolf…” He snorts. “I don’t cry wolf.” If he had a beer, he’d chug it right now.

I check the clock behind the bar. Nikolai should be here soon if Amour ended about an hour ago. As the thought exits my brain, a
squish
noise triggers all around the club.

Sprinklers lower from the rafted ceiling and spray the dancers, drinkers, and bartenders with ice-cold water. Splitting cheers of excitement and glee crack through the pop music, and my muscles even relax in the chilly sheets.

Camila mutters curses, her purple mascara running down her cheeks already. “A warning would’ve been nice!” she shouts at the backroom and removes her makeup with a towel. I didn’t put too much on tonight, so I think I’m safe on this front.

I turn to my left, to John. His dark brown hair dampens and sticks to his forehead. With his surly expression, you’d think a flock of birds just shit on his head.

I can’t help it—I laugh. Really hard. It’s honestly like a raincloud has sprung and decided to trickle on his head. Ironic, yes.

John latches his surly gaze on me and flashes an ill-humored smile. “What are you laughing about? I’m not the one wearing white.”

My face falls, jaw drops.
No.
I’m not wearing a bra.

No.

I’m cool. It’s not that wet…but even as I think it, my hair is soaked already. The sprinklers never dialing down. I slowly glance at my body…my nipples visible. The barbell piercing visible. My orange boy-short panties.

Visible.

What. Do I do?

John says, “I’d cheers to this shitty day, but oh—I can’t. I’m just crying wolf.”

Camila sighs and gives in to his incessant bickering, twisting the cap off a Bud Light. She slides it over to him. “Shut up.”

He collects the beer. “Trust me, I would love nothing more than to stop hearing my voice, but I have vocal cords, so—blame God. I should’ve been mute.”

“Truer words, old man.” Timo fits in between our stools and rests his elbows on the wet bar. He’s shirtless, in tight black jeans and when he pushes back his dark, drenched hair, I catch John giving him a
clear
once-over, swigging his beer. If Timo notices, he doesn’t let on. “I need four shots of your best vodka.” He places
two
hundred dollar bills on the bar, soaking in water, and catches me looking. “Won a grand this afternoon.”

“Yeah, and you lost five grand yesterday,” John retorts. I cringe. That much?

Timo chooses to ignore John. When Camila reaches for shot glasses, she slips on the wet floor, and just barely catches the counter before she goes down.

I give her the thumbs-up and then act like I’m rubbing the back of my neck, my arm successfully covering my nipples. I just…can’t stand up. That’s okay. It’s all good. I’m living…life.

It feels hot in here again and it’s still raining.

Hell.

John was right.

We’re in hell. Where the reigning devil throws you in and says
step out of your box, Thora James.
My box consists of dark-colored clothes that can’t possibly turn see-through. My box has back-up plans and emergency tampons. I can only leave it on two accounts: under the influence of tequila sunrises or under the charming persuasion of Nikolai Kotova.

The latter is missing.

Drink up.

I guzzle my cocktail.

“Whoa, slow down, Thora James!” Timo yells at me, his hand on my shoulder.

I raise a finger at him, still chugging.

Both John and Timo watch me until I finish the last drop.

“Bad day?” Timo asks me with furrowed brows, his lips near my ear so I can pick up his words.

“Sort of,” I say, more softly, staring at the bottom of my cup. It’s a sad cup now.

“Sort of?!” John shouts at me. “You got a free fucking drink for
sort of?
” He glares at Camila.

Camila points at his beer. “Ah, no complaining, cuz.”

Timo laughs. “That’s asking too much of him.”

Camila finishes pouring Timo’s shots, and I’m about to order another drink but she winks at me, already snatching the carton of orange juice.
Good friends,
I think with a smile.

John rotates to Timo fully. “At least I don’t fuck middle-aged, pot-belly bastards.” This took a…weird turn. My eyes uneasily dart between them.