Infini

by Krista Ritchie

  I spot Timo at a blackjack table in what’s considered the “party pit”—but it’s not as rowdy as it could be. As I sidle up to the empty stools, I catch Timo’s attention.

  Even though he wears workout gear, he’s in full costume makeup for Amour tonight: a black streak across his gray eyes, dark shadow enhancing his cheekbones, and silver shimmer lining his features.

  With his hair slicked back, he should appear menacing, but his partial smile carries more light than a person’s full-blown grin.

  I nod in greeting, but I don’t sit down like him.

  Timo gives me one look that says: don’t bring up Sergei.

  Mine says: I won’t.

  “You’ve both fallen one-too-many-times on your heads, right?” That’s John. From behind the card table, dressed in a dealer’s black tux and gold bowtie, his eyes ping from me to Timo. “It’s the only explanation. People, real life, breathing people—”

  Timo grins. “Why do you always have to leave out ghosts, man?”

  John cocks his head but steps over Timo’s comment, “People shouldn’t be able to communicate by eyesight like that. It’s unsettling. It’s an evolutionary malady. One step too far for humanity.”

  I think this is John’s long-winded way of saying Timo and I are “creepily” close.

  My brother’s smile brightens. “You think I’m evolved, John?”

  “I think you’re killing humanity, and you’re killing me. As we speak.” Despite appearing surly, John never breaks my brother’s gaze.

  They’re flirting. It’s obvious to me.

  From other slots and tables, people watch Timofei as he radiates pure energy that’s almost indescribable. And he’s just sitting down. It lifts my chest, and I start to smile for no reason.

  John is just as entranced, though he doesn’t let on as strongly as others.

  “I’m that powerful in your eyes,” Timo teases.

  John glares at the ceiling with an expression that’s best described as “I hate the fucking world and its incompetent subjects”—and I’ve actually heard him say that exact phrase before.

  “Don’t worry, John,” Timo says, “I’ll bring you back to life after I kill you.”

  John shakes his head once. “Don’t try and you can’t. In this ghastly overpopulated universe, the dead stay dead and the living stay shittily living….” His voice drifts with his eyes. “Luka, take a seat.”

  I sit before I follow his gaze to a drunk cluster of thirty-something guys in nice suits. Their gold-plated watches seem expensive.

  “They don’t tip,” John says to me, “and they’ve been throwing down ten-grand a hand. They smell like a rotten ham sandwich and menthol—oh, and they’re fucking clumsy.”

  Timo leans into me. “They spilled bourbon on his table last night.”

  “I hate people,” John finishes, which makes no sense since he’s a service worker. He’s paid to put a smile on his face and chat-up strangers. He rarely does the former, but he’s way too proficient at the latter.

  As the drunk guys look to John’s table, I kick up my legs on all of the empty stools. Stretching out. They’re too plastered to be offended, and they stumble and holler their way to baccarat.

  A few of our young cousins pass, no older than ten, and they all say hi to Timofei. Spinning on his stool, he slings his arm over their shoulders, and he compliments them in Russian. Makes them feel better about themselves—I can tell.

  They light up, and by the time they leave, they’re all smiling. In a better mood.

  Happy.

  Timo makes people happy. (Me included.)

  “ID,” John tells me.

  I smile while I chew my gum and pass him my fake ID. Many times, he’s mentioned that his pit boss is watching, but management knows we’re underage—and they still let us drink and gamble.

  (Perks of being a Kotova.)

  The Masquerade profits a lot off of my family’s talent. I’m talking millions of dollars that we rack in with every show, and the hotel has become known for Infini and Viva and now Amour. People stay here especially for the circus.

  So yeah, management looks the other way when I drink a beer, dance in a club, or sit at a blackjack table. Why shouldn’t they?

  The Masquerade is worth 5 billion.

  Aerial Ethereal is worth 2 billion.

  And I’m just an artist. On the low rung of the Corporate ladder. They all bathe in their wealth, and I’m on stage, working my ass off for the art.

  For that final applause.

  For my family.

  I watch John inspect my ID. Really, I think he just likes reminding us that we’re not special.

  He takes longer than usual. “Something wrong?” I ask.

  Timo says, “The old man probably needs his glasses.”

  John rolls his eyes but hangs onto my ID. “Play a few rounds and then I’ll return this to you.” He slips my ID in his back pocket. I don’t understand what he’s getting at.

  “Luk has early-evening practice,” Timo says and spins more towards the table. “I’m betting five-hundred.”

  John feeds a deck of cards in an automatic shuffler. “As your dealer, I advise you to bet less.”

  Timo almost laughs. “How do you still have a job here?”

  “It’s advice I only give to people I can’t stand.”

  “So everyone.”

  “You,” he corrects.

  Timo leans forward. “I’m up two-hundred, and this is my last hand before I leave for work. I’ve made worst decisions.” He gestures to him. “Like dating you.”

  It’s supposed to be a joke, but John is the one with the insults while Timo exultantly chases after him, like a firefly in a storm cloud.

  John looks more concerned than hurt. “You think I like nagging you, babe? I don’t—I’d rather eat my left foot.”

  Timo opens his mouth to say something, but he hesitates and checks the time on his phone. “I have to go warm-up for the show anyway.” Standing off the stool, he avoids John’s gaze and they don’t kiss like usual.

  I’m about to follow my little brother to make sure he’s okay.

  “I have your ID,” John suddenly tells me—and now I realize why he held onto it. He wants to keep me here after Timo leaves. With twelve-hour practices every single day, it’s not like I’ve been accessible lately. Today is just different. Our practice times were shifted for a Corporate luncheon, all to schmooze investors.

  I wasn’t invited. (I’m still Corporate’s Least Favorite.)

  Standing, I reach out for my ID and watch my brother vanish towards Amour’s globe auditorium.

  John doesn’t even reach into his pocket. “Can you sit?”

  I take a seat and face him. “But I’m not playing.” I don’t like wasting money gambling.

  John nods understandingly, and for once, he’s quiet.

  I laugh into a smile.

  He scowls. “What?”

  “You’re nervous, dude.” I lean back on two legs of my stool. Balancing. “It’s alright. You can talk about Timo. I’m not going to snitch if it’s serious. It can stay between us.”

  John glances at his pit boss before shuffling the cards again. “I couldn’t be more opposite from your brother if I actually tried—and I don’t try. Trying is for idealists and romantics.”

  I worry this is about Timo’s lack of relationship experience. He mentioned that John only does monogamous relationships, something my little brother knows nothing about. This is his first.

  “When I’m stressed, I let it permeate because misery should be felt by all,” John tells me. “It keeps people grounded. Life sucks, don’t enjoy it.”

  I almost smile again. His pessimism is somehow engaging, which is why he’s one of the most liked dealers in all of the Masquerade.

  John stacks casino chips. “When Timo is stressed, he holds it all in and gambles. He’s been at my table four times just today, and not because he wants to see my face—which I’m sure is part of it, but not
all of it.” He flips a red $5 chip between his fingers, and his eyes finally lift to me.

  I see his unease. “What are you getting at?”

  “His stress originates from Sergei. He’s been going out of his way to keep me separated from your older brother, and he’s been obsessing over the joint birthday party next week.”

  Katya and Nikolai. Their birthdays are one day apart, and we’re supposed to celebrate at The Red Death on Saturday, Nik’s favorite nightclub.

  Sergei will definitely be there.

  So will John.

  He adds, “This familial whatever-you-want-to-call-it: dispute, drama, headache—it’s making Timo sick.”

  Chewing my gum slower, I fall onto all four legs of the stool and sit forward. Careful not to touch the tabletop. “Look, I know all of this. I don’t give Timo money when he gambles. I don’t rag on him except when he overdoes it.”

  His dark brows furrow. “I’m not sure you’re hearing what I’m saying.” He thinks I haven’t comprehended the severity of the situation.

  “No, I am,” I say, self-assured. “You’re telling me that my brother has a serious issue. Mind you, it’s taken you a thousand extra words to come to a point I’ve been aware of forever. You’re also going to ask for my help because I’m the closest person to Timo, and you’re not sure how to intervene without overstepping.”

  John skims me up and down. Like he’s never truly seen me before. I listen when people talk. It shouldn’t be such a fucking revelation.

  I rip open another piece of gum. “You can ask.”

  “I’m going to run into Sergei next Saturday. That’s not a question. It’s a fact, and I need to know how I should react.”

  I smile while I pop spearmint in my mouth. “You want me to tell you how you should feel?” I shake my head. “Dude, the minute you see Sergei, you’re going to feel what you feel, and there’s no shutting that off.”

  “I can program my feelings.”

  “If that were true, wouldn’t you be less…?” I gesture at him.

  His dark scowl never changes shape. “I like the way I am. I prefer it. The sun is annoying. Smiles are ridiculous, and happiness is for fools.” He says that, but John is also full of contradictions. I never take all of his words at face value.

  “Okay, without my opinion, how would you react to Sergei if you saw him right now? I’ll tell you if it’s a good way to go.”

  John stares at the ceiling like it has personally accosted him. “Let’s see what I know about Sergei. One”—he counts off his fingers—“he’s the cause of my boyfriend’s daily distress. Which should be enough for me to hate the fuck out of him. But life just has to be more complicated than that. Two: he’s the older brother of Nikolai, who I initially didn’t gel with at all. Do I expect Sergei to be antagonistic or affable towards me? I have no answer.”

  I’m about to interject, but John isn’t finished.

  “Three”—he raises three fingers—“beneath everything, I see that Timo loves Sergei, but I don’t know how much love is left after what he did.”

  I realize that Timo must’ve filled John in on the bad blood. “Is that it?” I wonder.

  “I could go to one-hundred, but I’ll stop there for the sake of my own sanity.” He motions to me. “So what is Sergei really like?”

  I shake my head with a weak laugh. “A know-it-all. Rigid in thought. If he has an idea, his is the best one. Sometimes it’s like speaking to a brick wall, and not the kind you can knock down.”

  “So he’s like Nikolai.”

  “No,” I say quickly. “To me, he’s nothing like Nikolai.” I lick my dry lips. “Nik is humble and protective. When Nik clashed with you in the past—it’s because he was guarding Timo. Sergei has no clue…” My throat closes, choked for a second.

  I feel John staring at me darkly and intently. “No clue about what?”

  “Sergei hasn’t been here,” I say strongly. “Not in New York, not in Nevada. He missed all the terrible shit we dealt with.”

  John pauses for less than a second. “There’s a high probability that I will flat-out hate Sergei on the spot.”

  “You can’t be a dick to Sergei just because Timo is on the outs with him. You also can’t be too friendly because Timo will feel like you’re not on his side. Stay somewhere in the middle.”

  John sighs into an exasperated groan. “What’s in the middle of being dickish and nice-ish?” He rubs his unshaven jaw. “Nothing. It’s just a void.”

  “Try not to glare at him,” I suggest while I stand up and outstretch my palm for my ID. “Sergei likes enthusiasm.”

  “Fucking A,” John says flatly and puts my ID in my palm. Before I move, he asks, “Will you be at the birthday party next week?”

  I frown, confused. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  John lifts his brows at me like it’s obvious. “I consider The Red Death my third or fourth home, and every Saturday night, regardless of special occasions, Kotovas swarm the place like locusts. No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “But weirdly, I think I’ve seen you there twice…maybe three times. If that. You’re not going there tonight, are you?”

  “No.”

  “But next week—”

  “I’ll be there.” I pocket my ID.

  “Why exactly don’t you hang out with the Kotovas at The Red Death every week?” he asks point-blank.

  It’s simple. “We all weren’t allowed to go to The Red Death until we turned seventeen—Nik’s rule. I turned seventeen, and I promised Kat that I wouldn’t ditch her every week. That I’d wait for her to reach my age.” I give him the same look he gave me. Like it’s obvious. “Most Saturday nights, I go to Verona with Katya.”

  Verona is the Masquerade’s throwback dance club. They play eighties and nineties music. It’s tamer than The Red Death, but still fun.

  John tilts his head. “And here, I thought you were a Kotova sellout.”

  My lips upturn. “Circus is family.”

  The love we carry for each other is the strongest and most vulnerable place in us all.

  Act Twenty-Nine

  Luka Kotova

  18 Days to Infini’s Premiere

  In my suite, I have one hand on the fridge handle and I text using my other.

  Do you need ice for your burn? I can bring some over. I send the message to Baylee. I’ll be in her suite because everyone’s eventually congregating there for Nik and Katya. All before we leave for the party tonight.

  I check the oven clock. It’s only 8:00 p.m.—still early.

  I mouth the lyrics to “ABC Café / Red & Black” from Les Misérables that blasts in my ears, my headphone’s cord tangled around my cell.

  Incoming text.

  You know you can’t. – Baylee

  Just tell me if you have ice in your freezer’s tray. I type and send it, refusing to pretend like I don’t care about Bay. I’d care as just co-workers. (We’re more than that, but still, no one can know.)

  She majorly burned her forearm juggling fire at practice this morning and had to see AE’s on-call docs.

  I reread my text and then send a heart emoji.

  With my elbow, I rub off water that drips down my temples. I should’ve towel-tried my hair better after my shower. I face the fridge in just charcoal-gray boxer-briefs. Still getting ready.

  I scan the fridge’s contents for any food without Brenden or Zhen written on it.

  My phone buzzes.

  :( -- Baylee

  I frown, my stomach dropping. Sad? I send.

  Yeah. I feel like sleeping … or just talking to you. Do you think we can hang out at The Red Death in front of everyone? Or is that too much? (no ice) – Baylee

  Someone suddenly rips my earbud out.

  I flinch and my head swerves to my right. Brenden stands a foot from me, and I instantly lower my cell, hiding the screen from his view.

  Brenden sighs like he’s annoyed at the annoyance he feels for me. “I called your n
ame five times.”

  “Sorry,” I say casually. “I couldn’t hear you.” My muscles constrict. Unsure of where this is headed. We’ve successfully avoided each other for months.

  If I’m in our kitchen, he turns the other way.

  If he’s in our living room, I dip out of the suite entirely.

  Beneath an unzipped windbreaker, he’s shirtless, and I immediately spot the letters Baylee inked with Mom and Dad over his heart.

  I try not to forget how much he means to Bay, and how much she means to him.

  “Are you done?” He gestures to the fridge.

  “No, but you can go.” I step back, but he’s already shaking his head.

  “You can go first.” He motions and then crosses his arms over his chest.

  The exchange is more awkward than it even seems. We’re both uneasy, and we’re just standing in the tiny kitchenette opposite a refrigerator.

  Quickly, I scour the shelves and realize that I need to go grocery shopping.

  I find a jar of dill pickles. Dimitri’s food, but he won’t care.

  Brenden stares at me weirdly as I exit with the pickles. He hangs onto the fridge door and watches me unscrew them and search for a fork in the drawers.

  “What are you looking for, man?” he asks.

  “A fork.”

  “No, I mean food.” Brenden points at fridge shelves. “I was going to make myself a sandwich.” He pauses. “If you want one, I have more cheddar and turkey. Wheat bread, though. And it’s all organic.”

  I’m caught off guard by the offer and a little on edge. Still, I nod. “Yeah, sure.” I nod again. “Thanks.”

  Brenden pulls out cheese, turkey, and mustard, and then he points to the cupboard. I follow the silent direction and grab the loaf of wheat bread.

  When we collect plates and silverware, we run into each other and awkwardly side-step. Then tensely, we both start making our sandwiches. Side-by-side on the same counter.

  For as many moments I shared with the Wright family, there’s not one stretch of memory where Brenden and I bonded. We were nothing stronger than acquaintances. Not friends. Not enemies until after I got Bay in trouble.

  A quiet, invisible divide has always separated us.