Amour Amour

by Krista Ritchie

  His eyes smile. “It’s much more comfortable.”

  What? I choke on the liquid, coughing hoarsely.

  He rises from his chair, as if ready to give me mouth-to-mouth. I hold up a hand, and he pauses in the middle of the floor.

  “Thora?”

  After another couple of dry coughs and a sip, I find my voice. “It went down the wrong…pipe or whatever it’s called.” I wince. I will never be a good smooth talker. It’s hard to even look at his face right now. He admitted to sleeping naked, even in jest. And he’s in a towel. Towering again. We’re also drinking wine.

  Like old friends.

  Nikolai returns to his seat, his eyes twinkling in amusement when I meet them.

  “It’s not funny,” I say.

  “It depends which part you’re referring to.” He rests his arm on the back of the chair, stretching, lounging. It’s a nice view.

  I decide to jump topics again. New one. “How was the show tonight?”

  “Fair,” he says. “But that’s how it’ll be until the aerial silk act returns.” He watches me take another gulp. “Careful, my demon.”

  Do not choke. His comment almost made me, but I channel whatever poise I have and swallow the wine without falter. My entire body heats, not just from the alcohol.

  Nikolai leans back into the chair, and the towel shifts, exposing more thigh, closer to something else. What if he’s called the God of Russia because of the size of his cock? The curious parts of me want to know. The sensible parts do not.

  “How was your work?” he asks. A normal question, but the hairs on my arms rise.

  “Fair,” I say, not mentioning the drunken guys, urging me to split my legs apart.

  His gunmetal eyes seem to darken, and he rubs his strong jaw. He has to be imagining what “fair” entails at Phantom. Neither of us surfaces the unspoken words. It strains the air.

  “Are you normally so bold?” he asks.

  I try my shot at sarcasm. “You mean bold enough to sit in a living room in nothing but a towel?” I continue without thinking about my words. “It’s natural, yeah. I do it all the time.” I’m so lame.

  He breaks into a fraction of a smile. “I mean you coming to Vegas on your own. Auditioning, staying even though you didn’t make it.” He knows I would’ve stayed whether or not he offered to train me. Maybe that’s the bold part—striving for something without a break, familiar face, or any help.

  Back in Ohio, I would’ve never thought to crash at a Russian acrobat’s hotel suite—someone with a reputation for being a god and a devil alike. This is all new. One part exhilarating and three parts terrifying.

  “I think there’s something in the Vegas water,” I end up saying. It’s triggered the bold in me.

  He shakes his head just twice before boisterous voices fill outside—in the hallway. I can’t make sense of the jumbled noises, like people talking over each other. All at once. My stomach drops at the familiarity. During the never-ending night, I heard these sounds.

  From a hoard of Kotovas in the casino’s lobby.

  I look up at Nikolai, and I realize that he’s been studying my reaction, not at all surprised about what lies outside his door.

  Act Eighteen

  “Dude, my keycard isn’t working!” someone shouts outside the door. I think it was Luka, but I can’t be sure. A slew of Russian jargon overtakes his voice, and it sounds like shoulders and bodies slam into the wood as they fight to open the door.

  Nikolai rolls his eyes and sets down his wine before he approaches.

  “Let me try,” Timo says. (I think it’s Timo.)

  I crane my neck over the couch for a better view. Nikolai turns the handle and swings the door wide open. Timo nearly falls forward with Luka by his side. I mentally count about six or seven heads…no wait, eight. Eight Russian guys are outside.

  I’m not ready for this—

  “Hey, Nikky’s in a towel,” someone else says, and in two-point-two seconds, a pair of hands whips the fabric off Nikolai and snaps it against his thigh.

  My jaw unhinges. His ass. His toned, bare ass. I’m staring at it. Dear God—what is going on? Nikolai doesn’t flinch or even balk. He says a few words, lightheartedly, in Russian and proceeds to return to the kitchen like he’s fully dressed.

  What do I do?

  Do I look?

  I cover my face with my palm, clearly peeking through my spread fingers. I want to see. No you don’t. Yes, I really do.

  My frozen body makes the decision for me. While the rest of his relatives filter into the suite, Nikolai passes the living room buck naked, heading for his bedroom. His cock is in view. I see—so much. There is so much to be seen. As he nears, I force my gaze upwards. But he’s already looking at me, his brows lifting. He caught me gawking at his package.

  I don’t watch him walk past, I slump down and press my fingers together in a real face palm.

  “Thora James.” Timo plops roughly next to me, slinging his arm around my shoulder. “Did you just stare at my brother’s dick?”

  Fuck my life.

  “She’s probably already seen it,” Luka chimes in, hopping over the couch and sliding down on my other side. He combs his dark brown hair before readjusting his worn, blue baseball cap, wearing sweats and a plain gray tee.

  Timo is the brazen one. In high-cut jean shorts and a leather jacket. Nothing else.

  A couple larger, older guys say something in Russian as they enter the living room, one fisting the bottle of red wine. They look vaguely familiar, with short cut hair and hard features. Maybe from the never-ending night or in passing at the gym.

  There is a lot of testosterone in this room, and they’re all eyeing me like I’m a new species. “I…don’t speak Russian,” I put it out there, just like that.

  Timo tilts his head. “No shit, Thora James. I thought you understood me all this time.” His smile brightens his whole face, a youthful glow about him. I also feel less socially inept.

  One of the burlier guys sits on the couch’s armrest and flips through television channels with the remote, the stereo speakers adding to the general cacophony.

  “We haven’t met,” someone says behind me.

  I crane my neck over my shoulder and stare upside-down at a very tall guy, around Nikolai’s age, with short brown hair and ocean blue eyes, his jaw also unshaven. His shoulders also muscular and broad, but with a longer face, he seems pretty compared to Nikolai—not as hard, rugged or devilish. If I met him first, I wonder what my initial reaction would be.

  “I’m Thora,” I tell him.

  “Dimitri Kotova.” The tank, as Katya called him.

  “He’s our cousin,” Luka says as he digs into his pocket. He pulls out a handful of plastic-wrapped mints.

  “The rest of us are,” Dimitri says, gesturing to the other five guys. He saunters deeper into the room and snatches the wine bottle from another guy, pressing it to his lips. He makes a show of taking a large swig in front of me.

  “Go back to Animal Planet,” Timo says, pointing at the television. “That giraffe was about to give birth.”

  “I don’t want to see that shit,” the guy with the remote refutes.

  “It’s the miracle of life,” Timo gapes. “What’s better than that?”

  “Texas Hold ‘em.”

  “Fuck giraffes.” Timo folds instantly, and when the channel turns to a professional poker tournament, he leans forward, hypnotized.

  “Want one?” Luka asks me, my mind whirling in a dozen directions. He holds out a mint and I accept it with a smile—at least I think I smiled. Everything is moving really fast.

  “Those better not be stolen.” Nikolai’s stern voice pricks my neck. He walks behind the couch, now dressed in black sweats. I train my eyes on his face, not on his dick. But he briefly looks to me like he knows that I’m thinking about it. Of course I am. I’m sure if the carpet had eyes, it’d be fixated on his cock too.

  “They’re free mints,” Luka gawks. “I can’t ste
al things that’re set out for everyone to take.”

  “You’re supposed to take one, not the whole fucking bowl,” Nikolai shoots back.

  “What do you do, Thora?” Dimitri suddenly asks, rerouting my attention. He sits on the coffee table, facing me, still clutching that wine bottle. His tribal tattoo peeks from the sleeve of his white tee, the inked design spindling up his neck. It makes me more aware of Nikolai’s tattoo, one I hardly ever notice since it’s on the inside of his bicep: a collection of fir trees with long lines as trunks, ending at the crease of his elbow.

  I focus on the question at hand. What do I do? I guess I could answer this numerous ways. I choose the most honest one. “I work at Phantom.”

  Dimitri smirks, and his crude gaze lingers on my boobs. “I heard they tip well if you have a cunt.” He chugs the wine.

  My lips part, my insides turned to stone. I don’t even know how to respond.

  “Stay! Stay!” Timo shouts at the television. He rests his hands on his head and groans. “What a moron.”

  “Want another mint?” Luka asks, passing me a second one. I haven’t even unwrapped the first. Then Nikolai appears beside his nineteen-year-old brother, gesturing him to stand. Luka rises, and his collection of mints litters the carpet. Nikolai brushes a few off the cushion before sitting next to me, his arm wrapped protectively on the couch behind my head.

  Dimitri and Nikolai seem to be having a testosterone-fueled staring contest that I don’t understand fully. This is the first impromptu gathering of relatives in Nikolai’s suite since I’ve been here, but something tells me that they happen often.

  I decide to text Katya: I don’t know how you handle all these guys like this. She’s my hero.

  “Fold! Fold! Come on!” Timo springs from his seat, arms extended at the television.

  Dimitri fills the newly free spot on my left, and I go entirely rigid, a wine glass in one hand and my cell in the other. I try not to make eye contact, but I feel his arm ascending. About to swoop around my shoulders.

  Nikolai beats him to it, tugging me closer to his body and away from Dimitri, more territorial than anything I’ve ever been caught in between.

  Dimitri lets out a short laugh and says something to Nikolai in Russian. Frustration binds my muscles, mildly irritated that I can’t understand them. It’s like being a part of the wrong foreign feature film.

  I muster the courage to say, “You can talk in English.”

  Dimitri smirks again. “How old are you?” The way he asks—it’s like he’s gauging whether or not I’m legal to screw.

  Nikolai dips his head down, his lips brushing my ear, “I promise you’re safe, myshka. Don’t read into him.” He knows I am. Because he’s reading into me.

  “Twenty-one,” I answer softly.

  My phone buzzes.

  Headphones help – Katya

  And then another text drops beneath that one.

  It’s still impossible to block out the annoying parts of them. You should come upstairs. My cousins aren’t allowed in my room. My rules. – Katya

  Before Dimitri asks another question, I spring to my feet, Nikolai’s arm falling off me. “I’m going to go…” I point at the twisty iron staircase. “…talk to Katya.”

  Both guys say nothing. No facial expression beyond their intimidating builds and strong jaws. No smiles. Okay…you have this, Thora.

  Confidence still intact, I spin on my heels and head to the staircase. About three guys watching the television start to shout over each other. It strengthens my determination, somehow, and I climb the stairs to Katya’s room.

  I’m about to knock, but she shouts, “You can come in, Thora!”

  I open the door and shut it behind me, the hollering faint now. Her room is tiny, like the size of my dorm. On her dark purple comforter, Katya leans against a headboard, paperback in hand.

  I scan her space: clothes strewn over a desk chair, textbooks stacked on a window. It looks less like a hotel and more like a teenager’s bedroom, with posters from different circus shows taped unevenly on the cream walls.

  Nova Vega

  Celeste

  Somnio

  Infini

  Seraphine

  Viva

  Amour

  The largest poster hangs above her bed: Noctis, orange words scrawled over a moon. It’s clear which Aerial Ethereal show she favors.

  “Did Dimitri hit on you?” she asks, plucking earbuds out and closing the paranormal book.

  “Does he have a reputation for hitting on anything with two legs?” I ask, sitting at the end of her bed, tucking my ankles underneath my thighs, crisscrossed.

  She nods, her hair dried straight around her thin face. “Unless you share the same DNA. Which, you don’t. And he’s…” She crinkles her nose.

  “What?” I frown.

  “He’s really competitive with Nik,” she says. I wait for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t. I’m left to assume that Dimitri wants what Nikolai has—that’s most likely why he found me interesting at all.

  I gesture to the paperback. “How’s the book?” I’ve loaned out books before, but rarely are they ever read. So it’s kind of special to see someone actually dive into the story.

  “I think I like the werewolves more than the vampires,” she says.

  I’ve always been the opposite. “How come?”

  She shrugs. “They seem to care about each other more.” She squints at the cover in thought. “Like why did Rafael leave his brother alone, knowing predators were surrounding the castle?”

  “He was bloodthirsty, and he thought his brother could protect himself.”

  Katya frowns deeper. “…but he didn’t even bring extra blood back.”

  I never looked at it that way. “His brother survived,” I tell her. “Oh wait, did you get to that part yet?” I can tell she didn’t. I raise my hands. “Okay, I’m stopping myself before I spoil anything else.”

  She smiles, not upset.

  The door suddenly swings open without a knock. Luka slips in and shuts it. “Hey, Kat.” He reaches into his pocket and reveals three packs of Skittles. His pockets must be huge, is my first random, unhelpful thought. He tosses her the candy, and she gleefully gathers them in a pile.

  “Don’t tell Nik,” he says. I wonder if he stole them. “And don’t get another cavity. He’ll blame me.”

  She gives him a look. “Like I can help that.”

  “Chew slower,” he refutes.

  I try not to laugh. There’s no way the pace you eat stops a cavity from forming, but it’s kind of cute that he’d suggest it to his little sister. And by cute, I do mean the “unsexy friend” type.

  “I’ll share with Thora.” Katya nudges my hip with her foot and throws me a packet.

  Luka leans his shoulders against the blue Celeste poster, scrutinizing me more closely, like a cop would a suspect. I guess it’s only fair. I’m stepping into his world without his permission.

  “Are you going to rat me out?” He glares. And a Kotova glare is harsher than most, I’ve found.

  “For Skittles?” I say like it’s a silly notion. Though it’s more than that—he’s gauging how loyal I am to Nikolai. And maybe reading into that too, for a relationship status. Or maybe I’m going crazy, assuming things that shouldn’t be assumed. Like Nikolai does. Okay, I may need to reevaluate my thought process soon.

  “Yeah,” he says tensely, “for Skittles.” It’s like Skittles has become a code word. I’d be funnier if he wasn’t so serious right now.

  “I won’t rat you out for Skittles,” I assure him.

  After a long cagey moment, he finally nods, accepting my answer. Then the door cracks open again, this time Timo slides in, strands of brown hair touching his eyelashes. “Anyone have a hundred I can borrow?”

  I frown and accidentally blurt out, “A hundred bucks?”

  His lips rise, stuffing his hands into his leather jacket. “If I could gamble with a hundred hugs, you know I would, Thora James.” Y
eah—I imagine John not liking that turn of events very much.

  Luka stays quiet, but Katya reaches for her silver-studded clutch on the nearby dresser.

  “Or a fifty.” Timo checks the Marilyn Monroe desk clock, antsy.

  “You should really save up for Saint Petersburg,” Katya tells him, unzipping her wallet.

  “I’ve already been to Saint Petersburg.”

  “As a baby. It doesn’t count.” Katya leisurely inspects each credit card slot, avoiding the cash one. I think she’s purposefully prolonging this conversation, to have extra company, even for a moment’s time. “Nikolai let Luka visit when he was eighteen, and he said in two years, he’d let me go with you—”

  “I’m not going to Russia,” he cuts her off. “I like it here, Kat. We all like it here. Right, Thora?”

  I raise my hands, pleading the fifth. “I just got here.” I uneasily stand from Katya’s bed, afraid to be caught within the crossfire of a sibling fight. Since Tanner is so much younger than me, my relationship with my little brother is distanced at best. Sure, I love him, but we never hung out as friends. I’ve never been a part of close, in-your-face annoyances that brothers and sisters stir up.

  I’m wading in new territory. Which has been my Vegas experience since day one. At least it’s not that unexpected anymore, some positives there.

  Without peeking into the cash slot, Katya slowly zips her wallet and even buttons the flap, as though sealing Timo’s fate. “I have no money.”

  This isn’t going to end well.

  Timo’s face falls. “Come on, please. Don’t do this.”

  She sticks her earbuds in, ignoring him.

  “Katya,” he pleads. “You don’t want to go to Saint Petersburg. What’s there?”

  Her cheeks flush red, able to hear him. “Family.”

  Timo shakes his head wildly, his earring swaying. “Your family is here. Have you even talked to Luka about his trip?”

  Luka shifts his weight apprehensively. “Stop, Timo.”

  But Katya takes the bait, pulling out her earbuds. Her orb-like eyes tentatively flicker to me, for reassurance, I think. As though I can tell her the right path. I can’t. That’s for her to decide. I’m honestly just a bystander, a voyeur in the Kotova backstage experience. This time, I think I did purchase a ticket to it.