“Stop,” I cringe.
“No, you have to hear this.” He steps nearer, until he towers above me. “I won’t let you take a job that you believe is something it’s not.”
I’m conflicted, all over again. But I remember my plan. “I’m going to try to find another job today. I’ll call John. He got me the one at Phantom. And I’ll ask around and look online, but if I can’t find anything…” Tears well at the devastation in his eyes. “I need this job, Nik.”
“Live with me,” he says.
For so many reasons, this isn’t possible. “You know I can’t.” The words hurt as much to hear as they are to say. And as horrible as it seems, I think it’d be different if he was just a friend. If I was crashing at his place for a couple nights like at the beginning. But to rely on him this way now—it feels like defeat, like I failed at my purpose for being here.
He kneels. At my feet. I don’t have to strain my neck anymore. And he places his hands on my thighs. “I know you want to be independent, but it shouldn’t cost what you say you’re willing to pay.”
“I wouldn’t…” My voice cracks and I shake my head. “I wouldn’t blow another guy. I wouldn’t do anything like that, Nik.”
“And what if they put you in that position?”
“I’ll leave,” I say, adamant about this.
“And what if they don’t let you leave?” His jaw muscles tense.
“They will.” I have to believe they will. Before he rebuts, I add, “I can’t leech off you. Timo spends all of his money, and you support him and Katya and Luka. You can’t afford to provide for me too.”
He doesn’t refute me—because it’s true. He suddenly rises to his feet. “We’re not training today.”
My stomach drops. “Wait—”
“I have to make some calls,” he clarifies. “If you only have today to find another job, then I want to use every hour.”
My lips part in shock. “You’re going to help me?” I’m not sure what I expected his reaction to be, maybe to throw an ultimatum at me. Him or this job. Like my dad did. But this outcome overwhelms me, in a bigger way.
He tilts his head, his eyes softening. And he speaks in hushed Russian. Not long after, he says in English, “I’d help you every day so that you could see a better tomorrow. I will never give you less than that.”
My heart expands with each syllable.
And I wonder if his briefly spoken Russian was what those gray eyes convey now. The sentiments too strong to ignore.
I love you.
I see those words all over him.
I feel them.
But neither of us can say them aloud. Maybe we both refuse to wedge I love you between my purpose for being here, in Vegas.
Love—it has to come second.
Act Thirty-Six
After non-stop job hunting, Nikolai and I came up short.
I agreed to the private shows about three days ago. Roger booked me one for tonight. And in those three extra days, available jobs seemed nonexistent. At least ones in my skillset. John said that most clubs are cutting back on aerialists, and I didn’t have enough experience to be a bartender or a dealer.
The waitressing gigs also were out of my element. I tried a couple places and they said my height would be a problem or I wasn’t the “right fit”—which John said was the subtle way of telling me that I wasn’t “hot enough” for the men there.
But I strangely get it. A lot of the waitresses here are aspiring models. I’m just not the illusion this city wants to create. Nikolai wouldn’t tell me who he talked to or who he called, but he still has no potential leads.
So here I am.
At Phantom, dressed in black lingerie beneath my sweats.
I wait for Roger by the employee lockers, rocking on the balls of my feet, my nerves escalating. I exhale a measured breath. “You can do this,” I mutter. I probably look like the crazy girl, talking to herself.
My cliché pep talk is all I have right now. I can’t welch.
When I see the mop of red hair, my spirits simultaneously lift and fall. My feet glue to the ground. You can do this. Move forward. My soles are still cemented.
Roger approaches me, making it easy. He scrolls through his phone and says, “Looks like you’re off for the night. The client cancelled.”
“Cancelled?” My shoulders drop in relief. You can’t be relieved, Thora. You needed this money. My eyes begin to burn.
“Did I stutter?” he shoots back. “This happens sometimes.” My resting bitch face must be going strong because he holds up a hand. “Look, I can try to get you another gig in a couple days.”
A couple days…
This isn’t a salary-paying job. I don’t see a check unless I work.
His phone rings. “I have to take this. You’re done for the night.” He slides past me.
I check my phone. It’s still early, and Nikolai has a show. But now I have more time to research. For a better job than this one.
* * *
I sit at a penny slot, betting about twenty cents every two minutes. I’ve taken gambling to a whole new slow level. My excuse is my cellphone in hand. I scroll through job openings in Vegas, not picky on the exact location since I’ve become used to public transportation.
Unfortunately, most are dealers and bartenders.
I click into the Masquerade’s website and search for full-time jobs within the hotel. Assistant chef, baker for the pastry shop, master sushi cook, sous chef. In another life, I’m without a doubt becoming a chef.
I rub my temples the more I read. An elderly woman with a fanny pack scowls at me as she passes. I guess I’m not concentrating enough on the machine. Fine.
I hit the “bet” button. Lines start popping up on the screen, forming many zig-zags. Wait…
My heart lifts. I won something. Right? Fate is finally on my—
Fifty cents.
Fifty cents? I have to stare at the number for thirty full seconds to digest this. But there were so many damn lines. And that’s all I won. This is rigged. I don’t even know what the lines are pointing to or what they mean. I scan the machine for instructions.
Nothing.
Stupid machine. I focus back on my phone and notice another job position. Assistant housekeeper. It’s full-time. My shoulders rise with hope, only to be squashed with the words “one-year experience in housekeeping for large casino or hotel required.”
Apparently people don’t start their on-the-job training in places like The Masquerade.
When I accepted the private aerialist gig at Phantom, Roger told me that many girls want this job and even fewer are ever hired. So I should realize how lucky I am—that he’d even offer it to me. That he wouldn’t have if I didn’t work there before.
It puts things into perspective. Like how hard it may be to find something else.
My phone vibrates.
Call me when you can. I care about you, and I just thought they’d be able to help you. I’m really sorry. – Shay
I click out of the text, a pit in my stomach. He’s been trying to call since my parents flew back to Ohio. I think he expected me to be on the plane with them. I haven’t had the courage to respond to his voicemails or messages. Not yet at least.
I know what Shay did wasn’t out of malice, but it doesn’t change the fact that there’s still a knife wedged between my shoulder blades.
My cell rumbles again.
Amour ended. Where are you? – Nikolai
At a penny machine near the black and gold bar.
We agreed to meet up after work, to discuss my first night at my “new” job. I try to rehearse what I’ll say, but I’m blank for a good while. Just kind of wishing I won a jackpot right now.
You and everyone else, Thora James.
“Hey.”
I spin on the leather stool. Nikolai stands a few feet away, in a pair of drawstring pants. His makeup is all washed off except for a thin purple streak by his hairline, like he rushed to be here.
“I won fifty cents.” I motion to the machine.
“Thora.” My name sounds raw off his tongue, and he studies my body language for signs that I’ve come out without a scar.
“It was cancelled,” I say quickly, so he can stop worrying. “I have a couple more days until I work. So…it’s pretty good, I think. Extra time.”
He hardly relaxes, but he does nod in agreement. That’s a good sign. Right? Most definitely. I exhale a tight breath.
I wait for him to speak, but he stares off, as though he’s thinking about the inevitable. Me working a private show.
“Do you…maybe want to see my apartment?” I suddenly ask.
I catch him off guard. His head whips to me, surprise coating his face. In the months that we’ve been together, he’s yet to even see my apartment complex.
“I mean, you don’t have to. It’s not much, or anything.” Nerves swarm, especially as his gaze bores through me, heating my core. “It’s, um, small. But I have a bed.” Of course you have a bed. Why wouldn’t I have a bed? I made this weird.
His lips curve upwards. “I’m glad you have a bed, myshka.” His voice is sex. I swear it.
“Thank you…” Lame. So lame.
He laughs into a bigger smile. “You lead the way.”
Something tells me that we’re going to switch to his speed tonight.
Act Thirty-Seven
During the taxi ride to my apartment, Nikolai keeps his focus on the street, trying to determine where we’re headed. He has no clue what part of town I live in, not until the taxi rolls to a stop at the building. And he seems to exhale for the first time.
After climbing out of the car, he places his hand on the small of my back, walking towards the stucco 5-story apartment complex, plenty of bikes locked and chained to a nearby rack.
“You live farther away than I thought.” He finally speaks as we ascend the staircase.
“Safe area though, right?” I holster the urge to fill the pregnant pauses.
He digs in his pocket for his phone. “Relatively speaking.” He hates me living here. I know it. I watch him text someone. “I’m making sure Katya knows she’s alone tonight.”
“She won’t go out or anything…will she?” I remember the 2 a.m. hunt for Katya Kotova. If there’s been another chase, I haven’t been a part of it.
“No she’s still at practice,” he says. “She’ll be too tired.”
I almost smile, not at her being tired, but for her trying harder. She’s been working on landing a full-in, full-out on the Russian bar for a while. Extra practice has been helping her a lot, Nikolai said.
He slips his phone back in his pocket. And I stop by my door, apartment 4E. He scans the outdoor hall: the fluorescent lights, bugs flocking it, and my neighbor’s dingy welcome mat that says Nice Underwear.
There is a faint smell of dog crap in the air and stale pizza. But I’m still happy to have this place, something that’s mine.
When I push open the door, I begin to hold my breath for his ultimate reaction. He follows me inside, and I scoot around him to lock it back. I take a little while longer to achieve this, my heart on turbo-speed.
“I can give you a tour…” I slide the deadbolt and spin on my heels. The blinds are shut, three of them broken, rays of moonlight casting shadows in the darkly lit room.
“Bedroom,” he says, nodding to the mattress on the floor. The blankets are haphazardly thrown on it. Why didn’t you make your bed? I really didn’t think this invite through.
“Yeah…that’s my bed.” I nod. “It’s also the couch. Like a bedroom-living-room situation. Cozy.” Do people still use that word? Cozy. I exhale through my nose and focus on him instead of my furniture (or lack thereof).
He stands between the bathroom door and the edge of the mattress. Literally like five feet of space. His body seems larger here. Taller. The ceilings lower. The room smaller.
I brought a Ken doll into a Polly Pocket house. I’m a Polly Pocket playing with a Ken doll. This is…not right. It’ll be fine, I think. My brain even sounds uncertain.
“There’s the kitchen,” I say, pointing to the cramped area with moveable counters and a hot plate. “And the bathroom is behind you. But you know what a bathroom looks like, so…” I clear my throat. I’m acting like we haven’t been dating for months, but this is just new. Him here. The possibility of sex. It’s nerve-inducing. The pressure is a little higher.
His eyes stop dancing around the room, and they land on me. He gestures me to walk over to him. I am lingering by the deadbolt. There isn’t much room between the mattress and the bathroom door. That’s the point.
Right.
I set my keys on a small wall hook (aka a nail), and I kick off my shoes and sidle to him. I immediately regret my lack of shoes as the top of my head reaches his shoulders.
He cups my face, his thumb caressing my cheek. “Your eyes are black, myshka.”
Are they?
I’m just overly concerned about how large he looks in my tiny apartment. And how tiny I am compared to him. Tiny things don’t fit with big ones. Those are the laws of physics. Or geometry. Whatever class I wasn’t paying attention to in high school.
“It’s dark in here,” I note. I wish I was better with words. God, do I wish that right now. “But yeah, they still do that sometimes.”
“When you’re angry,” he replies, stepping closer, my pulse racing. Not always. “When you’re confused.” Sometimes. His hand drifts to the back of my neck.
I ache between my legs, loving his touch there. Always that firm, protective grasp. Always in that place.
“And when you’re aroused.” That…I wouldn’t know.
I dizzy as his thumb skims the soft flesh along my jaw.
“So right now, which is it?” His other hand descends to my thigh, and in one rapid, lithe movement, he has me at his waist, supporting me here with a single palm. I’m almost eye-level, my arms clinging to his shoulders, my legs around his torso. His mouth brushes just outside my lips. “Thora?”
I haven’t answered him yet. My heart thumps. “You’re too big.”
He holds my face again, his strict gaze full of reassurance. “You have to trust me.”
“I want to…but I’m scared.” It’s one of the most truthful things I’ve ever said, ever admitted aloud. I just can’t stop thinking about the differences between us: our ages, our heights, our sizes, our—
He kisses me, so deeply, as though to show me how much we do fit together. My muscles flame in pleasurable heat, and while his tongue parts my lips, he walks backwards, towards the bathroom. Nikolai opens the door, but instead of slipping through, my spine hits the wooden frame. He pins me here.
When he breaks the kiss, his eyes bore into mine, pulling off my baggy tee. Then he removes his. He unbuttons his pants, steps out. Never detaching from me. Never leaving me. His attention, his intensity is mine. He takes off my bottoms, leaving me in black Phantom lingerie.
My heart can’t slow. Even for a second.
“I’m going to fit inside of you,” he says lowly, his voice masculine and deep, filling a silent, small room. “Since you’ve only had sex twice, it’ll hurt at first, but it will feel better.”
I nod, digesting his honesty.
His fingers slip into my hair. “You don’t have to think about anything. Not how this’ll work or what to do next. Just relax, and I’ll take care of you.”
It’s this proclamation that calms my restless nerves the most. “Okay,” I whisper, blood pumping. This time, when his lips drift to my nape, I let go, closing my eyes and just burning with the swelter of his strong movements. No more thinking about our differences. No more zoned in on the parts that make us a bad pairing.
As his hands roam, undressing me, undressing him, I forget everything except this pleasure. His lips meet mine, hungrily, achingly. He extends my legs more, stretching one up, the other still hooked around his waist. My back arches, his hardness close, and I already begin to pulsate, hi
s fingers rubbing me.
I grow soaked by the second, and I can’t close my mouth, breathless and warm all over. “Nik…” I clutch onto his biceps for support.
He says something in hot, sexy Russian that only stirs me more. His thumb flicks my barbell piercing, the sensitivity pricking my neck.
And then his body presses up against mine, to the point where I figure out what’s about to happen next. My eyes open, and I wrap my arms tighter around his chest, bracing myself for the fullness that I simultaneously crave and fear.
It won’t hurt. It won’t hurt.
Even if he said it will.
Stop thinking.
That’s when he slides his erection deep inside of me, not slow, but hard. He thrusts forward, the pinch is worse than the first couple times I had sex. Because he’s bigger. My fingers dig into his back, stifling a wince, but he never hesitates, just rocking at a melodic, fast pace.
It builds up my arousal, and he dips his head to kiss my neck, sucking—devouring me. He lets out a deep noise, a grunt as he goes deeper. The pleasure flooding his face, and it sends me to a new plane of existence, one where pain is replaced by a high, floating. Near the broiling sun.
I turn my head, a fraction, in a dazed state. And I catch sight of ourselves in the bathroom mirror. Dear God…
That can’t be me. The girl enveloped by this man. His cock disappearing between my legs. His hands on either side of the wall, cocooning me for a further, more intimate entry. Rocking forward. Into me.
My chest is on fire.
My heart set ablaze.
Seconds later, my toes curl, a cry rips through my throat, and my body curves, right into him. He never stops his rhythm, never slows his powerful stride, and I feel myself being wound all over again. The pain is gone to these other senses, like a drug numbing a wound.
I reach up to touch his jaw, my head dizzied, my eyelids drooping.
He takes his hand in mine before my fingers even skim his cheek, and he kisses my palm, staring straight into me as he thrusts. I’ve never felt closer to Nikolai than right now. And I trust him. With every single part of my life—I trust this man.
Amour Amour Page 27