“Of course.” The two men turn around in synchrony.
“You know Niko, yes?” Serge asks as you slide between their two hulking bodies. The air is still warm from the day’s heat, and the lights of the city twinkle like thousands of terrestrial stars.
“Of course I know Niko,” you answer—though in truth you didn’t actually know his name. He’s one of the two men who meet you at the top of the catwalk every night; Niko is the one who straps you safely into your harness before your descent to the stage.
Niko gazes out across the rooftops. “One can almost imagine that the lights from all of these millions of windows are stars,” he observes poetically. His accent is almost identical to Serge’s.
“That is something I used to imagine as a child, as well,” Serge says. “That all of the city lights were stars.”
“Did you two grow up near each other?” you ask, intrigued.
Serge turns to face you, locking those gorgeous grey eyes with yours. “You could say that. In fact, we studied together.”
“You went to the same school?”
Niko smiles, his face lighting up in the glow of the myriad lights. “Not exactly. We studied music together.”
“You studied music too?” you ask Niko. I had no idea.”
“Yes, well. Why would you know?”
“Do you still play?”
“A little.” Niko smiles.
“A little,” Serge repeats, laughing. “That is like saying the Pope goes to church once in a while. Niko is very talented.”
“Do not exaggerate,” Niko says, but you think you see a slight blush on his already ruddy cheeks.
“I am not exaggerating. You know I am telling the truth.”
You laugh at their back-and-forth, enjoying the obvious closeness you had no idea existed between them.
“What do you play?”
They answer in unison, “Cello.”
“Wait, you both play cello?”
“Yes,” they say together, again.
You narrow your eyes. “Are you two twins?”
Serge laughs and flexes his muscles, which are not unsubstantial. “Yes. Can’t you see the resemblance? He just takes more steroids.”
“Serge! I have never touched that poison!” Niko is clearly aghast.
“Relax, I am kidding you,” Serge reaches across you to give his friend a thump on the chest.
You snort with laughter. You had no idea Serge was so funny, and the two men fighting like a couple of school boys is hilarious.
“That is not a laughing matter,” Niko scowls.
Serge is doubled over in laughter now. “Oh, do not be so sensitive. I was joking!”
Niko continues to scowl, glowering at Serge. “I am going to go inside to cool down. You two stay out here and have your laughter at my expense. Don’t worry about me.”
“Oh, I’m worried about you, all right,” Serge continues to guffaw as Niko walks off. “Come back when you are in a better mood.”
Niko glares at him one last time then slides the door open, ducking to clear the threshold.
“He is such a baby,” Serge wipes tears of laughter from his eyes.
“I had no idea you two were such good friends.”
“Yes, well, we have known each other for a very long time.” Serge moves imperceptibly closer to you. Your shoulders almost brush his biceps, and you feel a tingle of electricity between you.
“I feel bad. Maybe we shouldn’t have teased him.”
“Don’t worry, he can take it. One good thing about Niko is that even though his feathers get ruffled easily, he gets over his things very quickly. He will be fine.”
“Sounds like you know him really well.” You gaze out across the rooftops once again, and feel the energy of the city pulse through you. You feel like anything could be possible here. “That’s pretty amazing that you both play cello. Did you ever play together?”
“Yes, we did,” Serge answers simply.
“Do you still?”
“On occasion. He is more classically oriented than I am. But he can hang with me a little.”
“You mean he can play like you were playing this morning?”
“Was that just this morning? It feels like days ago.” Serge moves his hand just slightly, bringing it to rest against yours. The zing of electricity is instantaneous. “Yes, he can. Sometimes.”
The image of the two huge men sitting side by side, frenetically sawing their bows back and forth plays in your mind. “Will you show me?” you ask excitedly.
Serge turns to face you, and you feel yourself melt as he smiles, his white teeth flashing against the dark night. “I will show you,” he says quietly, gently cupping your cheek in his hand, tipping your chin up with one finger, and leaning in for a long, slow kiss.
Suddenly, your body is tingling with the current running between you. You return the kiss in full, leaning into his solid chest.
Serge runs his hand along your jawline and through your hair. Everywhere he touches instantaneously ignites. Much too soon, he pulls away, rests his palm on your cheek again, and looks into your eyes. “Sladkaya,” he sighs.
You smile, enjoying the way the moniker sounds on his tongue.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Serge asks, never taking his eyes off of yours.
You’re not sure whether he’s referring to the kiss or the name, but either way, the answer is the same. “No, Serge, I don’t mind at all.”
Serge kisses you again, a gentle kiss that lasts only a moment. “I suppose we should go back inside to join the party.” But he doesn’t move, and continues to look into your eyes. “It is rude, keeping you all to myself, no?”
You peer through the balcony door. Your guests are talking and dancing, oblivious to anything outside of their circles. “I don’t think anyone has even noticed I’m gone.”
“Well, they will soon. And then you will have to explain.”
You look up at Serge, a mischievous glint in your eye. “I never explain anything.”
Serge laughs, and kisses you one last time, holding you close, his strong hands on your shoulders. “Well that is too bad, because I was going to ask you to explain this effect you are having on me, Sladkaya.”
Niko slides the door open, making you jump away from Serge. “Am I interrupting something?” he asks with a sideways grin.
Serge diverts him elegantly. “Ah, I knew you would not be able to stay angry for long.”
“Yes, as usual I decided to be the bigger person.”
Serge gives him an affectionate thump on the back and makes a show of looking up at his towering friend. “You are most definitely the bigger person.”
You run your finger around your lips, hopefully removing any smudged lip color.
“Are you two going to stay out here all night long?” Niko asks.
“Actually, we were just coming back inside. I promised to give this lovely lady here a show and I’m going to need your help.”
Niko raises one eyebrow, making him look comically suspicious and perplexed at once.
Serge clarifies quickly. “I’m afraid our secret is out of the bag, my friend. Go and get your cello.”
“Serge,” Niko protests, “these people are trying to have a party. They do not want to hear our amateur efforts.”
“I highly doubt anyone would describe your playing as amateur,” you tell him. “You have your cello here, in the hotel?”
“Yes of course. I travel with it always.”
“Of course you do,” you say. “What else would I expect?”
“Well, it is certainly not what your party guests are going to expect, either,” Niko frowns.
“That’s what makes it so great,” you say, smiling up at him. “Just one song, please?”
“Oh fine, if you are going to twist my arm I suppose we can play one piece.”
“Yay!” You clap your hands and run inside, instructing Sasha to kill the music when Sasha and Niko return.
Even in their huge
cases, the cellos appear smaller than you would expect in the hands of the pair of large men. As they set up in the center of the room, the crowd quiets and trades curious looks. The instruments are impressive and well-cared-for, their glossy finishes burnished to a glowing shine and the bows precisely strung. The room falls silent as the pair pulls their bows slowly across the strings to warm up.
Serge and Niko sit side-by-side and look straight ahead, never even glancing at one another as they begin to play in unison. The song begins slowly, a dirge that sounds vaguely Russian. Niko plucks a low rhythm while Serge draws the bow across the bridge of his instrument. Serge’s movements quicken as Niko’s pace increases. Now Niko draws his bow across the strings of his cello, joining Serge as they play the melody together, the pace of the music growing faster and the notes becoming higher as they play. Their fingers move expertly from note to note, their bows in perfect synchrony.
Soon the two are playing a frenetic pace, heads swaying and bodies jolting from side to side, punctuating the music. Their focus is complete, their eyes far away, a lock of dark hair swinging across Serge’s forehead as he plays. The crowd is transfixed and begins to clap and sway to the rhythm. As the music grows even faster, bowstrings begin to break as the men saw the bows so fast they become a blur. At last, with a final pull of the bows across the cellos, the men stop as suddenly as they began, bringing the crowd to their feet. Applause and whistles fill the room and Serge and Niko smile and wipe their sweating brows.
“Where did that come from?” Sasha asks, clearly impressed.
“I know, right? I knew Serge could play, but I had no idea about Niko.”
“I’m not a fan of instrumental music, but I would pay to see that,” Sasha says, which gives you an idea.
* * *
The next morning brings an early start and a visit to the Sunrise show, where you’ll perform with your dancers on the famed plaza to a crowd of waiting fans. You sip your Red Bull carefully through a straw and try not to smudge your lipstick as you wait with the dancers in the green room.
“We have a drink like that in my country,” Serge tells you as he watches you sip. “It is called Revo. It is very similar to Red Bull, but it has alcohol in it, believe it or not.”
“That makes my daily habit seem a little less bad,” you smile. “I need a little help waking up after last night.” Though in truth you feel wide awake, a feeling of excited optimism lifting your mood. “It was really incredible watching you two last night playing in that style—I don’t know what you call it.”
“It does not have a formal name. We call it burya.” The word sounds strong and exotic as he says it, the R slightly rolled. His voice seems deeper and his accent heavier in the confined space of the room.
“What does that mean?”
“It is Russian for storm.”
“That’s perfect,” you tell him. And it is. You take out your phone to make note of the word. “Do you think you would ever want to play like that on a regular basis, for a larger audience?”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I have an idea, and it’s just in the very early stages, but I did run it by Freddie and he actually liked it.”
“Which is?”
“Which is that you and Niko would make a great opening act.”
Serge leans back in the seat and laughs. “For your show?”
“Is that so funny?”
“I do not think we are what your audience would be expecting. Or that they would really enjoy our music.”
“I think you might be surprised,” you say. “Would you be willing to give it a try?”
“But you already have an opening act.”
“I know. Technically you would be opening for their act. We were thinking two or three songs, to start off.”
Serge looks at you for a long time, his eyebrows slightly knit. “You are serious?” he finally asks.
“Yes, I’m serious!”
“I would have to talk with Niko.”
“Yay!” You give him a quick hug.
“I did not say yes.” He looks at you with what you think is mock-seriousness.
“But you didn’t say no.”
Serge gives you a crooked smile, his eyes sparkling. “You can be very persuasive, do you know that?”
You give him a smile. “I’ve been told that from time to time.” Freddie signs the duo under his management company. You don’t ask for details, but you imagine he’s sold them on exposure, future tours, and a possible recording deal to offset a minimal or possibly nonexistent paycheck, since the tour budget has already been cemented.
From New York, it’s an easy drive down to D.C., the next stop on your tour. Serge and Niko are so accustomed to playing together that they need almost no rehearsal. The tour’s musical director and the head choreographer provide some feedback, encouraging as much intensity, synchronization of body movement, and as many broken bowstrings as possible. Their costumes are simple: dark jeans topped with plain, white button-down shirts, slim ties, and fitted leather jackets. They look killer and sound phenomenal. They debut their act on the first night of the D.C. tour and the audience watches, riveted, springing to their feet in a standing ovation at the end of the duo’s performance.
Serge high-fives Niko as he walks off the stage. His brow is sweaty and his face is aglow, eyes shining with joy. Niko retreats to the wings but Serge makes a beeline to you, grabs you by the waist, and tosses you into the air, spinning in a triumphant circle. Your heart leaps in your chest and then steadies as he sets you gently back down.
“You were amazing!” you tell him, looking up into his sparkling eyes. “They loved you!”
“Thank you for this.” He beams. “I cannot describe what it was like, playing in front of that audience. I have never felt anything like it!”
“Not even when you are dancing?”
“No, that feeling does not even come close. It was like . . . I can only think of one way to describe it.”
Serge takes a purposeful step toward you, places his hand firmly at the nape of your neck, and pulls you to him. He kisses you forcefully, and you taste the salty tang of his adrenaline as his swirls his tongue against yours. You stand on tiptoe to meet him, teetering dizzily as fireworks flash behind your eyelids.
When he finally releases you, your head swims and your body aches for him as you gaze into his eyes.
“Yes, it was like that,” he says, his voice rough.
“Wow.” You smile up at him, biting your lower lip. “That good?”
“Well, close.” He grins and leans down to whisper into your ear,
“I am not finished telling you all about it, Sladkaya.” His whisper sends fresh chills up and down your spine. He straightens up, looks around, and tugs at the hem of his jacket. “But right now, I have to go change.”
“Oh right,” you say, blinking back the stars that are still in your eyes. In a half hour, Serge resumes his role as backup dancer. You wonder whether the audience will notice.
Sasha brings you your mic and earpiece and does a double-take when he sees your face.
“What happened to you?” he asks, eyes wide.
“What do you mean?” Is it that obvious that you are transformed, still filled with the electric current of your last kiss.
“Your lips are all smudged and your hair . . .” he spins you around by your shoulders and smooths the hair by the nape of your neck. “Hold on,” he says, returning with a bobby pin and a can of hairspray, making “tsk” sounds as he puts you back together.
“Sorry,” you apologize as he works. “Must have gotten caught in my zipper.”
“You can lie to yourself but you cannot lie to your best friend,” Sasha says, not missing a beat. He gives your hair a final shot of spray. “Besides, how were you going to try to explain the mess you’ve made of your lipstick?”
“Um, water bottle?” you try.
“Water bottle, my ass.” Sasha smirks. “We will discuss this later.” With that, h
e sashays off into the darkness, leaving you blushing and smiling to yourself.
After the show, you sign autographs for a steady stream of VIP guests. It seems like every politician in town has pulled strings to get their kids and families backstage. At last, the line dwindles and you escape to your dressing room. Serge is waiting at the door with a huge bouquet of roses. You leap into his arms the moment you see him. Standing on tiptoe to embrace him, you see Sasha over his shoulder, leaning back against the counter with a satisfied smile.
“These are gorgeous!” You take the deep red flowers, each bud perfectly formed. “Thank you!”
Sasha finds a vase and fills it with water, and sets it on the counter. “I’ll take care of these.” He takes the bouquet from you. “You go ahead and get changed.” He turns to Serge and winks, “Nice choice.”
Thrilled with Sasha’s tacit approval, you slip into the bathroom and skim out of your costume. You shower off quickly, just long enough to remove the surface layer of makeup and body glitter, then slide into the figure-hugging minidress Sasha has thoughtfully hung on the back of the door for you. You glance in the mirror, swiftly swipe a finger under each eye to remove smudged eyeliner then apply a quick swipe of lip gloss. You purse you lips together, widen your huge eyes, and smile.
Serge and Sasha stand conspiratorially side-by-side against the counter as you walk back into the room. “So, what’s the plan, boys?” you ask, stepping into a pair of strappy heels that instantly bring you three inches closer to Serge’s height.
“What makes you think there’s a plan?” Sasha asks, all innocent.
“Oh, nothing.” You smirk, waiting for them to come clean. Serge straightens up and takes a step in your direction. “I was thinking about taking one of those moonlight monument tours. Would anyone like to join me?”
Sasha yawns hugely. “Not me,” he says, stretching his arms above his head, theatrically. “I’m beat. But you two go ahead.”
“Sladkaya?” Serge offers you his hand, a look of hopeful joy on his handsome face.
“I’d love to,” you tell him. “And you”—you look over your shoulder at Sasha’s smiling face as you exit the room—“should not quit your day job.”
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