Amour Amour (7 page)

Nikolai relaxes his shoulder on the locker again. “Ivan doesn’t dislike you.”

My chest inflates with more positivity.

“He actually hates you,” he says flatly.

It pops just like that.

“Amour won’t last the year if we don’t find a replacement,” he explains. “The Masquerade is threatening to shut down the show, and it needs the aerial silk act to complete the story. So Ivan is under a lot of pressure, as am I, and as will be my partner.”

I want to believe that I can handle the pressure. I can say it every day, all day, but actions speak louder. I haven’t ever been tested to this degree. Nothing this grand has weighed on my shoulders. I can barely even imagine what he’s going through.

“And it doesn’t help that you’re not Russian.” He checks the clock on the wall and heads to the exit.

I frown, his words ringing in my ears. “What does that mean exactly?”

He glances back. “It’s aggravating when you can’t communicate with someone. He tried to cut your audition short because of it.” With this, he curves around the corner, disappearing out of sight. I hear the heavy door open and then click closed.

I stand up, more uneasy but a little more prepared than before. I pocket the false hope like a gem, refusing to believe it’s fake for now. I need it. He gave it to me
because
I needed it. I won’t let it go that easily.

Act Five

I made the first cut.

I send the group text to my parents and my brother and then another text to Shay. I walk down the long carpeted corridor of the casino floor in sweat pants (over my leotard)¸ still in a daze about the verdict. An hour ago, Helen called my audition number along with Elena, Kaitlin, and another girl’s. I almost couldn’t believe it.

 Nikolai even made a point to nod at me when she announced that I made it through to day two of auditions. Maybe it was a pity nod, but it fuels me for the final round tomorrow.

At first, I planned to decompress in Camila’s apartment, maybe finish
Bite in the Dark
, a vampire romance that I’m three-fourths through. But I think couch-surfer protocol forbids me from loitering. I sleep and go. And sleep again.

So I decided to take advantage of Vegas and soak up the atmosphere while I’m here. If I don’t land the role, then I may never have the opportunity to return to this city again.

The slot machines ping and glow—a group of thirty-somethings clustered at a roulette table. They simultaneously cheer, raising their beers and cocktails. Everyone here seems to be on a high, skiing up it or sliding down.

The energy is new, and I feel a smile pull at my cheeks. Life is slow in Ohio. Not a bad slow. Just different. Vegas begins to take hold of my senses, drawing me deeper into the casino’s sins.

Evening hasn’t set in yet, so the crowds aren’t as thick as they could be. I mosey around the tables and slots, watching people gamble from afar. I understand the enticement of throwing dice, playing cards, and pressing a button.

It’s the dream, right?

To be granted money without any real work or effort. It doesn’t matter who you are, what you look like, where you come from—we all have the same odds.

Vegas may be a genie, willing to grant wishes, but it’s also a devil in disguise, here to slay our dreams just as quickly.

While I observe a really confusing game—craps, I think—my cell pings.

Duh, you made the first cut. Booking my plane ticket already.
– Tanner.

I smile and try not to think about my realistic parents, who’ve probably made plans to pick me up from the airport.

Before I pocket my phone, it pings again.

Natalie and Jordan miss you. They keep asking when you’ll be back.
– Shay

He’s lying. For one, Natalie and Jordan didn’t even notice when I had bronchitis our freshman year and missed three practices. If we didn’t share a single commonality—the girl’s gymnastics team—I doubt we’d even be Facebook friends. I text quickly:
I’ve been gone for a day and a half.

This is reason enough that no one probably misses me. I wouldn’t even miss myself for that long.

I think I’d need a solid month. Then I’d start missing myself. Maybe.

He replies back with a devil emoji. I send him an angel one.

Right as I return to the craps game, I spot someone familiar dealing cards at a blackjack table. My feet lead me there before my head does.

“Oh no,” John says as I approach. “This table is reserved for non-AE artists.”

“I’m not an artist yet,” I tell him, resting my hand on an open stool. “I’m just a gymnast.” If I’m really unwanted, I can go wander aimlessly somewhere else. Maybe I’ll find a good reading bench.

John looks surly, so I begin to back away.

“Wait, wait,” he says slowly and motions for me to return. “It’s been a quiet afternoon, and I’m predicting an onslaught of loud, obnoxious fraternity guys. It always happens. It’s an easy day and then fucking tobacco-chewing, sunglass-wearing douche bags roll in, pretending they’re professional poker players, leaving two-dollar tips and bottles of brown spit.” He shuffles his cards. “But if you sit here, you’ll most likely detract them from my table. You’ll be my asshole repellent.”

I hesitate to ask. “Why will I repel them?” I settle into the open seat, taking the invitation regardless. I mean, I don’t have many options. Or friends here. So yeah, I’m left with moody John Ruiz. It’s not bad, all things considered.

His eyes flicker to my black leotard and loose pony, flyaway pieces of dirty-blonde hair around my oval face. “They go for the empty tables or the ones with models. You’re neither invisible nor a model. No offense.”

“None taken.” I’m glad he doesn’t ask about my auditions. Not dwelling has alleviated some stress. I watch him shuffle another deck. John wears a tux with a gold bowtie, the dealer’s uniform, and he scowls so much that his forehead wrinkles.

“You have RBF?” I blurt out. I internally grimace. Why did I ask that? Maybe I can relate to someone else who suffers from Resting Bitch Face. I’ve bonded with a girl on the gymnastics team that way. We unite together. But it’s not like that term is common or even a “thing” with lots of people.

His face scrunches more and he gives me a weird look. Then he says, “No, I’m just a bitch.” He smiles dryly.

I can’t help but smile back. And the corner of his mouth even rises in a more genuine one.

“What’s your bet?” he asks me.

“Can I just watch?” I didn’t bring any money to the casino, and this is a pretty expensive table.

“Elbows off the table,” he suddenly tells me.

Okay, that must be a rule. I don’t even know proper poker etiquette. I quickly take them off. And then he passes me a glass bowl of Chex mix. “I’m usually not this nice. But you look like you need a friend, and I’m
never
that friend. Never.” He shakes his head like this is cemented in truth. “This is only because you’re working for me today. Incentive to stay when I become surly at two-thirty. Happens every afternoon. Prepare yourself for it.”

“Surlier than now?” I ask with the raise of my brows.

“You’re meeting the most cheerful me there is. I can’t help it if the world is fucking lousy. There’s not much to take pleasure in. And the only reason more people aren’t like me is because they’re living in a fantasy world of cupcakes and daffodils and—”

“Glitter,” a guy suddenly interjects, sliding onto a stool, two separating us. “Can’t forget the glitter, old man.”

John solidifies, and he shoots the new guy a glare as dark as thunderstorms and lightning. It’s a look only reserved for people you know.

I whip my head from one to the other. It’s like they’re silently having a conversation through their eyes. I scan the young guy’s features: dark brown hair, long in the front so the tips brush his eyelashes. Pale skin. Thin, almost gangly build underneath a leather jacket. Topping off his look with high-cut jean shorts and boots.

By the shorts alone, he seems a bit brazen. And not one of the tobacco-chewing, sunglass-wearing assholes that I’m supposed to repel.

John breaks the death-stare first. “There are ten other blackjack tables, Timo. Go find another one.”

Unperturbed, Timo places a tall stack of chips on the green felt. “I would, definitely, go find another one. You are my least favorite dealer in all of The Masquerade. Congratulations on that, by the way. And yet, I have this
feeling—
” he touches his chest dramatically “—that today you’re going to bring me some luck, old man.”

“Stop calling me
old man
,” John retorts, his mood darkening as the seconds pass by. “I’m twenty-fucking-five. Don’t make me bring over security again.”

Timo shrugs. “Do it,” he eggs on and then nods to me. “Sorry about this. John doesn’t understand that I’m
twenty-one
, and he can’t throw me off his table.”

John lets out a short, humorless laugh. “He’s
eighteen.
And he has a fake ID that everyone in this place overlooks because his last name is Kotova.”

What? My eyes threaten to pop out of my face, and my mouth falls. I focus on Timo again. His hair is the same dark shade as Nikolai’s and his eyes are the same light gray. But his body is built differently, less muscle mass than Nik. My mind reroutes to John’s statement—about how The Masquerade provides special privileges to Kotovas.

That seems highly unlikely. Right?

“I’m sure he’s twenty-one,” I say. “A casino can’t let someone underage gamble just because of his last name.” Don’t they have undercover cops to crack down on that law?

Timo grins, his smile magnetic. “I like you,” he announces and leans forward, holding out his hand. “Timofei Kotova. Born in Munich. Raised in New York, mostly. You are?”

I shake his hand. “Thora James. Born and raised in Cincinnati.”

John gives me a supreme withering glare, as if I just made a blood pact with the enemy.

“Cincinnati,” Timo muses, his eyes shimmering. “I’ve been to Cleveland once. I was four, I think.”

“Riveting,” John says, surly.

“We’re not all John Ruiz. Born in Las Vegas. Raised in Las Vegas.” Timo’s eyes fill with mock enthusiasm. “You are stupendous, my friend.”

“We’re not friends,” John retorts. “And my family is from
Colombia
.”

Timo raises his brows like
so what?
“And my family is from Russia, old man. Want to battle?”

John pinches the bridge of his nose, his sour expression overtaking his features. He lets out a heavy sigh.

I tentatively slip back into the conversation. “I still don’t understand why the Kotovas get a reprieve.”

“Because we’re awesome,” Timo tells me, eating some of the Chex mix.

John steals the bowl back, setting it away from us. “Let me break it down for you, Thora. There are
three
different Aerial Ethereal shows just at The Masquerade.” He counts on his fingers. “Viva, Infini, and Amour. The Kotovas make up over one-third of the cast for
each
show.”

Timo raises his fist in the air.

John’s expression says:
I so want to smack the back of your head.
He huffs and continues, “Some Kotovas are even the directors and coaches. The Masquerade acts like they’re demi-gods, so yes, they let the underage kids pass through security as long as they look twenty-one-
ish
.” His stormy gaze returns to Timo. “And
by the way
, you can’t pass as twenty-one. You look like a child.”

“So wait,” I cut in before Timo can reply. I extend my arms, my head spinning from the info. “Is your beef with Aerial Ethereal performers or the Kotovas?”

Timo’s eyes brighten. “Great question.”

“
Both
,” John growls.

“Alright then,” Timo says, “seeing as how I’m doubly hated by the dealer, beating you will be doubly rewarding.” He pushes his chips across the green felt and nods to me again. “You playing?”

“Just watching,” I tell him.

John grumbles something under his breath as he reluctantly shuffles the cards, clearly surrendering despite his speech. This must happen a lot.

He deals the cards quickly: a king and seven for Timo and a queen for himself. John flips the edge of the face-down card to peek beneath it.

Timo raises his brows. “Anything interesting?”

John stays silent and maintains his
I loathe the world, my job, and everyone in the universe
face.

“That bad, huh?” Timo grins, unzipping his leather jacket.

“Just play,” John says roughly. When his gaze falls to Timo’s torso, he rolls his eyes. “Why the fuck aren’t you wearing a shirt? Seriously? Seriously.” He looks to me. “Do you see this?”

Oh yeah.
 

Timo is bare-chested beneath the leather. I try desperately to restrain a smile at John’s distress. There’s something about it that’s more comical than anything.

“Is there a shirt policy?” I ask, biting my gums.

“Yes, there’s
a
shirt policy.
Everywhere
there’s a shirt policy. People don’t just gamble without clothes.”

“He’s wearing a jacket,” I say. I can’t be a fashion police. Sweats. Leotard. Sneakers. My regular ensemble.

“I
am
wearing a jacket,” Timo says to John. “She makes a perfect point.” He has that same intense eye contact that Nikolai does, the one that sucks someone into his vortex. John has great, moody defenses, but clearly he’s fallen into Timo’s trap more than a few times. Or else Timo would’ve been kicked off the stool from the get-go.

“Are you staying or not,” John snaps, referring to the card game.

Timo waves his hand like he’s slicing air. I’ve seen the movie
21
, so I know that he’s staying this round. John flips his card: a five.

He turns another: a ten. John busts.

Timo’s face breaks in pure elation, and his excitement bubbles into me.

“Congrats,” I say with a brighter smile. John hands him a couple of red chips, and Timo gives me a thumbs up before he places another bet.