Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(27)

He asked me a question for once. A personal question. I wonder if I’ve just become worthy of a backstory.

“I stayed for job opportunities.” I notice his jaw muscles tensing, and my frown deepens, maybe even into a scowl.

Timo slings his arm around my shoulder. “Thora, here, works at Phantom.”

Nikolai is incredibly rigid, and his eyes flash hot. “Doing what?”

“I’m a club acrobat,” I say. “I need money for an apartment, and I’m…taking some classes at a gym. So…”

“Formal training,” he says, understanding what I mean. “It’ll take much more than that to land a job in this industry, Thora. It may be months before there’s even another opening. I hope that I didn’t give you the inclination that a few classes is all you need.”

I shake my head, about to tell him no, but Timo holds up his hands in shock. “Wait—you two know each other beyond a nipple piercing?”

My neck heats, but I stand tall, not shrinking.

Nikolai shoots his little brother a disapproving glare and growls out a few words in Russian.

Timo gapes and touches his bare chest “I have tact.”

I help clarify, “I was auditioning for a role in Amour.”

“Oh,” Timo says with a nod, his smile returning. “Small world.”

This trains Nikolai’s attention back on his brother, the origin of why he even sauntered over here. He starts speaking in Russian, and I can’t piece apart anything except the aggravated tone. Timo’s lively features morph into mild irritation.

His reply comes out even more hostile.

The bartender appears and slides our drinks over. I collect the one with orange juice, fishing out a few bills. The other two drinks, a cocktail with dark liquid (plus a cherry) and a glass with soda and whiskey, go unnoticed by the Kotovas.

When Nikolai steps closer to Timo, his finger pointed at the exit, I pick up a new name: Katya.

A girl’s name, clearly. I wonder if she’s his friends-with-benefits. A chill creeps up my spine, and I tell myself that it’s simply the guilt of eavesdropping.

Timo glowers, his chest falling in a heavy, annoyed breath. Clearly upset, he spouts off a string of Russian words while he walks backwards. Then he flips Nikolai off. With two hands. And he storms away without his drink or another glance.

Nikolai rakes his fingers through his hair. He roughly snatches his Jack and Fizz, chugging half of it in one gulp. He must feel my loitering gaze because he says, “I told him to go home.” He grips the edge of the bar. “What did you leave behind, Thora?”

“What do you mean?” I take a very small sip of my drink that’s more tequila than orange juice. It burns my throat.

His eyes are suddenly dead-set on me again. “What are you giving up by being here?”

I chose not to look at it that way. It’s easier seeing the things I gain than the things I lose. Cold washes over me again. “Parents, my little brother,” I start listing things off, “my friends and…” I pause, knowing this last one will not be waiting for me when I return like the others. “…a gymnastics scholarship.”

He downs the rest of his drink and motions to the bartender for another. “And why the circus?” He no longer faces me. No longer peels back my layers with his intrusive gaze. He’s glaring from the gathering dancers to the racks of liquor bottles. A look that I’m glad I don’t meet head-on.

Why the circus? I’ve never had to share this story with anyone other than my bedroom mirror. “When I was fourteen, my mom took me to the circus…I fell in love with it.” I pause to form a better explanation, of how I sat in that velvet-lined seat and longed to share the performer’s experience. To be the girl flying in the air, to captivate an audience and enchant them. To be superhumanly strong.

To be something more. Awe. And power. And grace.

The words stick to the back of my throat.

“What show?” he asks.

“Aerial Ethereal’s Nova Vega.” It was one of the most popular touring circus shows, going on a twenty-year run, and now it’s found a permanent home in Montreal. As Nikolai stays silent, I wonder… “Were you…in it?”

The bartender passes him another drink, and he nods to her in thanks. To me, he says, “When I was twelve, I assisted the Russian swing in Nova Vega for a year.”

So I didn’t watch him perform exactly, but still…small world, as Timo said. I guess the industry is tiny.

He swishes his drink, in contemplation maybe. “You’re one of many, myshka. I hear that same story countless times. Girls say how they wanted to be ballerinas after seeing Swan Lake in Moscow, boys dying to win gold medals in hockey after watching a game up close.”

One in a million. I know I’m part of the many. It’s a thought I’ve been given by too many people. “Are your reasons for being an acrobat unique?” I ask.

Surprisingly, he shakes his head. “No.”

“No?”

He spins to me now, his features harsh, his glare still daggering his eyes. It would be harder to meet if I wasn’t so curious. “I was born into this,” he explains. “I’m a fourth generation acrobat. It’s more common than you might think.”

I believe him.

Then he briefly drops his gaze, trying to hide his incensed emotions maybe, or at least trying not to direct his aggravation my way. He rests his elbow on the bar, fixating on the crowd, his fingers tightened around his glass.