Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(3)

“Who is she then?” he asks.

“I found her on this couch-surfing website, and we exchanged numbers.”

He rests his hands on his head in distress. “No.”

“Yes,” I say. “I’m going couch-surfing. It’s supposed to be real and safe…I did some research.”

“Have you seen her?” he asks valid questions.

“No, but she seems nice in texts.” Off his growing wide-eyes, I add, “It’s nearly free and way cheaper than a hotel. The plane tickets were expensive.” Since my parents weren’t one-hundred percent on board with my life choices, they said I should handle all the expenses. I’m an adult now, my dad said. He’s right in a lot of ways.

Shay starts, “If I didn’t have conditioning this week—”

“You’d fly out with me?”

His whole body goes rigid. “I was going to say that I’d drive to your parent’s house and have them convince you to stay.”

“They already know what’s happening.” I have a very hard time lying to my parents. I went to one party in high school and blabbed to my mom and dad the minute I snuck back inside. My mom made me ice cream, and I dished to her about the uneventful night.

“And they’re okay with it?”

“They’re a lot like you, actually,” I say with a smile.

“It’s not funny, Thora.”

I think I’m smiling and scowling to hide my fear. It grows the longer he talks to me, and I’d rather stay confident.

“He could be a dude,” Shay adds, pointing at my cellphone. “He could want to fuck you…or worse—kill you.”

Chills run down my spine. “We’re meeting at a nightclub where she works. It’s a public place.” I’ll know if she’s a pervy dude or creep then.

Shay is quiet for a second, and he stares hard at me, like he can break my optimism and my plans with a single, narrowed look.

He can’t. I won’t let him.

“You have one year left at college,” he says, “and you’re going to throw it all away?”

I shake my head. “It’s the opposite,” I tell him. “My life is just beginning.”





Act One



I roll my suitcase along the indoor cobblestone, a pathway leading towards The Red Death. It’s the club where Camila works, inside The Masquerade Hotel & Casino. She told me the club’s name was a play on Edgar Allen Poe’s Masque of the Red Death, maybe to alleviate any worries that I’d be catfished and end this trip in a body bag.

I blow out my stress with a breath. “You can do this, Thora,” I whisper to myself. The pep talk helps some.

I trek forward, struggling to avoid the pack of stiletto-heeled girls in glitzy dresses. They line up behind a velvet rope, fitting among the bright lights of Vegas like chameleons. Off to my left, casino machines glow and flash and ring while people bustle down the wide corridors with places to be, parties to attend, money to gamble.

I am the elephant, trudging around with my worn Adidas sneakers, spandex pants and oversized Ohio State shirt. Add in the frizzy hair from a four-hour flight and a bright red suitcase (almost pink from sun-fading) and I stand out. Badly.

The wheels of my suitcase clink against the cobblestone, drawing attention to myself. This breaks my usual straight-rigid posture. My shoulders begin to curve forward in ways I don’t like. I take another breath and then slip out my phone and text Camila while I walk.

I’m here. The line is really long. Should I wait in it? I press send. I have no idea whether bartenders have the power to let their “couch-surfer” cut the line.

My phone pings.

I gave ur name to the bouncer. Go up to him and he’ll let u in. – Camila

I continue striding forward then. Eyes zone in on me like lasers finding a target. The hot judgment sears my skin but I try to waft it off. Keeping my focus only on the bouncer—big, burly with tattoos that decorate his bulging muscles.

“Line starts at the back, sweetheart!” a guy yells near the front.

“Shut up, Trent. Maybe she’s lost,” a girl rebuts.

I clear my throat as the bouncer eyes my suitcase. “I’m Thora. Thora James. Camila’s…” Friend? Couch-surfer makes more sense, but I don’t know if he’ll understand.

“ID,” the bouncer says gruffly, a clipboard beneath his armpit.

I fish out my wallet from a pocket of my suitcase and pass him my license, hot sweat glistening my forehead. I wipe it with my forearm and peek at the door behind him, the unknown tossing my stomach.

The bouncer crosses my name off his list, and then pushes the large black door open.

Groans fill the air. “You’ve got to be shitting me,” Trent complains. “I’ve been waiting for over an hour. You better be a fucking dancer or something!”

He has to shout that last bit because I’m already headed inside the hallway. The door closes behind me, plunging me into darkness. The faint sound of a thumping bass fills the otherwise silent room. I guess there are curtains somewhere for an entrance.

I take a few cautious steps forward and notice the outline of fabric, shielding my view of the club. The music grows as I walk closer, and when my hand brushes against the soft velvet curtain, pulling it aside, I finally see The Red Death in all its glory.