Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(34)

“Thanks,” she sniffs, her skin pale. I can tell she’s nauseous by the way she hunches forward.

“If you puke in the taxi, you’re paying for the extra fee, Katya,” Nikolai tells her.

Way to kick a girl while she’s down. He’s kind of tough on her, but I guess, maybe he should be. She did break her curfew. She did drink underage.

Katya puts her hand to her mouth and stifles a gag.

“We’re almost there,” I tell her. I’m actually not sure how far we are. “You’ve got this,” I encourage. If I’m good at anything, it’s motivational boosts.

She shuts her eyes and concentrates on her breathing while I rub her back. Her head rests on my shoulder. I think she may pass out soon.

A phone rings, the normal default tone. Mine is wind chimes, so I don’t even open my purse. Nikolai tenses as he digs into his pocket and puts the cell to his ear.

He says one foreign word, like a greeting, so I figure it’s a relative on the other end.

Maybe two seconds pass before his nose flares and he rubs his face roughly. When he begins yelling in Russian, I know the night isn’t over just yet.

I sense that it’s one of those never-ending ones. Where the early morning seems to extend for infinite amounts of time, until so much happens that you question why a week hasn’t passed yet.

I wonder how many of these nights Nikolai experiences. In my life, I’ve had maybe one: a drunken New Year’s Eve party that went from a 24-hour diner, to a friend-of-a-friend’s house, to the roof of a hotel, ending in the backseat of Shay’s Jeep.

I can’t imagine this being the norm. Not for anyone.





Act Twelve



2:53 a.m.

By the time the taxi screeches to a halt in front of The Masquerade, Katya has passed out on my shoulder, just as I predicted. Her mouth is open as she lets out short breaths.

I carefully reach over her to open the door, but Nikolai has already walked around to my side of the cab.

“I have her,” he tells me, slipping his phone in his pocket.

He lifts his sister in his arms, cradling her, and I climb out and shut the door. I saw him pay the driver, so I don’t ask about it. “What’s going on?” I’m the seventh wheel to imaginary people. I can’t make sense of his cousins or brothers because they’re just deep voices on a phone line.

“You’ll find out soon,” he says lowly, his brows hardened like his voice.

I don’t prod. I follow him through the revolving glass doors and into the hotel lobby that pairs with one of the casino floors. We stay off the carpet that contains the slots and tables, just walking on the cobblestone.

My feet scream with each step. The straps pinch my pinky toes and scrape against my ankle. I’m seconds from unbuckling my heels, right here. Just as I consider the plan, a boisterous crowd tears my mind in a new direction.

By the map kiosk, young guys, twenties most likely, all talk over each other, gesticulating with their hands. It’s not like they’re fighting. They’re just having too many conversations at once.

One stands out with a gold carnival mask and staff that he twirls with precision, his cross earring swaying as he whips his head.

Timo.

It’s not hard to discern their features from here: dark brown hair, extreme height, broad shoulders and gray eyes. Kotovas. A mixture of cousins and brothers, maybe.

I feel like I’m descending deeper and deeper into Nikolai’s life with each passing minute. I’m the last audience member at his performance, the ringleader drawing me slowly behind the curtains. His world is just so different from mine that it’s hard to turn away.

Nikolai speaks under his breath to me, “I’m going to have a fight with Timo. Just to warn you.”

“Okay,” I say softly, not sure what else to add.

He gives me a look that I regard as thanks, one that encompasses more than just this moment, I think. I’ve been tagging along all night, and I haven’t done much. But I haven’t made his life harder, so there’s that. And I thought his biggest stress was Amour—carrying the weight of an entire show on his shoulders.

“Luka,” Nikolai shouts as we approach all of them, still chatting like nothing has changed. An athletic guy, dressed in a plain gray shirt and jeans, squeezes through the pack before standing beside his brother.

I thought I was invisible with my five-foot-two height, but somehow Luka trains on me first.

“Hey…I recognize you,” he says. I feel my facial muscles tense. “You’re the titty pierc—”

Nikolai smacks the back of his head, skillfully holding Katya with one arm.

Titty Piercing. I’ll take the Virgin Mary nickname over that, any day.

Luka gapes at his older brother. “What?” He touches his head.

“I’m holding our passed-out sister, and that’s the first thing you have to say?” he nearly growls out the words. His eyes slice through Luka. And I thought I enraged him during the first auditions—this is a new spectrum of pissed off.

“Dimitri would’ve made the same comment!” Luka rebuts.

“Dimitri?” Nikolai lets out an aggravated sound. “If you’re modeling yourself after someone who’s been to jail three times, then I’ve severely miscalculated how smart you are, Luka.”