Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(40)

His eyes search mine, hypnotic, soulful. Ones that tether me here, to him. And his lips close over my cheek before drifting to my ear. “Little mouse.”

Little mouse.

I spin.

And the blackness of the night takes me completely.





Act Fourteen



My head pounds viciously.

I roll over, whirling. A soft, metallic comforter molds my body, like a fluffy pillow. I freeze. This is not my bed in Ohio.

I’m in Vegas.

And this is not Camila’s couch.

My blurry eyes begin to grow and clear. The never-ending night suddenly floods me in choppy, disjointed waves. What. Did I do? I’m on my period. It’s the first terrified thought I have.

Did I have sex?

Those two—sex and menstruation—they don’t mix. I’m going to look down and see a horrific bloody mess, something from a scary movie. Like Saw. The eighth sequel took place in Nikolai’s bed.

Before I agonize any longer, I take a peek. No blood.

No mess.

I pat my body for my phone, and it dawns on me. I’m wearing a men’s black button-down. Bra-less. Or rather, corset-less. No stockings. No—wait, I still have my black underwear on, the bottoms that matched the top.

I find my phone sitting on a pillow beside me. No other body is here.

He kissed me?

Maybe. Did he?

Did we have sex?

I want to turn off my frantic brain. Please. I stare at the ceiling, expecting to have a one-on-one talk with God, but this isn’t the time. And I don’t think He wants to hear me groan about my drunken black-out night.

I just hope it’s not one full of regret.

I check the time on my cell. 9:32 a.m.

Why am I up so early after going to bed so late? What’s wrong with my body? Doesn’t it understand that it needs sleep? I’m about to fall back into the pillow and force my eyes shut.

But a fist raps the door frame.

Nikolai stands with a glass of green slush, wearing black workout shorts and a gray shirt. Strands of his hair fall over his rolled, red bandana. Like usual, it’s distracting and more attractive than he probably realizes.

“How is your body functioning?” is the first thing I say, of all things needing to be said.

“I can handle my liquor,” he reminds me. “I’m assuming you feel like shit.”

I sit up, suddenly aware of last night again, the important parts. I anxiously pull at the hem of his shirt so it covers my thighs. I swallow, my throat dry. “Right assumption.”

His brows pinch as he studies me for a second. Then he approaches with the green mystery concoction. “Drink this.” He passes it to me.

I cup the cold glass with one hand, keeping my thighs covered with the other. He watches me attentively, and I try to speak my questions through my eyes: did we have sex? I don’t think I can say the words aloud.

He has to be reading me right. “You blacked out,” he finally concludes. “At what point?”

“I remember bits and pieces after we left Hex.”

His jaw hardens. “Drink,” he tells me. “You’ll feel better.”

Wait? He’s not going to tell me if we had sex or not? This is killing me. “Did we have sex?!” I accidentally shout it.

Fuck my life.

“No,” he tells me without a smile. Without humor. His seriousness pounds my heart.

“Did we kiss?” I ask softly.

“No, not really.” He picks up a blue plastic AE water bottle off his dresser. “I helped you change into that shirt after you said a wire was hurting you, but I knew you were more intoxicated than me. I wouldn’t take advantage of you, Thora.”

I finally let out a breath.

He gestures to the green slush. “Hurry up and drink that. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”

My eyes grow. “What? Where?”

“The gym. Your training starts today.”

“Today?” My head throbs still, a splitting migraine that jackhammers my temple. I shouldn’t be anywhere near an apparatus.

He sits on the edge of the bed, really close to me. “I have rules.”

Of course he has rules. I lean my shoulders against the black headboard.

“No complaining.”

“I wasn’t complaining,” I mutter, sipping the green drink. It’s vile. I gag at first, but his look of suck it up, little mouse forces me to drink more of it without flinching. I remember the nickname, and I can only guess he gave it to me for my height compared to his. I also remember his strict anger at the auditions, and I wouldn’t expect anything less from him now. Clearly, he takes work seriously.

“If I call you with a free hour, you’ll stop whatever you’re doing and train. Except if you’re working at Phantom.”

“Okay.” I can do that.

“No drugs,” he says.

“That won’t be a problem,” I mumble into my next sip. I’ve never even smoked pot. The call of narcotics isn’t strong for me.

He adds, “Don’t show up to training drunk.”

I hesitate mid-gulp and then wipe my mouth slowly with the back of my hand. “Problem…I’m slightly drunk right now.”

His facial muscles never even flinch from their no-nonsense, stern position. “Don’t arrive late to training. You waste my time, we’re done.”