Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(5)

“No. I’m normal, I guess.”

“See, she’s normal,” Camila says.

“She guesses,” John retorts. He downs his shot and says to her, “The longevity of your life dwindles each day I talk to you, Camila.”

“And your pessimism, cynicism and general attitude is going to turn you into a big dark raincloud that vacuums all your energy like a vortex.” She inhales deeply like she’s sucking out his soul.

He doesn’t disagree. He just sits back on his stool and spins to me, outstretching his hand. “John Ruiz.”

“Thora James.” I shake his hand, his grip firm. Not surprising, since he was able to lift my fifty-pound suitcase with relative ease. Closer to him, I now notice his darker features: the caramel skin, an unshaven jaw, and pieces of wavy dark brown hair hanging along his forehead.

He’s about to say something to me when a huge commotion erupts from the center of the dance floor. Everyone breaks apart, forming a circle. People begin to cheer and whistle, hands clapping together at something beyond my view.

At first, I think it might be some sort of break dancing competition. But John starts cursing, “When the fuck is The Red Death going to ban these acts of juvenile delinquency?”

Camila passes me a new shot, and John steals that one too. “When Aerial Ethereal doesn’t provide for fifty percent of Saturday night sales,” she tells him. “And stop taking Thora’s shot.”

He downs it in one gulp.

I fixate on the name of the circus troupe. My heart keeps skipping. “The performers from Aerial Ethereal come here?”

Camila opens her mouth, but it’s John who replies.

“Every godforsaken Saturday,” he snaps. “You’d think since they’re athletes or acrobats or whatever—they’d choose somewhere that isn’t a floor below where they work. It’s lazy.”

“It’s convenient,” Camila retorts.

Aerial Ethereal has three different shows running at The Masquerade Hotel & Casino, about fifty artists in each. But only locals probably know where they all blow off steam after a performance.

“You know,” Camila begins with a grin, “Thora is here to audition for one of Aerial Ethereal’s shows.”

John gapes. “You’re one of them?” he says it like I’ve suddenly turned into a cyborg.

“I still have to audition,” I tell him the truth. I’m not an artist yet. I’m just a wannabe acrobat with large hopes. Which Shay says will be crushed soon.

More cheering erupts and splinters my thoughts. People clap and chant, so loud that I distinguish the words over the music: “TAT! TAT! TAT!”

“The God of Russia wins again,” John says sourly, searching the counter for another free shot. It’s empty. He suddenly stands. “Want to see what your kind is up to?”

“My kind?” My brows rise.

He latches onto my wrist. “Come on. The ‘fun’ is this way.” He makes air quotes and the word fun sounds just the opposite. I glance over my shoulder, expecting Camila to interject, maybe even save me from the unknown. But she’s a few feet down the bar, filling beers from the tap.

John maneuvers me around a couple who kiss aggressively, their hands lost in each other’s hair. Both wear matching green glow necklaces.

“It’s really not that interesting,” he shouts back while he tows me along. “In fact, it’s pretty stupid. But you should see the stupidity you’re about to associate yourself with.”

I stiffen, and my shoulder knocks into another girl’s, so hard it makes a pop noise. I wince, “Sorry.” I barely catch a glimpse of her pained features before I’m whisked further into hell’s inner circle.

I don’t want to believe John. About Aerial Ethereal being stupid. I always place my money and chips on me, even if it’s the losing side. But I imagine AE’s set decorations: the night sky of Viva, said to be painted so realistically that people believe they’re watching from a forest. The intricate costumes: where every performer glows like lightning bugs and they move as swiftly too. I’ve seen pictures.

It looks majestic.

Not stupid.

“It can’t be stupid,” I suddenly tell him, aloud.

He gives me another weird look.

I clarify, “The circus is art.” Which is nothing short of precious. I don’t add this last bit, on account of his humored smile, more mocking than appreciative.

He actually laughs, and when I don’t share it, his smile fades. “Good God, you’re serious.” He mutters something under his breath like, Camila needs to stop bringing in strays.

One minute later, he carts me to the front of the packed circle, whispering to some buzz-cut guy to scoot over. Strangely, they shake and bro-pat like they’re friends or acquaintances. When he frees up the space, we gain a view of the clearing—basically what everyone is so excited about.

I slowly turn my head, not sure what to expect. Only one guy stands within the circle, an empty chair a few feet behind him. First impression: he’s tall.

And very masculine. With needle-sharp focus, he inspects his surroundings. Us. The audience. My heart thumps as his gaze drifts closer. Why? I swallow hard, and I realize it’s his daggered, concentrated expression. It’s his muscular, I-catch-women-for-a-living body. And his powerful stance, exuding confidence like he’s in charge, even if he’s alone. Even if he’s in the circle. The center of a show.