Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(6)

All eyes on him.

The red strobe lights comb over this area every five seconds, like clock-work. His features are bathed in the red hue, devilish and dangerous: black slacks, a white shirt, a few buttons popped open to reveal firmly cut muscles. His dark brown hair brushes the tops of his ears, the thick strands pushed out of his face.

With a strong, unshaven jaw, I predict he’s in his late twenties. I check for a ring on his left hand. Just out of curiosity. I think. Or at least, I hope. And I notice that his fingers are free of any shiny jewelry.

He begins to walk forward, around the circle. Closer. Thump. His movement launches a series of hands in the air. Girls wave them like pick me, pick me, eagerly bouncing on their feet to be seen by this man. Like they’re offering themselves up for sacrifice.

My arms stay awkwardly attached to my side, watching his gray irises graze the crowd with that I know what I want intensity. It lassoes everyone’s attention. Weirdly enough, mine included. I find myself leaning forward, magnetized. The whole thing is bizarre—like being front-row to a show that I didn’t buy a ticket to. And I’m not even sure what this show entails.

He steps closer. A natural reaction would be to flee. But curiosity cements me here. Maybe because he’s in Aerial Ethereal. Maybe because he’s roped me in like everyone else.

Closer. He searches the audience.

I stay still. Compelled to watch him.

Five seconds pass. And his eyes flit around my area. My heart aggressively pounds. I don’t even know if I can handle direct eye contact with him. I silently pray it doesn’t happen.

There’s a good chance it won’t, right—

His gaze suddenly lands on my…

Sneakers.

Pinning there for an extended moment. Confusion takes hold of me, my pulse speeding. His lip tics into what I think is an amused smile.

Then he beelines for me.

Just like that.

“Shit,” John curses under his breath. “Don’t look into his eyes.” It’s too late. My heart has abandoned me. I’m not just a voyeur anymore, a bystander, languidly observing…something. Dear God, my brain isn’t even thinking intelligent things anymore. I can’t even process what something is.

I’m dead.

Cardiac arrest. If I had a friend like Shay nearby, I’m sure they’d grab some paddles. But unfortunately, I’m friend-less. Internally flat-lining in sin city. The sin part—that’s what I’m scared of most.

He stops maybe two feet from me before cocking his head. Waiting—it seems—for me to say something first.

I am frozen in a state of muddled shock. My joints are rusted together, and I think there’s no hope to be oiled and set free. I breathe heavily through my nose, like I’m sprinting instead of standing in place.

Someone yells to him in Russian, and all I catch is Nikolai from the jargon. My brain works well enough to assume it’s his name. Without breaking his gaze from mine, he replies back to the person in fluent Russian. Then he says to me, in the deepest, huskiest voice, “You’re wearing running shoes.”

I feel my facial muscles tighten. “And…?”

In my peripheral, John shakes his head from side to side like no, no, do not engage.

Too late again.

But John doesn’t pull me out of this mess. He barely knows me. Maybe he wants to see how I’ll react. What I’ll do. I have no clue. I am not prepared for this.

“Very few people prepare for this,” Nikolai says. If only he could read my mind. He studies my small frame like he’s picking apart pieces of my life and filing the information.

What a useful tool. I need it.

Even standing like a confused statue, I still can’t back away. Nikolai has a stronghold over my curiosity, concentration and poise—or whatever little poise I possess. A bit of jealousy flares in my belly. Yeah—I wish I had this type of power. To dominate a performance. To allure an audience. It’s what separates an athlete from an artist.

He abruptly steps forward, into my space. I flinch back, a breath caged in my lungs, but he seizes my bicep to keep me stationary. What…is happening?

When I meet his pulsing gray eyes again, they only say, don’t be afraid. Trust me.

I blow out a trained breath, my ribs expanding more.

He towers above me. Six-five maybe. I strain my neck just to fix my gaze on his. He stares down, lifting my arm like he’s inspecting my muscles. He even brushes the sleeve of my Ohio State shirt. His large hand dwarfs my limb. I feel entirely little compared to him. In Shay’s presence, I never felt like this.

He squeezes my shoulders. “You’re an athlete,” he declares, never asks. He even places a hand on my head, like he’s examining my tiny height and my frame. He’s having a bit of trouble determining what kind of athlete I am. “…a gymnast.” Or I guess not that much trouble.

“Maybe…” Something about him makes me want to hold cards to my chest. I hear faint mutterings from the crowd, but the music drowns out most. I’m very much a part of the spectacle now. The entertainment for tonight.

Like a magician calling upon a volunteer from the audience.

Only I haven’t really volunteered. Somehow, I think my sneakers did for me.

“Maybe?” he repeats, scanning me from head to toe again. He drops my arm. “No, you’re definitely a gymnast. And I don’t know you, which means you’re not a part of the troupe.” He tilts his head again, satisfied with his own conclusion.