Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(77)

“No,” Camila says, swatting his hand with a towel before she wipes the bar.

“At least quench my thirst while I’m dying here.” He huffs and I tug at the collar of my dress. “I say we leave in five minutes if they don’t fix the AC.”

Camila gapes. “What about me?”

“What about you? You’re being paid to suffocate. If I don’t get free booze, there’s no reason I should stay.”

I lift my drink. “Comradery.”

His eyes narrow at my tequila sunrise. “Is that free?” I see his eyes say: You call that comradery?

I suck the straw and bat my eyelashes innocently. “Bad day.”

John swivels back to his cousin. And very seriously says, “I’ve had the most tragic Saturday—”

“You consider every day a tragic one,” she cuts him off. “Nice try.”

He extends his arms and then touches his chest. “My life is excessively shitty. I should be given twenty shots for that.” He taps the bar aggressively.

Camila slaps his hand away again. “You cry wolf, there’s a difference.”

John rolls his eyes. “You’re delirious from the heat, Camila. Cry wolf…” He snorts. “I don’t cry wolf.” If he had a beer, he’d chug it right now.

I check the clock behind the bar. Nikolai should be here soon if Amour ended about an hour ago. As the thought exits my brain, a squish noise triggers all around the club.

Sprinklers lower from the rafted ceiling and spray the dancers, drinkers, and bartenders with ice-cold water. Splitting cheers of excitement and glee crack through the pop music, and my muscles even relax in the chilly sheets.

Camila mutters curses, her purple mascara running down her cheeks already. “A warning would’ve been nice!” she shouts at the backroom and removes her makeup with a towel. I didn’t put too much on tonight, so I think I’m safe on this front.

I turn to my left, to John. His dark brown hair dampens and sticks to his forehead. With his surly expression, you’d think a flock of birds just shit on his head.

I can’t help it—I laugh. Really hard. It’s honestly like a raincloud has sprung and decided to trickle on his head. Ironic, yes.

John latches his surly gaze on me and flashes an ill-humored smile. “What are you laughing about? I’m not the one wearing white.”

My face falls, jaw drops. No. I’m not wearing a bra.

No.

I’m cool. It’s not that wet…but even as I think it, my hair is soaked already. The sprinklers never dialing down. I slowly glance at my body…my nipples visible. The barbell piercing visible. My orange boy-short panties.

Visible.

What. Do I do?

John says, “I’d cheers to this shitty day, but oh—I can’t. I’m just crying wolf.”

Camila sighs and gives in to his incessant bickering, twisting the cap off a Bud Light. She slides it over to him. “Shut up.”

He collects the beer. “Trust me, I would love nothing more than to stop hearing my voice, but I have vocal cords, so—blame God. I should’ve been mute.”

“Truer words, old man.” Timo fits in between our stools and rests his elbows on the wet bar. He’s shirtless, in tight black jeans and when he pushes back his dark, drenched hair, I catch John giving him a clear once-over, swigging his beer. If Timo notices, he doesn’t let on. “I need four shots of your best vodka.” He places two hundred dollar bills on the bar, soaking in water, and catches me looking. “Won a grand this afternoon.”

“Yeah, and you lost five grand yesterday,” John retorts. I cringe. That much?

Timo chooses to ignore John. When Camila reaches for shot glasses, she slips on the wet floor, and just barely catches the counter before she goes down.

I give her the thumbs-up and then act like I’m rubbing the back of my neck, my arm successfully covering my nipples. I just…can’t stand up. That’s okay. It’s all good. I’m living…life.

It feels hot in here again and it’s still raining.

Hell.

John was right.

We’re in hell. Where the reigning devil throws you in and says step out of your box, Thora James. My box consists of dark-colored clothes that can’t possibly turn see-through. My box has back-up plans and emergency tampons. I can only leave it on two accounts: under the influence of tequila sunrises or under the charming persuasion of Nikolai Kotova.

The latter is missing.

Drink up.

I guzzle my cocktail.

“Whoa, slow down, Thora James!” Timo yells at me, his hand on my shoulder.

I raise a finger at him, still chugging.

Both John and Timo watch me until I finish the last drop.

“Bad day?” Timo asks me with furrowed brows, his lips near my ear so I can pick up his words.

“Sort of,” I say, more softly, staring at the bottom of my cup. It’s a sad cup now.

“Sort of?!” John shouts at me. “You got a free fucking drink for sort of?” He glares at Camila.

Camila points at his beer. “Ah, no complaining, cuz.”

Timo laughs. “That’s asking too much of him.”

Camila finishes pouring Timo’s shots, and I’m about to order another drink but she winks at me, already snatching the carton of orange juice. Good friends, I think with a smile.