Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(78)

John rotates to Timo fully. “At least I don’t fuck middle-aged, pot-belly bastards.” This took a…weird turn. My eyes uneasily dart between them.

Timo stares straight ahead at the bar, wearing a pained smile, his abs constricting in his lean build. “Potbelly bastards…” He lets out a weak laugh. “Wow, that’s a new one for you, John.” Timo downs a shot.

“You can’t be offended by what you sleep with,” John retorts, his jaw locking.

Camila thankfully passes me the tequila sunrise and she unfortunately gestures to my boobs. Nips, she mouths.

I’m well aware. I’m a walking Saturday tragedy.

Or—technically I’m sitting. Fantastic.

Timo laughs weakly again. “Right.” His palms are on the soaked bar, a chill wringing the air from the sprinklers.

While he swigs his beer, John stands, an inch taller than Timo, and smoothly slides behind him. I’ve never seen Timo tense before. But he does, especially as John rests his hands on the counter, on either side of Timo, essentially caging him in.

Damn.

It’s hot.

It’s even hotter when Timo turns his head, just slightly, to look at John. And John stares down like you deserve better than middle-aged, pot-belly bastards.

Camila has her fingers to her smile, watching them like me.

John’s hand falls to Timo’s waist, and he takes another step towards the bar, Timo’s chest pressing against the counter’s lip and John’s pelvis up against Timo’s ass. Okay, I’ve never seen Timo so flushed. John whispers in his ear, and there’s no way I can make out the words from the pop song and spray of water.

“God of Russia! God of Russia!”

My shoulders lift at the new chant.

“Go get ‘em,” Camila tells me with another wink. She hands me my glass of liquid courage, and I spring off the barstool, forgetting for a moment that I’m in a see-through dress with a pierced nipple and bright orange panties.

I gulp the tequila sunrise, no longer feeling the burn of the alcohol. I leave my post at the bar to find Nikolai in the crowds. He hasn’t stopped doing the Saturday night piercings and tattoos.

I told him not to.

I’ve noticed that out of every day of the week, he lets loose the most on this one. He allows himself one night to be uninhibited, to drink past his limit, to observe crowds, to read their body language and push them out of their comfort zone. It’s a small glimpse of the kind of man he would’ve been—had he never raised three preteens and taken on more responsibility.

I would never take this fun from Nikolai.

But he’s been kind enough not to choose body parts that are overtly sexual. No boobs, no asses, no thighs, definitely no nipples (his words). And he picks more guys now than girls, which is nice.

“God of Russia! God of Russia!”

I follow the chant towards the side entrance, where he usually enters as a “Masquerade employee”—John calls it bullshit since he can’t even use that door. Me either.

“Hey, dance with me, baby!” a drunk preppy dude says behind me. He clasps my hips, both of us doused and the spray of water seems to be heavier here. I try to wiggle out and slip on the wet marble. He catches me before I face-plant, my heart rocketing to my throat.

I dropped my drink. On my strappy white heels.

No.

One fail after another.

Something pokes at my butt. He’s grinding up against me without permission. This. This is what happens when you meet drunken fools in clubs. And you’re not a drunken fool yet yourself.

“God of Russia! God of Russia!”

The chanting is closer. Louder. Come here. Light bulb moment. I do have a voice. “NIK!” I shout. Then I try to squirm out of the guy’s grasp again. “Hey, no thanks.” He cups my butt.

Honestly.

This is more than rude now.

I spin around on the green collared-shirt guy, pushing him physically in the chest, but he thinks I’m doing a creative dance move and clutches my wrists, tugging me closer. “No,” I tell him.

He either can’t hear me or he’s too drunk to process the very important word. Ice cold sheets rain on us. His eyes are right on my hardened nipples. As though they’re laser beams, shooting out rainbows.

And no—they’re not even that magical.

“God of Russia! God of Russia!” That sounds right next to—

Nikolai hooks his arm around my waist, physically pulling me into his body and then shoving the other guy away with his hand. The groping guy squints at Nikolai, his lids droopy. “We were dancing—”

“No you weren’t.”

The guy seems to finally register Nikolai’s size and territorial glare. And what’s crazier, the energetic crowd that followed him spreads out into a circle, leaving us in the open center like Nikolai is about to breakdance. A burly Red Death employee even slides over a chair.

I guess this is where his stage will reside tonight.

Smack dab in the middle of the club.

You are in a see-through dress in the center of a circle, Thora.

Dear. God.

I spin into Nikolai’s chest, and he rests a hand on the back of my neck, still watching the preppy guy closely. He motions to a bouncer near the door and they thread the masses to escort him away.

The power he has on Saturdays is not as foreign anymore.