Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(8)

“If you lose,” he clarifies, more to the crowd than to me again, “I tattoo or pierce you. I choose where. If I lose, though I never have before, you can tattoo me. Anything you like, any place on my body.”

I restrain this fear that swarms my insides. So the terms of the bet are more than a little steep. They’re insane. I glance around, and the spectators watch in crazed anticipation, beady-eyed and alert.

The stupid thing: I don’t want to back out.

I want to obtain his power. I want his magic and his confidence. Maybe it’s my competitive spirit or Vegas insanity, but I stay put. It’s like watching a tornado through the window, the windstorm blowing the curtains and peeling off the roof. I don’t disappear into the basement for safety. I watch in curiosity, to see how near it reaches. Leaving means never feeling the pull, never seeing the mighty force up close—never experiencing something that I’ll always re-envision. I’ll construct that tornado piece-by-piece, a replica of what it really was. A fragment of what I could’ve seen.

I no longer want to live in fantasy.

I want the images in my mind to be real.

It’s why I’m in Vegas after all. Following my dreams.

I lick my chapped lips and straighten my back. “A piercing,” I choose. It’s more temporary than a tattoo.

He nods, like he thought I’d pick that option. Then he clinks his shot glass to mine. “Cheers, my demon.” His eyes never leave mine as he throws back the tequila. He waits for me to do the same.

I hesitate for a few seconds.

He rubs his thumb over his lower lip, wiping off residual liquor. “This is your first time in Vegas,” he says, figuring me out.

“Yeah.”

“And you don’t drink often.”

He’s peeling away my layers like he’s stripping a bed. Quickly. Hurriedly. With little care of the mattress underneath. It makes me feel feeble. Nervous, even.

“One shot. You don’t have to drink three.” Okay, maybe he does care about the mattress more than he lets on.

“I can do three,” I tell him, nodding a few times to myself in encouragement. I want to at least try. I put the rim to my lips and walk along a new path, one that’s dark and full of potholes. Please don’t fall into one, Thora. The sharp liquid slides down my throat. I withhold a grimace.

He passes me the second shot, and I realize that he’s already consumed his three without falter. People chant, “Faster! Faster!”

I’m working my way up to it. Okay? Baby steps. The tortoise always beats the hare in the end.

“I can get you a Diet Fizz as a chaser,” Nikolai says, “or a Fizz Life.” He’s about to order the server to fetch a soda, but I suddenly reach out and grasp his forearm. My hand very small around his muscles.

“No,” I tell him. “I can do it.” I try to emphasize this phrase, and I wonder if I scowl too much.

If I do, he’s not perturbed by it. He just nods and lets me continue.

Holding in a breath, I down the second shot. And I gag by the third one, still trying to forget the taste of the second. I wait for his laugh or peeking smile.

But when I raise my head, I see none. Just those gray gunmetal eyes. Lowering down on me. “Vegas is going to swallow you whole, myshka.”

I don’t want him to be right about this. I set the shot glass on the server’s tray, and she departs to the bar, leaving me alone with Nikolai in the center circle.

He takes a couple steps back to prepare for this bet.

I instinctively tuck my baggy shirt into my spandex pants, thicker than leggings but just as tight. Then I tie my hair into a ragged, uneven pony. Tentatively, I glance back at Nikolai.

While scrutinizing my movements, he slowly unbuttons his white shirt. Some people whistle in the crowd. Others catcall him. “I love you!”

“Marry me!”

They have to be drunk. Or way bolder than me.

Nikolai’s eye contact is killing my resolve. I swallow a bubble, and openly check out the definition in his muscles: an eight-pack, biceps that are only awarded to athletes that can carry and toss and cradle women. His body deserves the godly title that he’s been given. All sharp cuts and brawn.

“On the count of three,” he tells me as he tosses his shirt aside.

Okay.

“One,” he starts.

I jump a few times, warming my blood.

“Two!” the entire crowd counts.

You can do this, Thora James.

My pep talks are the most cliché in the history of pep talks, but it always works well enough. I am my biggest cheerleader. Always have been. Probably always will be.

“THREE!”

I don’t take a second glance at Nikolai or the stiletto-heeled girls surrounding us. I just rest a single palm on the cold concrete floor and hoist my legs in the air. Thighs pressed tightly together. My muscles stretch in this familiar position.

My shirt is secured in my workout pants, unable to fall to my neck and flash the audience. While upside-down, I catch a glimpse of Nikolai across from me—his strong build supported by a single hand. Unwavering. His thick hair spills over his eyelashes, and his flexed muscles carve in defined lines, running up his arms, veins protruding.

Still, it seems so easy for him.

He’s like a rock that juts out of the ocean, the thing people cling to when they’re caught in an undertow. No matter how powerful a wave crashes against him, he’ll always just be.