Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(88)

She inhales sharply, like she may start crying. I exhale deeply, trying to combat my own emotions. Round two.

Nikolai rubs my back, leaning against the headboard. Here for support. It’s a little easier.

My cellphone is cold to my ear.

“I thought your father and I taught you that college is more important than…” Her voice breaks. Than a boy. I hear the unsaid words.

“I’m staying because I have a better chance at landing a contract here, Mom. I can still train until January.”

She’s quiet for a moment, but a muffled voice leaks onto the line. It must be my dad. Then she asks, “Are you still going to work at that club?”

Had I not been fired, I would’ve said yes. I feel that answer in my bones. “I think so,” I say what my gut tells me. “I need the money.”

I imagine my father’s gutted expression, the disappointment, the rage, frustration. It seeps into me, but I don’t back down.

“Did this boy sway you?” my mom asks, her voice shaking with hurt. I already know she probably didn’t sleep last night.

But neither did I. My thoughts were set to a noisy radio channel that I couldn’t turn off.

Before I answer, my father’s anger is apparent from the background, “He’s not a boy, Dana. He’s a man.” As though Nikolai is old enough to take advantage of me, to brainwash me, to force me here.

Nikolai must’ve heard him through the speakers, even though it’s pressed to my ear. His hand stops its rhythmic motion, placed on my lower back. And he removes it altogether. I watch him stand up and disappear into the walk-in closet, simultaneously giving me space and getting dressed for the day.

I tell my mom, “He just reminded me why I’m here.” I don’t need them to express their doubts, in any part of my life, so I quickly speak again. “This is the hardest choice I’ve had to make. But I’m not going back on it.” I’ve gotten this far.

“We love you,” my mom cries. “Our door is always open for you. When you’re ready, you come home.”

My chest tightens. “Thanks, Mom. I love you both too.” After another reiteration of these sentiments—with no interjections of good luck or love you from my father—we hang up. And I stuff my face in the pillow, groaning. You’d think after that I’d feel weightless, a certain kind of relief.

But I’d prefer to sink into this bed and wallow for a good hour or two.

Nikolai emerges from the closet, already in workout shorts, shirtless: his abs chiseled, the V of his muscles prominent by his waistband. He ties a rolled red bandana behind his head, strands of his hair already hanging over the fabric. “You okay?” he asks me, concern in his voice.

“I’ve been better,” I whisper. I’ve never cried for that long or been that emotional in my entire twenty-one years of living. My eyes and throat feel like sandpaper. “Are we training?”

He nods after he finishes tying the bandana. “Right now.”

Right now?

I glance at the bedside digital clock. It’s only six-thirty in the morning. My body is too heavy to move. I collapse back onto the pillow with another muffled groan, working my way up to rolling over. Roll over. You can do this.

My muscles don’t budge.

“Get dressed,” he orders, his tone already all business.

I’ve left some clothes here, in case he calls an impromptu training session like this one. It happens often, but rarely this early.

I mumble something that sounds like: in a minute. But with the pillow in my face, I doubt he hears me. The bed suddenly rocks, Nikolai kneeling on either side of my body.

Lips to my ear, he whispers, “I’m giving you ten seconds.”

That’s not long enough for my rusted joints to cooperate. Or maybe it’s all in my mind. That’s a definite possibility. “Thirty,” I mumble.

“This isn’t a negotiation. My rules.”

Okay. Okay—I’ll get up. I try propping my elbows, but I honestly end up hugging the pillow above my head. Mind and body, at war once again.

“Five seconds left,” he warns me. Still on my stomach, I try to crane my neck over my shoulder.

He’s practically straddling me. His pelvis in line with my ass. It’s a position I’ve never been in with another guy—especially not one who stares at me with harsh, tireless gray eyes. He gives me an expression like you’re here to train, myshka, not collapse in self-pity. Or have sex with him.

And he’s right, of course.

Get up, Thora. I prop my elbows on the mattress this time, but I hesitate, a mental, emotional, physical block. I think my pity party needs one more hour.

Nikolai isn’t having it. “Time’s up.” He pulls my baggy tee off, leaving me in my lacy red bra, part of my Phantom costume. He won’t let me slack off, not for my emotions, not for him. Not for anything.

I think I love him more for it.

Love.

It’s a strong word, but I’m not sure what else to call this. It’s greater than just like. It’s more powerful than friendship. If I’m not falling in love with him, then I’m missing the definition of the level right below it. Sort-of-love. Almost-love.

Maybe-one-day-love.

“You’re a slug,” he says, unclipping my bra. “A melancholic, defeated slug.”