Infini (Aerial Ethereal #2)(3)

I’ve met him twice.

Obviously for horrific reasons.

An artist’s fate lies in many corporate hands, but Marc Duval’s hand encases all of the higher-ups. Emailing him directly is like whining to God. He could’ve easily fired me on the spot.

Shit, if Nik even knew I sent it…

I rake my fingers through my dark brown hair, panicked that I’ve now started the season on the worst footing. I don’t actively shoot for “good”—just somewhere between “okay” and “mediocre” but not worst.

(What can I say? My name is Luka Kotova. I’m an irresponsible fuck-up. Thanks for your time. Now let me be.) I ride the Masquerade’s elevator to the suites. Alone. Numbers tick higher and higher, and then the elevator glides to a stop.

42nd floor. The doors open to mayhem.

Overflowing boxes, clear plastic tubs, lamps, rugs, and other household belongings fill the hotel hallway. Voices emanate from ajar doors. People rush in and out. Carrying as much shit in their arms as they can since no luggage cart can fit through this disaster.

I step over a drum set and what looks like an empty aquarium. Ducking beneath a coat rack, I spot my suite towards the end of the hallway.

Cardboard boxes are stacked outside the door, the name Timo scribbled on the flaps.

Reality hits me all of a sudden.

We have to move.

If the email hadn’t already cemented our future, the apocalyptic hallway and my little brother’s boxes just did.

Aerial Ethereal has always given artists the 42nd and 43rd floors of the Masquerade. Taking away an entire floor is another swift kick in the gut and the ass. AE has so much control over our lives.

At last notice, they can change anything.

All we have are our contracts, but even those usually only last one year. Then they’re rewritten all over again. Our lives are in constant flux, and as much as I love the circus—this one aspect never stops eating at me.

With a heavy breath, I slip through the cracked door.

“Shit,” I mutter at the barren state.

It’s a typical two-bedroom, modern hotel suite: sleek black and white furniture, floor-length windows that, from this side, overlook the ginormous Vegas pool. After being here for three years, the living room had real character.

An old New York Knicks blanket and throw-rug are gone, and walls that once housed West Side Story and Les Misérables posters are stark white.

Timo removed the cactus-shaped thumbtacks that said don’t be a prick, my glass bowl of jelly beans, and his own ceramic Warhol coasters.

I turn left and right. Mixed emotions bearing on me. My jaw and lip twitches, and my throat bobs as I swallow hard.

I’m grateful that Timo packed up so I don’t have to, but mostly, the disappearance of all my shit makes me uneasy. It’s not like I haven’t moved before.

I have.

Plenty of times growing up.

But for a while there, I felt rooted to something.

It’s one fucking floor, I remind myself and comb my hands through my hair again. One floor. It’s not a big deal. My family sees me as the “go with the flow” Kotova, and in a lot of ways, I am.

I’ll go with the flow with this. With everything.

It doesn’t mean it won’t knot my stomach. Doesn’t mean that I’m unfeeling, like some of my cousins believe. It just means I’m not going to whine or throw a tantrum.

Faster, I pass the kitchenette, sponged-clean, and head to my bedroom. When I push inside, I immediately spot my sixteen-year-old sister.

Katya peers beneath the wooden frame of my stripped bed. I shut the door, and her head pops up. Long, straight brown hair sticks to her overdone pink-glossed lips.

I frown at my little sister. When did she start wearing makeup on regular weekdays?

Her saucer eyes widen even bigger on me. “Oh crap,” she says, clutching a…really?

I sigh. She grips a black heavy-duty trash bag, partially filled.

“It was Timo’s idea.” Katya picks herself off the floor, skinny and long-limbed like a ballerina but with prominent, ethereal features: orb-like eyes, pronounced ears, and big lips. “He said that you wouldn’t mind if we packed up for you.”

I don’t mind.

What bothers me is that he enlisted Katya’s help to throw away my things. Here’s the deal: I’m really close to Timo and Kat—as close as most siblings come—but they still have no clue what I can’t get rid of.

(The cactus paraphernalia better not be trashed.) “Can you say something?” she asks. “You just look…sad.”

“I’m not sad,” I say coolly. “Just please don’t trash my shit unless you ask, Kat.”

She drops the garbage bag like it’s suddenly toxic waste. “I won’t again. I promise.” Guilt sweeps her youthful face.

My features soften almost instantly, and I nod. Kat, more than anyone, respects my privacy. Whenever our older brother Nikolai tries to pry through my things, she’s the most vocal: just trust Luka, Nik. Why are you searching through his gym bag?

I ask, “Where’s Timo?”

She points to the walk-in closet.

I shuffle around an open box, stuffed with my wardrobe: a lot of gym clothes, plain T-shirts, some jeans, and baseball caps. Nothing flashy or brazen.

At the closet, I stretch the door further open. I distinguish the back of my brother’s head that bounces to the beat of music. He’s wearing earbuds, the song inaudible.