Infini (Aerial Ethereal #2)(82)

My brother’s smile brightens. “You think I’m evolved, John?”

“I think you’re killing humanity, and you’re killing me. As we speak.” Despite appearing surly, John never breaks my brother’s gaze.

They’re flirting. It’s obvious to me.

From other slots and tables, people watch Timofei as he radiates pure energy that’s almost indescribable. And he’s just sitting down. It lifts my chest, and I start to smile for no reason.

John is just as entranced, though he doesn’t let on as strongly as others.

“I’m that powerful in your eyes,” Timo teases.

John glares at the ceiling with an expression that’s best described as “I hate the fucking world and its incompetent subjects”—and I’ve actually heard him say that exact phrase before.

“Don’t worry, John,” Timo says, “I’ll bring you back to life after I kill you.”

John shakes his head once. “Don’t try and you can’t. In this ghastly overpopulated universe, the dead stay dead and the living stay shittily living….” His voice drifts with his eyes. “Luka, take a seat.”

I sit before I follow his gaze to a drunk cluster of thirty-something guys in nice suits. Their gold-plated watches seem expensive.

“They don’t tip,” John says to me, “and they’ve been throwing down ten-grand a hand. They smell like a rotten ham sandwich and menthol—oh, and they’re fucking clumsy.”

Timo leans into me. “They spilled bourbon on his table last night.”

“I hate people,” John finishes, which makes no sense since he’s a service worker. He’s paid to put a smile on his face and chat-up strangers. He rarely does the former, but he’s way too proficient at the latter.

As the drunk guys look to John’s table, I kick up my legs on all of the empty stools. Stretching out. They’re too plastered to be offended, and they stumble and holler their way to baccarat.

A few of our young cousins pass, no older than ten, and they all say hi to Timofei. Spinning on his stool, he slings his arm over their shoulders, and he compliments them in Russian. Makes them feel better about themselves—I can tell.

They light up, and by the time they leave, they’re all smiling. In a better mood.

Happy.

Timo makes people happy. (Me included.)

“ID,” John tells me.

I smile while I chew my gum and pass him my fake ID. Many times, he’s mentioned that his pit boss is watching, but management knows we’re underage—and they still let us drink and gamble.

(Perks of being a Kotova.)

The Masquerade profits a lot off of my family’s talent. I’m talking millions of dollars that we rack in with every show, and the hotel has become known for Infini and Viva and now Amour. People stay here especially for the circus.

So yeah, management looks the other way when I drink a beer, dance in a club, or sit at a blackjack table. Why shouldn’t they?

The Masquerade is worth 5 billion.

Aerial Ethereal is worth 2 billion.

And I’m just an artist. On the low rung of the Corporate ladder. They all bathe in their wealth, and I’m on stage, working my ass off for the art.

For that final applause.

For my family.

I watch John inspect my ID. Really, I think he just likes reminding us that we’re not special.

He takes longer than usual. “Something wrong?” I ask.

Timo says, “The old man probably needs his glasses.”

John rolls his eyes but hangs onto my ID. “Play a few rounds and then I’ll return this to you.” He slips my ID in his back pocket. I don’t understand what he’s getting at.

“Luk has early-evening practice,” Timo says and spins more towards the table. “I’m betting five-hundred.”

John feeds a deck of cards in an automatic shuffler. “As your dealer, I advise you to bet less.”

Timo almost laughs. “How do you still have a job here?”

“It’s advice I only give to people I can’t stand.”

“So everyone.”

“You,” he corrects.

Timo leans forward. “I’m up two-hundred, and this is my last hand before I leave for work. I’ve made worst decisions.” He gestures to him. “Like dating you.”

It’s supposed to be a joke, but John is the one with the insults while Timo exultantly chases after him, like a firefly in a storm cloud.

John looks more concerned than hurt. “You think I like nagging you, babe? I don’t—I’d rather eat my left foot.”

Timo opens his mouth to say something, but he hesitates and checks the time on his phone. “I have to go warm-up for the show anyway.” Standing off the stool, he avoids John’s gaze and they don’t kiss like usual.

I’m about to follow my little brother to make sure he’s okay.

“I have your ID,” John suddenly tells me—and now I realize why he held onto it. He wants to keep me here after Timo leaves. With twelve-hour practices every single day, it’s not like I’ve been accessible lately. Today is just different. Our practice times were shifted for a Corporate luncheon, all to schmooze investors.

I wasn’t invited. (I’m still Corporate’s Least Favorite.)