5. Act Five
ACT FIVE
I made the first cut.
I send the group text to my parents and my brother and then another text to Shay. I walk down the long carpeted corridor of the casino floor in sweat pants (over my leotard), still in a daze about the verdict. An hour ago, Helen called my audition number along with Elena, Kaitlin, and another girl’s. I almost couldn’t believe it.
Nikolai even made a point to nod at me when she announced that I made it through to day two of auditions. Maybe it was a pity nod, but it fuels me for the final round tomorrow.
At first, I planned to decompress in Camila’s apartment, maybe finish Bite in the Dark , a vampire romance that I’m three-fourths through. But I think couch-surfer protocol forbids me from loitering. I sleep and go. And sleep again.
So I decided to take advantage of Vegas and soak up the atmosphere while I’m here. If I don’t land the role, then I may never have the opportunity to return to this city again.
The slot machines ping and glow—a group of thirty-somethings clustered at a roulette table. They simultaneously cheer, raising their beers and cocktails. Everyone here seems to be on a high, skiing up it or sliding down.
The energy is new, and I feel a smile pull at my cheeks. Life is slow in Ohio. Not a bad slow. Just different. Vegas begins to take hold of my senses, drawing me deeper into the casino’s sins.
Evening hasn’t set in yet, so the crowds aren’t as thick as they could be. I mosey around the tables and slots, watching people gamble from afar. I understand the enticement of throwing dice, playing cards, and pressing a button.
It’s the dream, right?
To be granted money without any real work or effort. It doesn’t matter who you are, what you look like, where you come from—we all have the same odds.
Vegas may be a genie, willing to grant wishes, but it’s also a devil in disguise, here to slay our dreams just as quickly.
While I observe a really confusing game—craps, I think—my cell pings.
Duh, you made the first cut. Booking my plane ticket already. – Tanner.
I smile and try not to think about my realistic parents, who’ve probably made plans to pick me up from the airport.
Before I pocket my phone, it pings again.
Natalie and Jordan miss you. They keep asking when you’ll be back. – Shay
He’s lying. For one, Natalie and Jordan didn’t even notice when I had bronchitis our freshman year and missed three practices. If we didn’t share a single commonality—the girl’s gymnastics team—I doubt we’d even be Facebook friends. I text quickly: I’ve been gone for a day and a half.
This is reason enough that no one probably misses me. I wouldn’t even miss myself for that long.
I think I’d need a solid month. Then I’d start missing myself. Maybe.
He replies back with a devil emoji. I send him an angel one.
Right as I return to the craps game, I spot someone familiar dealing cards at a blackjack table. My feet lead me there before my head does.
“Oh no,” John says as I approach. “This table is reserved for non-AE artists.”
“I’m not an artist yet,” I tell him, resting my hand on an open stool. “I’m just a gymnast.” If I’m really unwanted, I can go wander aimlessly somewhere else. Maybe I’ll find a good reading bench.
John looks surly, so I begin to back away.
“Wait, wait,” he says slowly and motions for me to return. “It’s been a quiet afternoon, and I’m predicting an onslaught of loud, obnoxious fraternity guys. It always happens. It’s an easy day and then fucking tobacco-chewing, sunglass-wearing douche bags roll in, pretending they’re professional poker players, leaving two-dollar tips and bottles of brown spit.” He shuffles his cards. “But if you sit here, you’ll most likely detract them from my table. You’ll be my asshole repellent.”
I hesitate to ask. “Why will I repel them?” I settle into the open seat, taking the invitation regardless. I mean, I don’t have many options. Or friends here. So yeah, I’m left with moody John Ruiz. It’s not bad, all things considered.
His eyes flicker to my black leotard and loose pony, flyaway pieces of dirty-blonde hair around my oval face. “They go for the empty tables or the ones with models. You’re neither invisible nor a model. No offense.”
“None taken.” I’m glad he doesn’t ask about my auditions. Not dwelling has alleviated some stress. I watch him shuffle another deck. John wears a tux with a gold bowtie, the dealer’s uniform, and he scowls so much that his forehead wrinkles.
“You have RBF?” I blurt out. I internally grimace. Why did I ask that? Maybe I can relate to someone else who suffers from Resting Bitch Face. I’ve bonded with a girl on the gymnastics team that way. We unite together. But it’s not like that term is common or even a “thing” with lots of people.
His face scrunches more and he gives me a weird look. Then he says, “No, I’m just a bitch.” He smiles dryly.
I can’t help but smile back. And the corner of his mouth even rises in a more genuine one.
“What’s your bet?” he asks me.
“Can I just watch?” I didn’t bring any money to the casino, and this is a pretty expensive table.
“Elbows off the table,” he suddenly tells me.
Okay, that must be a rule. I don’t even know proper poker etiquette. I quickly take them off. And then he passes me a glass bowl of Chex mix. “I’m usually not this nice. But you look like you need a friend, and I’m never that friend. Never.” He shakes his head like this is cemented in truth. “This is only because you’re working for me today. Incentive to stay when I become surly at two-thirty. Happens every afternoon. Prepare yourself for it.”
“Surlier than now?” I ask with the raise of my brows.
“You’re meeting the most cheerful me there is. I can’t help it if the world is fucking lousy. There’s not much to take pleasure in. And the only reason more people aren’t like me is because they’re living in a fantasy world of cupcakes and daffodils and—”
“Glitter,” a guy suddenly interjects, sliding onto a stool, two separating us. “Can’t forget the glitter, old man.”
John solidifies, and he shoots the new guy a glare as dark as thunderstorms and lightning. It’s a look only reserved for people you know.
I whip my head from one to the other. It’s like they’re silently having a conversation through their eyes. I scan the young guy’s features: dark brown hair, long in the front so the tips brush his eyelashes. Pale skin. Thin, almost gangly build underneath a leather jacket. Topping off his look with high-cut jean shorts and boots.
By the shorts alone, he seems a bit brazen. And not one of the tobacco-chewing, sunglass-wearing assholes that I’m supposed to repel.
John breaks the death-stare first. “There are ten other blackjack tables, Timo. Go find another one.”
Unperturbed, Timo places a tall stack of chips on the green felt. “I would, definitely, go find another one. You are my least favorite dealer in all of The Masquerade. Congratulations on that, by the way. And yet, I have this feeling— ” he touches his chest dramatically “—that today you’re going to bring me some luck, old man.”
“Stop calling me old man ,” John retorts, his mood darkening as the seconds pass by. “I’m twenty-fucking-five. Don’t make me bring over security again.”
Timo shrugs. “Do it,” he eggs on and then nods to me. “Sorry about this. John doesn’t understand that I’m twenty-one , and he can’t throw me off his table.”
John lets out a short, humorless laugh. “He’s eighteen. And he has a fake ID that everyone in this place overlooks because his last name is Kotova.”
What? My eyes threaten to pop out of my face, and my mouth falls. I focus on Timo again. His hair is the same dark shade as Nikolai’s and his eyes are the same light gray. But his body is built differently, less muscle mass than Nik. My mind reroutes to John’s statement—about how The Masquerade provides special privileges to Kotovas.
That seems highly unlikely. Right?
“I’m sure he’s twenty-one,” I say. “A casino can’t let someone underage gamble just because of his last name.” Don’t they have undercover cops to crack down on that law?
Timo grins, his smile magnetic. “I like you,” he announces and leans forward, holding out his hand. “Timofei Kotova. Born in Munich. Raised in New York, mostly. You are?”
I shake his hand. “Thora James. Born and raised in Cincinnati.”
John gives me a supreme withering glare, as if I just made a blood pact with the enemy.
“Cincinnati,” Timo muses, his eyes shimmering. “I’ve been to Cleveland once. I was four, I think.”
“Riveting,” John says, surly.
“We’re not all John Ruiz. Born in Las Vegas. Raised in Las Vegas.” Timo’s eyes fill with mock enthusiasm. “You are stupendous, my friend.”
“We’re not friends,” John retorts. “And my family is from Colombia .”
Timo raises his brows like so what? “And my family is from Russia, old man. Want to battle?”
John pinches the bridge of his nose, his sour expression overtaking his features. He lets out a heavy sigh.
I tentatively slip back into the conversation. “I still don’t understand why the Kotovas get a reprieve.”
“Because we’re awesome,” Timo tells me, eating some of the Chex mix.
John steals the bowl back, setting it away from us. “Let me break it down for you, Thora. There are three different Aerial Ethereal shows just at The Masquerade.” He counts on his fingers. “Viva, Infini, and Amour. The Kotovas make up over one-third of the cast for each show.”
Timo raises his fist in the air.
John’s expression says: I so want to smack the back of your head. He huffs and continues, “Some Kotovas are even the directors and coaches. The Masquerade acts like they’re demi-gods, so yes, they let the underage kids pass through security as long as they look twenty-one- ish .” His stormy gaze returns to Timo. “And by the way , you can’t pass as twenty-one. You look like a child.”
“So wait,” I cut in before Timo can reply. I extend my arms, my head spinning from the info. “Is your beef with Aerial Ethereal performers or the Kotovas?”
Timo’s eyes brighten. “Great question.”
“ Both ,” John growls.
“Alright then,” Timo says, “seeing as how I’m doubly hated by the dealer, beating you will be doubly rewarding.” He pushes his chips across the green felt and nods to me again. “You playing?”
“Just watching,” I tell him.
John grumbles something under his breath as he reluctantly shuffles the cards, clearly surrendering despite his speech. This must happen a lot.
He deals the cards quickly: a king and seven for Timo and a queen for himself. John flips the edge of the face-down card to peek beneath it.
Timo raises his brows. “Anything interesting?”
John stays silent and maintains his I loathe the world, my job, and everyone in the universe face.
“That bad, huh?” Timo grins, unzipping his leather jacket.
“Just play,” John says roughly. When his gaze falls to Timo’s torso, he rolls his eyes. “Why the fuck aren’t you wearing a shirt? Seriously? Seriously.” He looks to me. “Do you see this?”
Oh yeah.
Timo is bare-chested beneath the leather. I try desperately to restrain a smile at John’s distress. There’s something about it that’s more comical than anything.
“Is there a shirt policy?” I ask, biting the inside of my cheeks.
“Yes, there’s a shirt policy. Everywhere there’s a shirt policy. People don’t just gamble without clothes.”
“He’s wearing a jacket,” I say. I can’t be a fashion police. Sweats. Leotard. Sneakers. My regular ensemble.
“I am wearing a jacket,” Timo says to John. “She makes a perfect point.” He has that same intense eye contact that Nikolai does, the one that sucks someone into his vortex. John has great, moody defenses, but clearly he’s fallen into Timo’s trap more than a few times. Or else Timo would’ve been kicked off the stool from the get-go.
“Are you staying or not,” John snaps, referring to the card game.
Timo waves his hand like he’s slicing air. I’ve seen the movie 21 , so I know that he’s staying this round. John flips his card: a five.
He turns another: a ten. John busts.
Timo’s face breaks in pure elation, and his excitement bubbles into me.
“Congrats,” I say with a brighter smile. John hands him a couple of red chips, and Timo gives me a thumbs up before he places another bet.
“You shouldn’t be congratulating him,” John tells me as he deals the cards again. “Not after what his brother did to you last night.”
I go cold, like the air conditioning wafted a chilly gust on me. Did he really have to bring that up? I’ve been doing an okay job of forgetting The Red Death and that piercing. My hand almost flies to my boob, as if protecting it on impulse.
“Which brother would that be?” Timo’s brows furrow slightly as he skims his cards. A five and a seven against John’s eight.
“Oh you know, the one who gets off on tattooing question marks and arrows on girls’ asses.”
I internally cringe.
Timo taps the table, and John deals him a ten. I add the numbers in my head quickly. Nikolai’s little brother busts at twenty-two.
“Fuck,” Timo curses, setting his hands on his head. Then he glances at me. “Nikolai tattooed your ass last night? That was you?” He appraises me swiftly like he’s trying to fit an image to the memory.
He was there? I wonder if I saw him… “No…” I trail off, half in thought as I scrutinize his features a little more. “He pierced me.”
Timo’s face breaks into a giant grin. “That’s right. You’re the titty piercing. I thought I recognized you.”
Titty piercing. My eyes bulge. That’s what I’m being referred to as?
Timo snaps his fingers in remembrance. “I even cheered for Nikolai to lose that round.”
So he was the lone guy, rooting for me. Wait—I hone in on the way he phrased that. He just wanted his brother to fail that time, not necessarily hoping I’d win for any other reason. Way to go, Thora.
His gaze flits down my body for a quick second. “You look different in the day, you know…maybe it’s because I’m sober right now.” He stretches his arms over his head and turns back to the table like let’s do this thing.
Just like that, the ordeal rolls off his back, like it was a small moment, insignificant and ordinary. It encourages me to do the same, even if Nikolai believes it was monumental.
“The world has laws for a reason,” John tells him as he deals the cards. “You should abide by them. It’s called being an adult.”
“Really?” Timo asks. “I think it’s called being a stiff.”
I ask John, “Are you one of those people who never cross the street on a red signal?”
“Yeah, because I want to fucking live. I like my life.”
“Really?” Timo says again, actual surprise coating his face. “You should be an actor, man, because you have the whole ‘I hate everything’ vibe pretty down pat.”
John’s gloomy face actually darkens, and Timo connects with it, locking eyes, never shying away. His pink lips slowly curve upward the longer John glowers.
Then Timo puckers his lips, kissing the air and winks at him.
“God,” John groans and looks to the ceiling like why me? I’ve had those moments with God myself. Usually I feel like I’m complaining to the ceiling tiles though.
Timo waves his hand to stay over his cards, and he wins the next round. John shakes his head, aggravated the longer he has to endure Timo. After a few more hands, a server swings by and asks for drink orders. I pass since I may head to the gym later, for more practice.
“Can’t,” Timo tells the server. “I have a show tonight.”
His easy brush-off of the liquor surprises me. Maybe because he seems more irresponsible than I thought. But being in John’s presence doesn’t help. He makes everyone under seventy-five look like a rebellious teen.
Timo wins another round and throws his hands in the air. He laughs into a grin as he looks to me, and he points. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re lucky, Thora James?”
I think back to the piercing. “I’m usually not.”
“You are for me,” he says. “Stay comfortable. We’re in this for the long haul.”
John grumbles under his breath like Timo just speared him in the chest. And he starts dealing again. Timo leans forward, and when he glances my way, with sparkling, dazzled eyes—full of youthful energy—he ropes me in. Lassoing me with charm. Just like his older brother.
Nikolai possesses a darker version of it, but it’s a talent that I find myself envying again. It’s something that separates an ordinary person into something captivating. Spellbinding and extraordinary.
I can’t take my eyes off Timo, and he’s not even on stage.
I wonder if this is a gift you’re born with. If it’s something that I’ll never be able to learn. Part of me, the more cynical side that I try to stomp away, believes so.
But the brightest side says— maybe. Maybe I can be something more than I am. If I can learn at all, the best place is here. Vegas. Where the Kotovas reside.