39. Act Thirty-Nine
ACT THIRTY-NINE
L uka plops down in the auditorium seat with two buckets of popcorn, offering me one. I raise my brows at him, not exactly trusting how he acquired it. Our “Skittles” pact still exists—I won’t rat him out.
He smiles, a contagious one that his brothers usually possess too. “I paid for them, I swear.” He shakes the tub.
I accept one graciously. “That’s sweet of you then.”
He kicks his feet on the empty velveteen seat. “It still would’ve been sweet regardless if I paid for it or not.”
“But this is better.”
“Why?” He scoops popcorn, a smirk playing at his lips. He knows I suck at back-and-forth.
And now I’m open-mouthed, trying to find a suitable answer. “Because…” it just is. In another life, I hope to be a wordsmith. And a chef. A chef with great words.
“I like because .” He lets me off the hook, seeing my struggle.
Thankfully.
I return my attention to the round stage, the surface cherry wood, sleek and more elegant than concrete.
Nikolai surprised me with a ticket to Amour tonight, rerouting my plans to fall asleep to a vampire and werewolf battle. I think this is his way of apologizing for Elena’s appearance at practice. I couldn’t turn him down. I’m not that prideful, and I’ve really, really wanted to see this show since I first arrived in Vegas. The tickets are so expensive that I haven’t been able to watch Nikolai perform.
Artists don’t even receive complimentary tickets for family and friends, so I know Nik paid for me to be here too. From middle-center seats, I drink in the atmosphere for the first time, trying to stare at everything at once.
The long icicle lights drip from seemingly nowhere, a city skyline painted as a backdrop. It’s like Amour takes place in New York, during the holidays. While more people find their seats, music plays, a serene violin tune, romantic and subdued. Layers of fog already ooze across the stage in white puffs.
A flash of light goes off in my face.
I scowl at Luka who has his phone braced at me. He snaps another photo with a laugh.
“Is that necessary?” I shield my eyes, wondering if we’re going to be in trouble. We’re not supposed to take pictures in the auditorium.
“Oh yeah,” he says. “I promised my brother I’d get your first reaction. And the pissed off one is an added bonus.” He clicks into the photo and holds his cell to me so I can see myself.
I’m drooling at the sight of the stage: my eyes wide in awe and a fool-hearted smile spread across my cheeks. I look like a little kid about to witness a Christmas miracle. “I’d say delete it, but I know you won’t.”
He grins like I’m correct. “Nikolai will love it.”
That fact swells my heart. I twiddle my fingers, nervous for the show to begin, for Nikolai. And he’s done this so many times before.
Ten minutes later, the seats fill a little more than half up, which should be decent for a weeknight, but I know The Masquerade feels differently. The lights dim, shrouding the audience into blackness. The violins echo, beautiful and haunting music. And then red silk descends from the cavernous ceiling.
Soon Nikolai emerges, arms spread out, the silk wrapped around each wrist, head hanging. His sculpted, chiseled body is the sole object of everyone’s gaze. He lifts his build, using the power in his biceps and broad shoulders. His legs straight, he strikes masculine poses that show off his strength and agility. Men like Nikolai were the muses of Renaissance sculptors—their strong figures carved in marble and stone.
My heart slows, waiting to stop all together.
He’s… There are no perfect words for what I feel. For what I see. It’s staring at a Michelangelo painting and being intimate with the subject beneath the brush strokes. It’s falling to your knees and looking up at a god, who belongs to you.
Another flash goes off. This time, too apparent in the dark auditorium.
“Luka,” I hiss, squinting my eyes. Nikolai is still descending towards the stage, a commanding, quiet intro.
“I had to capture love,” he refutes.
Uh…
Security leans over our row, just one man in an Amour T-shirt, plastic badge tethered on a lanyard. “No pictures.”
Luka whispers back, “Sorry, dude.” He makes a gesture like he’s putting his phone away, but when security disappears, he leaves it on his thigh with a bigger, satisfied smile. What a rebel.
I redirect my attention, just as Nikolai’s soles hit the bottom of the stage, cloaked by fog. In the very center, he breathes deeply, like he’s witnessing what we just saw. Like he’s the one being overcome.
The hairs rise on my arms.
He scans the audience, pulling us all in individually. It’s what he does at The Red Death—it’s how he captivates and turns one head from the next.
His purple and silver paint across his eyes darken the romantic look of his red pants. It’s here—as he steps forward, alone—that I begin to realize the importance of Nikolai Kotova to Amour. He’s going to guide the audience through each act.
The storyteller.
The person that bridges every type of love together.
As his eyes flit around the audience, he says, “Do you know love?” The pain in his gaze palpitates my heart, and somehow, he finds me in the crowd.
He fixes his line of sight in my direction. Whether or not he can see me clearly, I can’t know for certain. But this one look from him, while he’s working, on stage—it solidifies me to the chair.
“I believe there are many , many kinds of love.” His eyes seem to smile at me. Knowing I’m unraveling at this intimacy. “And I have seen them all.”
I find myself touching my lips, feeling the force of his on mine, from memory.
And then he steps back, once and twice, the fog thinning around him. He wraps a single hand in the silk. “Tonight,” he says lowly, “you will know love. Just as I do.” And he rises in the air, the apparatus lifted by riggers, giving the illusion that he’s cast away.
When he vanishes, acrobats suddenly scale rafters, smooth and nimble. Other dancers perform sensual choreography as a transition between the major acts. Everyone is dressed in modern attire: pants, shirts, and…lingerie. Not as risqué as Phantom, more like delicate babydoll tops with spandex shorts.
As the show continues, I replay Nikolai’s intro in my head. Even when he appears on stage again, assisting trapeze, I still hear his deep voice. I still see him staring straight into me. With that soul-bearing gaze.
After many minutes pass, Luka leans into my shoulder. “This is where the aerial silk act goes.” It’s supposed to be the halfway-point, the highlight before intermission.
We’ve already seen trapeze (teasing) and hand-to-hand (gentle). I flip through the program, trying to see what’s left if aerial silk (passion) is out. Next up: Chinese poles (destructive), teeterboard (obsessive), and the conclusion is the Russian swing (friendship).
As we move onto the poles, it feels like the swelter of the story is missing. But maybe that’s just me, knowing this act should’ve been here.
When we reach Timo’s act, I realize that he’s the climax of Amour.
Obsessive love.
The metal cube structure encompasses the entire stage, teeterboard beneath. My nerves escalate again. The danger is all in this act.
I swear.
Artificial snow flutters from the ceiling, “Carol of the Bells” playing, crazed and fast-paced. A girl in a white nightgown sits idly on a bar, swinging her legs.
Then Timo takes a running start from the side stage, seemingly coming out of nowhere, and he uses a hidden trampoline to propel his body through the air.
Everyone gasps.
He lands right on the highest rung of the apparatus. His hair slicked back, in black leather pants. He’s not the sprightly young kid.
He’s dark. Sinister, black paint across his eyes. The girl startles, standing. And he proceeds to chase after her, through the cube, using rungs like monkey bars, accompanied with flips, tucks, somersaults, and things I’ve honestly never seen performed before.
The girl stops a few times, letting him catch up to her, and she’s in a whole other class too. A pit wedges in my ribs. You’re not ready for this, Thora. Not even close. She drapes her back along the rung, fluid like silk. And he cages her with his body. She rolls out of the position, dropping…into the arms of Dimitri.
More people flood the stage.
What happens next is the most intricate choreography I’ve ever witnessed, bodies moving swiftly, in unison through the bars. About five run in a handstand position, on the highest beam, chasing a new group of acrobats. Others concentrate on the teeterboard below, shooting straight up, landing straight back down. My eyes dart to so many places, wanting to see everything at once.
I want to do that, I think as I see a beautiful triple layout.
I can’t do that, is my thought for three-fourths of this act. It’s insane.
What I do notice: the looks every Kotova give each other, the slight head nod. The way they all spot Timo when he soars higher through the metal cube. Timo is clearly the best flyer, with a greater level of difficulty in each rotation.
And it shows.
The audience claps enthusiastically when he lands with ease.
My phone buzzes. I hesitate to answer, but it could be my parents…not that I’m dying to talk to them. I just keep hoping my dad will have a change of heart.
With my hand cupped over the screen, I open the text.
We have a client wanting you, right now. Get your ass here in five minutes or we’ll give the gig to Lana. – Roger
My stomach overturns. Another buzz.
And slut up your costume. – Roger
I worry. About everything. As my bank account depletes, with no job alternatives in view, I wonder if this is my last shot. If I reject this, Roger will never offer me anything else. Nausea barrels, sickness rising in my throat, and I can’t tell if it’s from having to choose between staying here and leaving or what I may be walking into.
Luka nudges my arm and whispers, “You okay?”
“I have to leave,” my gut tells me to say. “Work stuff. I’m sorry.”
“Are you sure?” Even in the dark, I spot his deep frown. Luka has no idea that my job description has changed at Phantom. If he did, I have a feeling he’d run after me. It’s a red flag—what I’m about to do. You can’t lose this job, Thora.
“I can’t lose this job,” I whisper to him.
He nods in understanding. I set the popcorn at my feet and stand in a crouch, careful not to block anyone as I slip out.
It’s only dancing. I may be fooling myself. But this one thought is the only way I can proceed without falter.
And take this risk.