12. Act Twelve
ACT TWELVE
2 :53 a.m.
By the time the taxi screeches to a halt in front of The Masquerade, Katya has passed out on my shoulder, just as I predicted. Her mouth is open as she lets out short breaths.
I carefully reach over her to open the door, but Nikolai has already walked around to my side of the cab.
“I have her,” he tells me, slipping his phone in his pocket.
He lifts his sister in his arms, cradling her, and I climb out and shut the door. I saw him pay the driver, so I don’t ask about it. “What’s going on?” I’m the seventh wheel to imaginary people. I can’t make sense of his cousins or brothers because they’re just deep voices on a phone line.
“You’ll find out soon,” he says lowly, his brows hardened like his voice.
I don’t prod. I follow him through the revolving glass doors and into the hotel lobby that pairs with one of the casino floors. We stay off the carpet that contains the slots and tables, just walking on the cobblestone.
My feet scream with each step. The straps pinch my pinky toes and scrape against my ankle. I’m seconds from unbuckling my heels, right here. Just as I consider the plan, a boisterous crowd tears my mind in a new direction.
By the map kiosk, young guys, twenties most likely, all talk over each other, gesticulating with their hands. It’s not like they’re fighting. They’re just having too many conversations at once.
One stands out with a gold carnival mask and staff that he twirls with precision, his cross earring swaying as he whips his head.
Timo.
It’s not hard to discern their features from here: dark brown hair, extreme height, broad shoulders and gray eyes. Kotovas. A mixture of cousins and brothers, maybe.
I feel like I’m descending deeper and deeper into Nikolai’s life with each passing minute. I’m the last audience member at his performance, the ringleader drawing me slowly behind the curtains. His world is just so different from mine that it’s hard to turn away.
Nikolai speaks under his breath to me, “I’m going to have a fight with Timo. Just to warn you.”
“Okay,” I say softly, not sure what else to add.
He gives me a look that I regard as thanks , one that encompasses more than just this moment, I think. I’ve been tagging along all night, and I haven’t done much. But I haven’t made his life harder, so there’s that. And I thought his biggest stress was Amour—carrying the weight of an entire show on his shoulders.
“Luka,” Nikolai shouts as we approach all of them, still chatting like nothing has changed. An athletic guy, dressed in a plain gray shirt and jeans, squeezes through the pack before standing beside his brother.
I thought I was invisible with my five-foot-two height, but somehow Luka trains on me first.
“Hey…I recognize you,” he says. I feel my facial muscles tense. “You’re the titty pierc—”
Nikolai smacks the back of his head, skillfully holding Katya with one arm.
Titty Piercing. I’ll take the Virgin Mary nickname over that, any day.
Luka gapes at his older brother. “What?” He touches his head.
“I’m holding our passed-out sister, and that’s the first thing you have to say?” he nearly growls out the words. His eyes slice through Luka. And I thought I enraged him during the first auditions—this is a new spectrum of pissed off.
“Dimitri would’ve made the same comment!” Luka rebuts.
“Dimitri?” Nikolai lets out an aggravated sound. “If you’re modeling yourself after someone who’s been to jail three times, then I’ve severely miscalculated how smart you are, Luka.”
“Pissing on the street shouldn’t even be a crime,” Luka retorts, still gawking. He outstretches his arms like come on.
Nikolai just glares. Right at him.
And Luka shrinks back, his shoulders lowering in regret. He just now registers his little sister in Nikolai’s arms, and guilt spreads across his face. It’s clear to me that Nikolai has a lot of influence over them—that his words matter to his siblings.
“I’ll take Kat back to her room,” Luka offers, glancing once over his shoulder. Timo staggers as he laughs, full-bellied ones that brighten his face beneath the gold carnival mask. He rests his hip on the map kiosk while his humor overtakes him. “He wants to go to Hex down the street.”
Nikolai rubs his jaw. “The bar that closes at five?”
“Yeah.” Luka scoops his little sister, cradling her body with ease. “You can’t tell him no. He’s eighteen.”
“Just let me handle it,” he says. “Keep your phone on. Don’t steal anything. And thank you for calling me about him.”
Luka nods, mutters a few things in Russian, and breaks from the pack, aiming for the elevators. This shift in the group alerts Timo, and it takes him about one-point-two seconds to finally zone in on us.
He points his gold staff at me with a dazzling wide grin and says, “Thora James.” Then he bows. I can’t smile this time, partially because I feel Nikolai boiling beside me.
It’s like when I’m in the air, about to land a double layout, and I know I’ve overcorrected. I know that I’m going to stumble when I hit the mat.
It’s just like that.
I see the bad thing before it happens. It’s rare that I fixate on the incoming storm, but I’m starting to, I realize.
Timo notices Nikolai beside me, and his sparkling grin slowly fades.
Nikolai steps forward, and the entire group silences. More out of respect than fear, I believe. The power he possesses, over a bunch of rowdy, drunken guys, takes me aback. “You didn’t check on Katya like I asked,” he says lowly.
Timo leans his bodyweight on the staff. “I called her. Chill out, Nikolai. Or better yet, go to bed.” He laughs, expecting everyone to join in with him. No one does. The rest of the guys mutter quietly and shake their heads. Everyone is on the God of Russia’s side. No one cheers against him.
Except maybe Timo.
Nikolai speaks again, his voice harsh and words coarse. Someone wins a jackpot, the casino floor blaring the electric slide song. Nikolai never trips up, and Timo’s knuckles whiten on his staff. They shout back and forth—for what feels like five minutes, until we’re ushered outside by hotel management.
On the other side of the glass doors, no cool breeze lessens the sticky heat beneath my coat. I linger, unsure of where my place is again. Then Timo pushes his mask up to his forehead, their argument switching to English for the first time.
“I’m not twelve anymore!” Timo screams, pain leeching his voice. His face reddens with the words. “I want to live my life, and you can either follow me or leave me alone .” He hails a cab, shutting his brother out.
Nikolai breathes deeply, like he’s run a full marathon. He rubs his lips and then turns his head, searching almost. I’m surprised when his gray irises land on me, about ten feet away. He gestures to me with two fingers like come here.
I approach, wobbling in my heels. His eyes flit to them once.
For some reason, I decide to speak first, “Do you need…a hug?” I internally cringe at how lame that probably seemed.
The corner of his lip tics upward, barely. “No, but I have to make one more pit stop. I’m not leaving him with my cousins.”
I swallow my uncertainty. “I can wait here if you want.”
“I don’t want that,” he tells me. “I’d rather you join me. Don’t ask me why.” He shakes his head a couple times. “Because I still don’t have an answer.”
Part of me questions whether he sees me as a sibling. Like another Timo and Katya and Luka to fret over. It worries me. Because in no way do I want to saddle this guy with more stress. That’s not my intention by staying in Vegas. If that’s the case, I can step out of his world.
“Your eyes are black,” he notes, his lips downturned. “If you want to stay—”
“Do you think of me as a sister?” I suddenly ask. “Is that why I’m here? I mean, here, as in crashing at your place. And…” I look around at the outside of The Masquerade, taxi cabs dropping off drunken girls and more casino high-rises lit-up and twinkling in the distance. It’s one of those moments that I just wonder—how did I end up right here in my life? In Vegas. With a fourth generation artist. It’s one of those surreal moments that I don’t want to take back, even if it’s confusing and muddled and gray.
I feel his fingers beneath my chin. He tilts my head, so that I irrefutably meet his powerful gaze. I see the answer in them. Before he even says it.
“No, Thora.” His hand slides to the back of my neck, each fingertip hot. His grasp protective. He steps nearer, his legs knocking against mine, tension winding my muscles. His other hand cups my jaw, most of me in his possession. Right now.
It’s definitely not a familial gesture. It’s not even a friendly one. Shay would never touch me like this. He would never let his body do the talking like Nikolai. He’d tell me straight up: “I think you’re cute, but not like that, Thora. Come on, we’re friends.”
Nikolai’s thumb skims my cheek, like I’m worthy of more affection. His gaze dances again. Along my lips. He’s going to kiss me. I read his movements, as he always reads mine. And I keep concluding, he’s going to kiss me. He draws me even closer to his body.
He lowers his head towards mine, and just when he’s so incredibly close, he changes course to my ear. Huskily, he whispers, “Come with me.”
It sounds sexual off his tongue. Especially now that he’s touching me this way outside of the gym. He’s not acting or putting on a show. This is him. Entirely.
I open my mouth to form a semi-coherent response.
“Nikolai!” a guy shouts. Nikolai raises his head, away from me. His cousin has a hand on the frame of the cab and waves him to join.
Nikolai glances back at me, the pull not lost. He lets go and I unconsciously sway forward.
“Your choice,” he breathes, his gray eyes raking my small frame before he heads to the cab.
I’m not usually this impulsive.
On a normal day, I list pros and cons. And I listen to the pros (rightfully so) and then go from there. So it takes me a second longer to gather my bearings and decide on my next action.
I don’t want this never-ending night to end. Not like this. Not in this way. I’d be imagining what he’s doing while I sulk alone. I’d construct a hazy picture of Hex and the events that lead thereafter. And I’d wonder what would’ve happen between me and him had I attended.
But the mystery of the night is not always kind. It can end in regret.
I watch him climb into the cab.
And I listen to my gut that says you got this, Thora James.
Don’t be afraid.
Whatever regrets I do have—it won’t be staying back, wondering and imagining. I want to live to the fullest degree. So I sprint to the cab, and slide in before he has the chance to shut the door.
I don’t look at Nikolai yet, but I sense his surprise.
I just stare straight ahead, feeling way cooler than I know I am. “To Hex,” I tell the taxi driver, like in the movies. How the badass girl just controls her own fate.
And then Nikolai says, “I already gave him the address.” There’s a smile in his voice.
Nice one, Thora. “I’m a work in progress,” I say softly, more to myself.
He wraps his muscular arm around my shoulders. “We all probably are.”