14. Act Fourteen
ACT FOURTEEN
M y head pounds viciously.
I roll over, whirling. A soft, metallic comforter molds my body, like a fluffy pillow. I freeze. This is not my bed in Ohio.
I’m in Vegas.
And this is not Camila’s couch.
My blurry eyes begin to grow and clear. The never-ending night suddenly floods me in choppy, disjointed waves. What. Did I do? I’m on my period. It’s the first terrified thought I have.
Did I have sex?
Those two—sex and menstruation—they don’t mix. I’m going to look down and see a horrific bloody mess, something from a scary movie. Like Saw. The eighth sequel took place in Nikolai’s bed.
Before I agonize any longer, I take a peek. No blood.
No mess.
I pat my body for my phone, and it dawns on me. I’m wearing a men’s black button-down. Bra-less. Or rather, corset-less. No stockings. No—wait, I still have my black underwear on, the bottoms that matched the top.
I find my phone sitting on a pillow beside me. No other body is here.
He kissed me?
Maybe. Did he?
Did we have sex?
I want to turn off my frantic brain. Please. I stare at the ceiling, expecting to have a one-on-one talk with God, but this isn’t the time. And I don’t think He wants to hear me groan about my drunken black-out night.
I just hope it’s not one full of regret.
I check the time on my cell. 9:32 a.m.
Why am I up so early after going to bed so late? What’s wrong with my body? Doesn’t it understand that it needs sleep? I’m about to fall back into the pillow and force my eyes shut.
But a fist raps the door frame.
Nikolai stands with a glass of green slush, wearing black workout shorts and a gray shirt. Strands of his hair fall over his rolled, red bandana. Like usual, it’s distracting and more attractive than he probably realizes.
“How is your body functioning?” is the first thing I say, of all things needing to be said.
“I can handle my liquor,” he reminds me. “I’m assuming you feel like shit.”
I sit up, suddenly aware of last night again, the important parts. I anxiously pull at the hem of his shirt so it covers my thighs. I swallow, my throat dry. “Right assumption.”
His brows pinch as he studies me for a second. Then he approaches with the green mystery concoction. “Drink this.” He passes it to me.
I cup the cold glass with one hand, keeping my thighs covered with the other. He watches me attentively, and I try to speak my questions through my eyes: did we have sex? I don’t think I can say the words aloud.
He has to be reading me right. “You blacked out,” he finally concludes. “At what point?”
“I remember bits and pieces after we left Hex.”
His jaw hardens. “Drink,” he tells me. “You’ll feel better.”
Wait? He’s not going to tell me if we had sex or not? This is killing me. “Did we have sex?!” I accidentally shout it.
Fuck my life.
“No,” he tells me without a smile. Without humor. His seriousness pounds my heart.
“Did we kiss?” I ask softly.
“No, not really.” He picks up a blue plastic AE water bottle off his dresser. “I helped you change into that shirt after you said a wire was hurting you, but I knew you were more intoxicated than me. I wouldn’t take advantage of you, Thora.”
I finally let out a breath.
He gestures to the green slush. “Hurry up and drink that. We’re leaving in ten minutes.”
My eyes grow. “What? Where?”
“The gym. Your training starts today.”
“Today?” My head throbs still, a splitting migraine that jackhammers my temple. I shouldn’t be anywhere near an apparatus.
He sits on the edge of the bed, really close to me. “I have rules.”
Of course he has rules. I lean my shoulders against the black headboard.
“No complaining.”
“I wasn’t complaining,” I mutter, sipping the green drink. It’s vile. I gag at first, but his look of suck it up, little mouse forces me to drink more of it without flinching. I remember the nickname, and I can only guess he gave it to me for my height compared to his. I also remember his strict anger at the auditions, and I wouldn’t expect anything less from him now. Clearly, he takes work seriously.
“If I call you with a free hour, you’ll stop whatever you’re doing and train. Except if you’re working at Phantom.”
“Okay.” I can do that.
“No drugs,” he says.
“That won’t be a problem,” I mumble into my next sip. I’ve never even smoked pot. The call of narcotics isn’t strong for me.
He adds, “Don’t show up to training drunk.”
I hesitate mid-gulp and then wipe my mouth slowly with the back of my hand. “Problem…I’m slightly drunk right now.”
His facial muscles never even flinch from their no-nonsense, stern position. “Don’t arrive late to training. You waste my time, we’re done.”
“Fair enough,” I say softly. He’s doing this out of kindness, no other reason.
“No boyfriends.”
My lips part, and my heart jumps. “What?”
“It’s a distraction,” he explains, “and if you’re not one-hundred percent committed to becoming an artist, then you’re wasting my time again.” His eyes smolder hot. “And if you do end up with a boyfriend, I don’t want to know about it. I don’t want to hear it. That stays out of the gym. Understand?”
I digest all of his words with a heavy frown. I don’t think I misinterpreted the attraction between us last night—but maybe that’s all it was, a drunken night. And I hate myself for fixating on him like that when he’s giving me a handout that I’ve desperately needed.
“You’re glaring,” he says. “I didn’t realize your love life was more important to you than your career—”
“It’s not,” I retort; my pulse speeds the longer we discuss this. I feel like puking.
He lifts my chin with two fingers, his hard gaze pushing through me. That stare—it’s so intrusive. So intimate. That it might as well be a form of sex. Eye sex. Eye fucking. I understand it now. And he says lowly, “Then no boyfriends.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I breathe.
A knock sounds on the main door, the noise dull in this room but audible. Between his siblings and cousins at The Masquerade, I’m surprised there aren’t more knocks.
“Is that all the rules?” I ask as he stands.
“Unless I think of more later,” he tells me, basically declaring that he can amend the rules at any time. He holds all the power—as he should. He’s doing you a giant favor, Thora. I’m so grateful that I can’t complain, even if it wasn’t on his list of rules.
“I left Advil on the bathroom counter for you,” he tells me on his way to the door, the knocking louder. When he leaves to answer it, I scan the room for my bag. A couple seconds pass before I remember that my suitcase is at Camila’s—along with a change of clothes, underwear and my shoes.
I exhale, my stomach still queasy. I’m not sure the green juice is helping any. Camila is most likely busy dealing with her extended family, and I don’t want to complicate her day with my baggage—literally. I smile weakly at the pun, and then quickly frown when I realize it has not solved my problems.
Nikolai left the door ajar, and I hear voices escalate in the living room, enough that curiosity propels me there. I edge near the wooden frame.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” the familiar male voice says. “It’s just that I don’t trust you.” I imagine John Ruiz’s surly, unapologetic face.
“That makes perfect sense,” Nikolai replies. “What am I going to do with Thora’s clothes? Steal them? Wear them for myself?”
My clothes. I’m opening the door in a flash, too pleased with the slant of the universe, dipping on my side. My solution just walked into Nikolai’s suite with my suitcase. I creep into the living room, my toes throbbing from the torture I put them through last night.
It isn’t until John sees me that I notice my mistake. His eyes travel down the length of my body, clad in a black button-down. Nikolai’s shirt. And nothing else.
The universe giveth and taketh away.
“I can explain,” I say quickly. “We didn’t…” I motion between Nikolai and me. He stays quiet, domineering, not helping at all. “Do anything—we didn’t do anything. I just didn’t have a change of clothes.” It’s the best excuse there is. Maybe because it’s true.
“It’s not my business,” he says, my hefty suitcase by his side. “But either way you’re still certifiably insane.” He lets out a dry laugh. “You really would rather stay with him than go to a hotel or a hostel. Honestly, Thora, I pegged you as a degree above stupid.”
A degree above stupid must be a fairly good compliment from John.
Nikolai’s biceps flex, a sign that he’s ticked off. “And what’d I do to you?”
John never backs down. Not even shrinking in place. Even if Nikolai is taller, broader, and a year older—John is angrier, moodier, and tapping into the I hate this fucking world vibe with expertise.
“For starters,” John begins, “you turn a perfectly good club into an idiot fest every Saturday night. And the rest of you Kotovas are all the same. Thinking you’re above the rules. Your little brother practically pisses everywhere he goes—”
“You can leave,” Nikolai interrupts, his jaw hardened severely. His muscles coiled, on offense.
They have some sort of staring match that I can’t make sense of. John unflinchingly stays his course, as though he expected that type of reaction from Nikolai. He breaks the eye contact first, not in defeat really. He just hands my suitcase off to me, and I grab the handle.
“Camila told me to tell you not to ditch her just because you’re not crashing at her place anymore,” he says. “She doesn’t have many friends who stick around here.”
I nod, my heart swelling that she’d even want to stay in touch. “I’ll text her. Thanks for this.”
He shrugs. “Camila made me do it. Don’t think I’m a nice guy.”
“That’d be impossible,” Nikolai says, his voice deep and threatening.
John rolls his eyes dramatically before giving me a half-wave and exiting out the main door. When he shuts it behind him, Nikolai spins back to me. As if nothing happened, he says, “Get dressed. We have practice.”
Right.
Practice with the God of Russia.
I wonder if I’m about to see why he’s called that.