“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 my gums.
“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.