The seventh drunk guy whistles at me from afar. I spot him waving his wallet. Nikolai has his hand firmly on the small of my back while he speaks quickly into his phone. If I was venturing alone, I think I’d be a little frightened. I’d need one wingman or wingwoman with me. Like a Camila.
But I can’t deny—a six-foot-five Russian athlete has been the best defense. No one has approached us or even really considered the feat.
I listen to Nikolai’s deep voice, picking up Katya’s name through the jargon. He’s called all of his brothers and now he’s onto a list of his cousins. Apparently she didn’t mention her nightly plans to anyone.
He suddenly pockets his phone. “This way.” His hand tightens on my waist, and he redirects me to a crosswalk, a hoard of people gathered underneath the red-hand symbol.
“You found her?” I ask.
“One of my cousin’s friends saw her at Fellini’s. It’s a restaurant on the strip.” So we’re close. Even so, he never relaxes. His eyes flit to my stilettos. “If your feet start to bleed, tell me.”
I think they’re probably close. I suck up the pain and just nod. His sister is missing, and the last thing he really needs is a five-minute break to inspect a couple blisters.
Cars screech to a halt, and everyone begins to cross. I dodge an incoming girl in a huge feather headdress, like her burlesque show just ended. Nikolai isn’t fazed by the Vegas nightlife, standing erect and steadfast. But all of it distracts me.
The fancy dresses, the limos, the commotion—a city that never sleeps. He nearly braces me to his side, probably so I don’t face-plant in my heels.
“Does your sister break curfew a lot?” I ask.
“Only recently.” He pauses. “She doesn’t want to live in Vegas anymore. She’s been begging me to let her audition for Noctis, and I keep telling her no.”
“Noctis,” I recall the name. “That’s one of the traveling shows.”
He nods. “It’s the show my parents are in. She just wants to be closer to them.”
It clicks. His parents aren’t even in Vegas, so that’s why she lives with Nikolai. And why Timo runs around The Masquerade so freely. In the short silence, Nikolai is lost in thought and I try to pay attention to the divots in the cement sidewalk.
He hugs me closer as a group of rowdy guys pass us, and then he instinctively wraps his arm around my shoulders, as though claiming me as more than a friend. Just to ward them away, I know. If I wasn’t wearing a “what’s underneath the long coat?” getup, it’d be a different story. I think. Maybe.
Maybe not.
He’s the most touchy-feely guy I’ve ever encountered. I’m not surprised either, considering he’s in tune with his body and spent years lifting and catching women for a living.
Thankfully, no one accidentally shoves into my arm. And I’m left in a warm cocoon, made by Russia. Believe me, I’m not complaining.
Even after they’ve gone, Nikolai keeps this embrace.
“Why not let your sister audition?” I ask him.
“Because she wouldn’t pass the first round. She’s not good enough for Noctis.”
I wince. “She could get better—”
“She could,” he says, “but she doesn’t try. Katya is average in her discipline. It’s just a fact.”
I frown. “What’s her discipline?”
“Russian bar.” He tucks me close to his side again as a giant bachelor party passes us. “She’s in Viva at The Masquerade, but all shows have different levels of difficulty. The Russian bar routine in Noctis is too complicated.” He adds, “And she’d be angry that our parents wouldn’t pull strings for her, just so she can be in it. I’d rather Katya hate me than hate them.”
That’s more than just kind. It’s selfless and something I’d never expect of him the first time we met at The Red Death.
It hits me right now. He’s a full-fledged adult, a man, with more responsibilities and maturity than I probably contain in my pinky finger. And it’s…scarily attractive. When it should be just the opposite. I should draw towards career-driven, young guys who just graduated from college. Who don’t have their shit together. Just like me.
But I guess when my world is in flux, I naturally gravitate towards someone who’s more stable.
And he’s that fortress again. Standing tall in a land of straw huts.
“This is it,” he tells me, stopping abruptly in front of Fellini’s. He pushes inside the upscale Italian restaurant that’s at least a mile from The Masquerade. People cram around the door, waiting to be seated. The dim lighting is going to make it hard to spot his sister.
His hand falls to my lower back again. “This way,” he says, guiding me past the hostess podium.
“What does she look like?” I ask him, inspecting the cloth tables and leather booths from afar, walking deeper into Fellini’s. Everyone wears formal outfits: suits and ties, cocktail dresses. Nikolai fits in with his black slacks and white button-down.
“Brunette, young…” he trails off. “There she is.” Relief fills his voice, and he zeroes in on a girl in a corner booth, a purple feather boa around her neck. Her straight brown hair is parted in the center, draping along her thin shoulders.
Glitter is splashed across her pale skin and chest, wearing a low-cut top.
She looks her age.
The extra mascara and red lipstick, applied with a heavy hand, makes it seem like she’s trying too hard to be older, like costume makeup. Pain twists my stomach.
Nikolai storms forward, his angry stride way too lengthy for my leg-span. I lose his pace the minute he detaches from me.
As soon as Katya notices her brother’s giant, consuming presence, her large, orb-like eyes widen even more. “Oh crap,” she says.
It’s like slow motion. I watch her turn, as if to shield her face with her wall of hair, and her elbow catches the half-filled martini glass. It splashes on the tablecloth and just barely misses the candle.
One of the three other girls giggles and rights the glass. “Party foul.”
Katya slumps further in the leather cushion, refusing to meet Nikolai’s eyes as he halts right beside her—with me in company. He doesn’t give the other girls a single glance. But I do.
They appear even older than me, maybe early thirties or late twenties. With curled hair and bandaged dresses. Katya, slender, lanky and flat-chested, is just a girl in comparison. I try to think positively. She probably knows the women from the circus. It could be worse, right? At least forty-year-old men didn’t accompany her to a late-night dinner.
Nikolai speaks in Russian, his tone rough and biting. I waver beside him, unsure of my place again. I’m certain it’s probably back in Cincinnati.
Silence lags in Nikolai’s speech.
“I’m not talking,” she hiccups, “…to you.” She hiccups again. “Unless you speak in…” She sips her water. “English.” Her eyelids droop, and she slips on some of her words. I wonder if “no Russian talk” is a tactic that Katya employs out of anger towards him. If so, it works. He’s most definitely frustrated by it, his nose flaring and forehead wrinkled.
“Stand up, Katya. We’re going home.”
“To…Russia,” she hiccups, her lids still heavy.
“You’ve never been to Russia, so no,” he says lowly. “Stand up.”