“Are they young…like Katya?”
He shakes his head. “No. Peter is twenty-four, two years younger than me, and Sergei will be twenty-eight in July, two years older.”
I want to ask what happened—how they ended up split apart—but I’m not sure he’ll tell me. I’m not even sure it’s something he shares often. Just by his dark, faraway expression, I can tell it brings him to a place he’s not fond of going.
I sip my wine with rusted joints. Since I unearthed a sore subject, I decide to lighten the mood. I take the plunge. “Don’t tell me you sleep in the nude.” I nod to his towel, my lame attempt at a joke. I put the rim of the glass to my lips, gulping a sizable amount.
His eyes smile. “It’s much more comfortable.”
What? I choke on the liquid, coughing hoarsely.
He rises from his chair, as if ready to give me mouth-to-mouth. I hold up a hand, and he pauses in the middle of the floor.
“Thora?”
After another couple of dry coughs and a sip, I find my voice. “It went down the wrong…pipe or whatever it’s called.” I wince. I will never be a good smooth talker. It’s hard to even look at his face right now. He admitted to sleeping naked, even in jest. And he’s in a towel. Towering again. We’re also drinking wine.
Like old friends.
Nikolai returns to his seat, his eyes twinkling in amusement when I meet them.
“It’s not funny,” I say.
“It depends which part you’re referring to.” He rests his arm on the back of the chair, stretching, lounging. It’s a nice view.
I decide to jump topics again. New one. “How was the show tonight?”
“Fair,” he says. “But that’s how it’ll be until the aerial silk act returns.” He watches me take another gulp. “Careful, my demon.”
Do not choke. His comment almost made me, but I channel whatever poise I have and swallow the wine without falter. My entire body heats, not just from the alcohol.
Nikolai leans back into the chair, and the towel shifts, exposing more thigh, closer to something else. What if he’s called the God of Russia because of the size of his cock? The curious parts of me want to know. The sensible parts do not.
“How was your work?” he asks. A normal question, but the hairs on my arms rise.
“Fair,” I say, not mentioning the drunken guys, urging me to split my legs apart.
His gunmetal eyes seem to darken, and he rubs his strong jaw. He has to be imagining what “fair” entails at Phantom. Neither of us surfaces the unspoken words. It strains the air.
“Are you normally so bold?” he asks.
I try my shot at sarcasm. “You mean bold enough to sit in a living room in nothing but a towel?” I continue without thinking about my words. “It’s natural, yeah. I do it all the time.” I’m so lame.
He breaks into a fraction of a smile. “I mean you coming to Vegas on your own. Auditioning, staying even though you didn’t make it.” He knows I would’ve stayed whether or not he offered to train me. Maybe that’s the bold part—striving for something without a break, familiar face, or any help.
Back in Ohio, I would’ve never thought to crash at a Russian acrobat’s hotel suite—someone with a reputation for being a god and a devil alike. This is all new. One part exhilarating and three parts terrifying.
“I think there’s something in the Vegas water,” I end up saying. It’s triggered the bold in me.
He shakes his head just twice before boisterous voices fill outside—in the hallway. I can’t make sense of the jumbled noises, like people talking over each other. All at once. My stomach drops at the familiarity. During the never-ending night, I heard these sounds.
From a hoard of Kotovas in the casino’s lobby.
I look up at Nikolai, and I realize that he’s been studying my reaction, not at all surprised about what lies outside his door.
Act Eighteen
“Dude, my keycard isn’t working!” someone shouts outside the door. I think it was Luka, but I can’t be sure. A slew of Russian jargon overtakes his voice, and it sounds like shoulders and bodies slam into the wood as they fight to open the door.
Nikolai rolls his eyes and sets down his wine before he approaches.
“Let me try,” Timo says. (I think it’s Timo.)
I crane my neck over the couch for a better view. Nikolai turns the handle and swings the door wide open. Timo nearly falls forward with Luka by his side. I mentally count about six or seven heads…no wait, eight. Eight Russian guys are outside.
I’m not ready for this—
“Hey, Nikky’s in a towel,” someone else says, and in two-point-two seconds, a pair of hands whips the fabric off Nikolai and snaps it against his thigh.
My jaw unhinges. His ass. His toned, bare ass. I’m staring at it. Dear God—what is going on? Nikolai doesn’t flinch or even balk. He says a few words, lightheartedly, in Russian and proceeds to return to the kitchen like he’s fully dressed.
What do I do?
Do I look?
I cover my face with my palm, clearly peeking through my spread fingers. I want to see. No you don’t. Yes, I really do.
My frozen body makes the decision for me. While the rest of his relatives filter into the suite, Nikolai passes the living room buck naked, heading for his bedroom. His cock is in view. I see—so much. There is so much to be seen. As he nears, I force my gaze upwards. But he’s already looking at me, his brows lifting. He caught me gawking at his package.
I don’t watch him walk past, I slump down and press my fingers together in a real face palm.
“Thora James.” Timo plops roughly next to me, slinging his arm around my shoulder. “Did you just stare at my brother’s dick?”
Fuck my life.
“She’s probably already seen it,” Luka chimes in, hopping over the couch and sliding down on my other side. He combs his dark brown hair before readjusting his worn, blue baseball cap, wearing sweats and a plain gray tee.
Timo is the brazen one. In high-cut jean shorts and a leather jacket. Nothing else.
A couple larger, older guys say something in Russian as they enter the living room, one fisting the bottle of red wine. They look vaguely familiar, with short cut hair and hard features. Maybe from the never-ending night or in passing at the gym.
There is a lot of testosterone in this room, and they’re all eyeing me like I’m a new species. “I…don’t speak Russian,” I put it out there, just like that.
Timo tilts his head. “No shit, Thora James. I thought you understood me all this time.” His smile brightens his whole face, a youthful glow about him. I also feel less socially inept.
One of the burlier guys sits on the couch’s armrest and flips through television channels with the remote, the stereo speakers adding to the general cacophony.
“We haven’t met,” someone says behind me.
I crane my neck over my shoulder and stare upside-down at a very tall guy, around Nikolai’s age, with short brown hair and ocean blue eyes, his jaw also unshaven. His shoulders also muscular and broad, but with a longer face, he seems pretty compared to Nikolai—not as hard, rugged or devilish. If I met him first, I wonder what my initial reaction would be.
“I’m Thora,” I tell him.
“Dimitri Kotova.” The tank, as Katya called him.
“He’s our cousin,” Luka says as he digs into his pocket. He pulls out a handful of plastic-wrapped mints.