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
.”
The blonde says, “Don’t be a mood killer. Stay and have a drink with us.”
“Yeah,” another pipes in. “We have plenty of room for you and your friend.” They scoot closer together, smashed in the middle.
I’m no longer invisible. Katya finally looks over at me, as if I appeared out of thin air. Surprise breaches her face for a second, especially as she stares between me and her brother.
She suddenly rises from the table, too quickly, and falls back into the seat.
“Party foul,” the blonde laughs again.
I actually put my demonic-looking eyes to good use. Unfortunately, she never meets my glare.
Katya tries to stand again, and Nikolai reaches out and grabs underneath her arm, steadying her. “This is what happens,” Nikolai says, “when you decide to go on a Vegas adventure without one of us. At least
text me
, Katya. Stop screening my calls.”
She presses a hand to her ear. “You don’t…have to…scream.” Her hiccups infiltrated that statement, big time.
“I’m not even raising my voice. You’re drunk, Kat.” He shakes his head repeatedly, and I see the guilt and concern brim.
She stumbles on her own feet, and he wraps a strong arm around her shoulders. “My purse,” she says quietly.
I collect her bright pink clutch and pass it to her. She meets my eyes, and I notice that hers glass with something much different than Timo’s youthful light and Nikolai’s unyielding darkness. Hers are full of sadness and nothing more.
“Katya,” her friend eagerly calls.
She fixes her purple boa, avoiding the girl.
“What about those tickets to Amour?” the girl asks. “You can still hook us up, right?”
“We only have two more nights here,” the other adds. “We need them soon.”
My mouth slowly drops. They aren’t part of the circus…or even Katya’s friends. They’re just random people, using her.
“Buy the tickets yourself,” Nikolai sneers. “Don’t solicit a sixteen-year-old girl for them.”
All three women recoil.
Good.
I don’t know why, but I feel insanely protective of Katya. Just by looking at her. She’s like broken glass in a world of steel and iron. I sense Nikolai studying me for a second, and when I turn to him, I know my thoughts are written on my face.
If I’m protective—then his concern is on another wavelength. A scale reserved for parents to their children. And I don’t mean to point out that he’s not doing a good job parenting…but his locked jaw, his coiled muscles, they all say that he feels it.
That he’s failed his little sister somehow.
But he found her. That’s the important part.
* * *
“How can you be his friend?” Katya asks me in the taxi. She hugs the door while I’m wedged between her and Nikolai, how she wanted to be seated. “He’s so mean.”
Nikolai stares hard out the window, his jaw muscles tensing. Katya’s glazed eyes almost well with tears.
This is a bad night.
I’m stuck in the middle of Kotova family issues, and honestly, my heart aches more than it ever has. I never thought staying in Vegas meant diving deeper into their lives. And so far, I don’t think I would take it back.
I’m not sure I can be any kind of helpful presence, but I can try. My perseverance is all I have. “He’s been really nice to me, so far,” I mention.
“You’re the only one then,” she mutters.
Nikolai rotates to Katya. “Thora is spending the night. If you have a problem with it, tell me now.”
Her chin trembles a little, and her big orb-like eyes flit to me. “You know, he’s never…ever brought a girl over for the night before.”
I frown at Nikolai. “I…didn’t know.”
He whispers under his breath to me, “Not that she knows of.” Right. He’ll sneak late-night hookups in and out, maybe. He watches his sister for a second as she rests her temple to the window. “Don’t wear Timo’s glitter anymore, at least not on your chest, Katya.”
I don’t think that’s the problem. It’s just how much she applied. I wonder if her mom ever had the chance to teach her about makeup before she left for Noctis. Maybe all she’s had are her brothers and performers, who apply costume makeup.
“I heard…you the first time,” she say slowly, trying not to slur her words.
“I thought you said that you’re ignoring everything I say in Russian.”
“I am. I was…” She winces and touches her head like a migraine is setting in. “Do you mind…not talking to me right now?”
“Yes, I mind.”
Her chin quakes again. “He’s my least favorite brother.”
“And you’re my least favorite sister,” he retorts.
Under her breath, she whispers, “I’m your only sister.” Her voice is so solemn. I offer a side-hug, and she wipes beneath her eyes, smudging her mascara. I use the sleeve of my coat to rub off the black streak.
“Thanks,” she sniffs, her skin pale. I can tell she’s nauseous by the way she hunches forward.
“If you puke in the taxi, you’re paying for the extra fee, Katya,” Nikolai tells her.
Way to kick a girl while she’s down. He’s kind of tough on her, but I guess, maybe he should be. She did break her curfew. She did drink underage.
Katya puts her hand to her mouth and stifles a gag.
“We’re almost there,” I tell her. I’m actually not sure how far we are. “You’ve got this,” I encourage. If I’m good at anything, it’s motivational boosts.
She shuts her eyes and concentrates on her breathing while I rub her back. Her head rests on my shoulder. I think she may pass out soon.
A phone rings, the normal default tone. Mine is wind chimes, so I don’t even open my purse. Nikolai tenses as he digs into his pocket and puts the cell to his ear.
He says one foreign word, like a greeting, so I figure it’s a relative on the other end.
Maybe two seconds pass before his nose flares and he rubs his face roughly. When he begins
yelling
in Russian, I know the night isn’t over just yet.
I sense that it’s one of those never-ending ones. Where the early morning seems to extend for infinite amounts of time, until so much happens that you question why a week hasn’t passed yet.
I wonder how many of these nights Nikolai experiences. In my life, I’ve had maybe one: a drunken New Year’s Eve party that went from a 24-hour diner, to a friend-of-a-friend’s house, to the roof of a hotel, ending in the backseat of Shay’s Jeep.
I can’t imagine this being the norm. Not for anyone.
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.”