I feel his fingers beneath my chin. He tilts my head, so that I irrefutably meet his powerful gaze. I see the answer in them. Before he even says it.
“No, Thora.” His hand slides to the back of my neck, each fingertip hot. His grasp protective. He steps nearer, his legs knocking against mine, tension winding my muscles. His other hand cups my jaw, most of me in his possession. Right now.
It’s definitely not a familial gesture. It’s not even a friendly one. Shay would never touch me like this. He would never let his body do the talking like Nikolai. He’d tell me straight up: “I think you’re cute, but not like that, Thora. Come on, we’re friends.”
Nikolai’s thumb skims my cheek, like I’m worthy of more affection. His gaze dances again. Along my lips. He’s going to kiss me. I read his movements, as he always reads mine. And I keep concluding, he’s going to kiss me. He draws me even closer to his body.
He lowers his head towards mine, and just when he’s so incredibly close, he changes course to my ear. Huskily, he whispers, “Come with me.”
It sounds sexual off his tongue. Especially now that he’s touching me this way outside of the gym. He’s not acting or putting on a show. This is him. Entirely.
I open my mouth to form a semi-coherent response.
“Nikolai!” a guy shouts. Nikolai raises his head, away from me. His cousin has a hand on the frame of the cab and waves him to join.
Nikolai glances back at me, the pull not lost. He lets go and I unconsciously sway forward.
“Your choice,” he breathes, his gray eyes raking my small frame before he heads to the cab.
I’m not usually this impulsive.
On a normal day, I list pros and cons. And I listen to the pros (rightfully so) and then go from there. So it takes me a second longer to gather my bearings and decide on my next action.
I don’t want this never-ending night to end. Not like this. Not in this way. I’d be imagining what he’s doing while I sulk alone. I’d construct a hazy picture of Hex and the events that lead thereafter. And I’d wonder what would’ve happen between me and him had I attended.
But the mystery of the night is not always kind. It can end in regret.
I watch him climb into the cab.
And I listen to my gut that says you got this, Thora James.
Don’t be afraid.
Whatever regrets I do have—it won’t be staying back, wondering and imagining. I want to live to the fullest degree. So I sprint to the cab, and slide in before he has the chance to shut the door.
I don’t look at Nikolai yet, but I sense his surprise.
I just stare straight ahead, feeling way cooler than I know I am. “To Hex,” I tell the taxi driver, like in the movies. How the badass girl just controls her own fate.
And then Nikolai says, “I already gave him the address.” There’s a smile in his voice.
Nice one, Thora. “I’m a work in progress,” I say softly, more to myself.
He wraps his muscular arm around my shoulders. “We all probably are.”
Act Thirteen
4:01 a.m.
Bubble machines blow out shiny orbs, multi-colored lights casting pink, blue, and yellow shades all around us. Timo dances in the center of Hex like nothing can ground him. Full of energy. Of life. Most of the Kotovas are at Sublime down the street, but we’ve stuck around this bar.
“You’re trying to get me drunk,” Nikolai says after I push a fifth vodka shot towards him. I lower my butt on the stool next to his, empty glasses scattered in front of us. I’ve been nursing another tequila sunrise and supplying him shots for the past thirty minutes.
“I’m not trying to take advantage of you,” I say, no filter.
He grins with raised brows like you’re serious? When he realizes I am, a full, gorgeous smile overpowers his features. And then he tilts his head at me. “That’s highly unlikely. First, I’m six-five—”
“I guessed right,” I say to myself, resting an elbow on the cold bar in delight.
He says something deeply in Russian.
“What was that?” I ask, not as scowly I hope.
“I said, you’re cute.” He throws back the shot, not even a little tipsy yet.
“Like an unsexy friend?” I blame the tequila for that. Never would have I said it sober. I think.
He licks his lips and leans closer than before, his mouth next to my ear as he breathes, “Why do you think you’re unsexy?”
Because that was sexier than anything I’ve ever said or done before. I heat all over. “…that’s what cute means. Or so I’ve been told.”
“Your friend is an asshole,” he suddenly says, “whichever one told you that.” His gaze darkens.
“He’s my best friend.”
“It’s a guy?” His brows shoot up. “Even worse.”
I shake my head. “He was just making a point,” I defend.
“That you’re unsexy and only his friend?” He cocks his head. “That point could’ve been made a better way.” He downs another shot. “And secondly,” he returns to the main topic, why I can’t take advantage of him, “I’m Russian. We drink until the bottle is empty.” Meaning he can hold his liquor.
Still, I have my motives. When we first arrived at Hex, he acted like Timo’s chaperone, hawkeyed and on alert, prepared to spring from the stool and break up an impending fight. There is no storm, I’ve decided. And it’s pointless to stare at the sky, waiting for one.
“The shots are a distraction,” he says, gripping my attention again. “I know.”
“Is it working?” I ask.
We face each other. His back isn’t to the dance floor. He still has a good view of his brother out of his peripheral.
“Not completely, but it’s cute of you to try. And by cute I mean the opposite of your best friend’s definition.” He says “best friend” very bitterly, like I need to find a new one.
I take the plunge. “Do you want to be my…” new best friend. I chicken out. That’s the right hook or line or whatever to sound smooth and cool—something Camila would’ve said in response. And I effed it up.
He drums his fingers on the bar as he studies me, knowingly. “Do I want to be your best friend?”
I open my mouth to say yeah, but I lose the words by his amusement. “…maybe.”
“Maybe?” He gives me a look. “No, that’s definitely what you were going to say.”
“You can’t know that.”
“Tell me I’m wrong then,” he challenges.
I surrender. I’m weak in the face of lies. “Okay, you were right. Do you? Want to be my new best friend, I mean?” I wait for his answer, wishing I would’ve just had the bravado to unleash that from the beginning.
He takes his time, sipping a shot, very slowly. He’s doing this on purpose.
“Are you going to answer my question?”
When he finishes it, he licks his wet lips and sets down the glass. Then his eyes unhurriedly meet mine. “No.”
I frown. “No…about the question or being my best friend?”
He simply stares at me, knowing very well that he holds all of the cards. I’d rather not be at the mercy of this question and his vague answer. So I speak up again.
“I change my mind,” I say. “I don’t want to have the devil as a best friend.”