Someone yells to him in Russian, and all I catch is Nikolai from the jargon. My brain works well enough to assume it’s his name. Without breaking his gaze from mine, he replies back to the person in fluent Russian. Then he says to me, in the deepest, huskiest voice, “You’re wearing running shoes.”
I feel my facial muscles tighten. “And…?”
In my peripheral, John shakes his head from side to side like no, no, do not engage.
Too late again.
But John doesn’t pull me out of this mess. He barely knows me. Maybe he wants to see how I’ll react. What I’ll do. I have no clue. I am not prepared for this.
“Very few people prepare for this,” Nikolai says. If only he could read my mind. He studies my small frame like he’s picking apart pieces of my life and filing the information.
What a useful tool. I need it.
Even standing like a confused statue, I still can’t back away. Nikolai has a stronghold over my curiosity, concentration and poise—or whatever little poise I possess. A bit of jealousy flares in my belly. Yeah—I wish I had this type of power. To dominate a performance. To allure an audience. It’s what separates an athlete from an artist.
He abruptly steps forward, into my space. I flinch back, a breath caged in my lungs, but he seizes my bicep to keep me stationary. What…is happening?
When I meet his pulsing gray eyes again, they only say, don’t be afraid. Trust me.
I blow out a trained breath, my ribs expanding more.
He towers above me. Six-five maybe. I strain my neck just to fix my gaze on his. He stares down, lifting my arm like he’s inspecting my muscles. He even brushes the sleeve of my Ohio State shirt. His large hand dwarfs my limb. I feel entirely little compared to him. In Shay’s presence, I never felt like this.
He squeezes my shoulders. “You’re an athlete,” he declares, never asks. He even places a hand on my head, like he’s examining my tiny height and my frame. He’s having a bit of trouble determining what kind of athlete I am. “…a gymnast.” Or I guess not that much trouble.
“Maybe…” Something about him makes me want to hold cards to my chest. I hear faint mutterings from the crowd, but the music drowns out most. I’m very much a part of the spectacle now. The entertainment for tonight.
Like a magician calling upon a volunteer from the audience.
Only I haven’t really volunteered. Somehow, I think my sneakers did for me.
“Maybe?” he repeats, scanning me from head to toe again. He drops my arm. “No, you’re definitely a gymnast. And I don’t know you, which means you’re not a part of the troupe.” He tilts his head again, satisfied with his own conclusion.
I struggle for a good retort, open-mouthed and stupefied.
His lips tic, and this time they really curve upward. “You have some demonic-looking eyes, myshka.” He stares right into them, and I barely graze over the foreign word myshka. “They’re nearly black.”
They are. Add that to RBF and I can’t really denounce my demon-like qualities. My eyes flit to the red glow necklace that he wears. “If I’m a demon, then you must be the devil.” It may be the corniest thing I’ve ever said.
“Maybe I am,” he replies, very deeply. “And yet, here you are.” His gaze remains on me and only me. “And myshka…” His voice turns to liquid sex. “You can’t possess me, even if you tried.”
“Ohhhh!” People laugh and hop up and down. But Nikolai never acknowledges them or feeds into the heckling. He just watches me.
“I’m not trying to,” I tell him under my breath.
His charismatic smile wanes. And his eyes briefly flit to my chest.
Did he just stare at my boobs?
“Your tits are huge,” he states it like a fact. Thumpthumpthump. I open my mouth to retort—but he continues, “Which means you hit puberty earlier than you should have. Most gymnasts end up stunting their growth.”
He’s right again. I started the sport later in life.
His eyes make a very slow travel from my mouth, to my chest, to my hips and legs and—he kneels. Right in front of me.
What…the…
With one hand on my thigh, to steady me, Nikolai knots the laces of my untied shoe. How he makes this seem sexual—I have no idea. And I think he knows the effect he carries, the charm and power. That devilish smile pulls at his lips again, before he even rises and acknowledges me.
“Guess what, myshka?” The glow necklace and strobe lights swath him in deep red.
“What…?” I hesitate.
He stands. Towers, really. And he tilts my chin up. With grays like gunmetal skies, bearing down from up above, he says, “I choose you.”
Not because I’m the prettiest girl here. I’m definitely not.
Not because I’ve caught his eye in a daring fashion. I didn’t.
But because I’m wearing sneakers.
Shoes.
And I’m standing right in the middle of a mystery with them.
Act Two
Nikolai clasps my hand and draws me to the middle of the circle. I catch John pinching his eyes and muttering something like, Camila is going to kill me.
“You know what I think of gymnasts?” Nikolai says lowly.
I shake my head.
“Straight-laced…” His hand glides along my spine. My pulse kicks up an extra notch. “Back rigid, legs locked upon landing.” His fingers brush the nape of my neck, and heat gathers across my skin. “Never split apart.”
I keep breathing deeply from my nose. “I take risks,” is all I say. I’m here. I’m in Vegas. That is a bigger risk than anything I’ve done before.
He digests this fact. Or maybe he considers it an opinion. “Tell me your name,” he says. “And speak loudly and clearly so everyone can hear.”
I lick my dry lips. “Thora,” I say proudly.
“Thora,” he repeats, that charming smile rising again. “You know the game.” I don’t. “But for everyone who’s just arrived, I’ll explain.” He rests his hand on my shoulder, and he addresses the gathering crowd. “I bet Thora, this cute gymnast…” I space out at that.
Cute.
Shay called me that once, and he added with a laugh, “That’s what you call an unsexy friend.” I pushed his arm, and he nearly tripped into a campus bench. Shay’s definition blinds me now.
An unsexy friend.
“…that she can’t beat me in a handstand competition.”
Wait. I blink a couple times, retraining my mind on the important parts of Nikolai’s statement. Backtracking: I bet Thora that she can’t beat me in a handstand competition. A handstand competition? It nearly squashes my fears. I can do that. Easy.
“One-handed,” Nikolai adds.
Okay…that increases the difficulty. And he’s a guy, but I can beat him. Right? Yes you can, Thora James. Pom-poms are waving in my brain (Go, Thora, Go!) My own cheering squad. Confidence builds. Maybe misplaced confidence, but I try not to think about that.
The crowd breaks to let a server pass through. She enters the circle with a tray of shots.
Nikolai gestures to the shot glasses, a shiny silver watch attached to his wrist. “Three for her, three for me.” His eyes drop to my feet. “The shoes won’t really help you, myshka. But it was a cute gesture.”
It clicks.
He thought I wore workout clothes for this specific reason—to participate in this bet. Wrong place. Wrong time.