“Thanks,” I manage to say, zeroing in on the fact that I’ve only worn one guy’s shirt before: Shay’s.
“But that’s not what you’re stressing over,” he realizes, sweeping my features once more. He turns his body more towards me, genuinely intrigued. “It’s something that you don’t think I have.”
“Correct assumption,” I nod tensely. Part of me doesn’t even want him to guess it—
“Tampons,” he says, right then. Yeah, I don’t feel any better by that either.
The color drains from my face.
“I’m right.” He tilts his head at me like aren’t I? He doesn’t balk. Or flinch or cringe.
“Maybe…”
He gives me one of the nicest smiles. “I live with a girl, myshka, so I have some. Don’t worry.”
I stay ashen, and the bottom of my stomach plummets to the carpet. What’s worse: I sense him studying my reaction, and his lips lower, smile entirely gone.
“That’s…cool,” I reply back, unsure of what else to add. The elevator doors spring open, on his floor.
I’m about to step into Nikolai Kotova’s world.
I just wonder who else is in it.
* * *
By the time we reach his door, my nerves have been shot to hell. It doesn’t help that music blares through the walls and into the hotel hallway. The loud pop beats are emanating from his room—no one else’s.
Nikolai’s demeanor has changed, doing a one-eighty. His eyes tighten and no longer fix on me but whatever’s happening inside.
I picture drugs. Lots of drugs. Alcohol. Maybe even dry humping. An orgy of epic Vegas proportions.
“Is…this normal?” I ask. “The music, I mean.”
“It’s not uncommon, unfortunately,” he says lowly. He swipes his card, and when the light flashes green, he pushes through with an authoritative stride.
But I freeze right in the doorway. Surprise widens my eyes.
It’s empty.
No grinding bodies. No spilt liquor. No rolled dollar bills and cocaine.
I tentatively walk inside, his suite a lot fancier than I anticipated. The back wall is all window with a skyline view of the city. The furniture is modern and sleek with black and white décor. I can’t help but notice the strain in Nikolai’s posture as he walks further inside, and I don’t think it’s about me staying at his place. Or else he would’ve been like this on the elevator.
Suede decorative pillows litter the ground, and the television blares, playing reruns of a popular reality show. Nikolai finds the stereo remote on the glass coffee table, powering that off first.
My ears almost stop ringing, but the television speakers are louder without the interference. On the TV, four guys stand in the cold, surrounded by snow. One sneers, “You must be a real f**king idiot if you think we’d be okay with someone our age sleeping with our girlfriends’ seventeen-year-old little sister.”
“She’s a model, man. We’ve spent nights at our friends’ flat—” The television blinks to black. Nikolai sets down the remote.
“I hate that guy,” he says under his breath, referring to Julian, the show’s villain.
My brows rise. “You watch Princesses of Philly?” It’s a guilty pleasure, only one season to keep rewatching.
“Katya is obsessed with it,” he says. I guess he watches it with her. Whoever her is. Maybe he has a Shay. A girl Shay, I mean.
A Haley to his Lucas.
For some reason, this thought only downturns my lips. I trek forward while he bends down and picks up a pair of black heels and checks his watch again. I try not to notice the silver purse and studded clutch lying around too.
My collarbones protrude as I hold in a breath. “I didn’t think Aerial Ethereal rooms would be this nice,” I say, making small talk. I pass the kitchen and enter the carpeted living room where he stands.
Nikolai glances back at me. “I wish they weren’t. AE uses it as an excuse to keep our salaries lower than they should be. I would give up the view for another grand a month.”
I probably would too.
Unconsciously, I assemble more evidence of Katya living with him: a scarf on the leather barstool, lip gloss and mascara beside the coffee pot, and necklaces dangling on a key hook.
His attention is latched on the spiral staircase that leads to one bedroom up above, like a loft. I wonder if that’s her room.
I re-knot the straps of my coat. “Is your girlfriend going to be upset by me staying here…?”
I trail off as his masculine gaze pins on me. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Girl that’s a friend,” I throw it out there.
“My little sister lives with me,” he clarifies for the first time.
I feel like an idiot. “You have a sister?” I think I’m wincing at myself.
“And four brothers,” he says. “But Katya is the only one who stays with me.”
I relax at the notion that I won’t be causing drama tonight. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself. It’s for no other reason. “Does she care that I’m crashing here?”
“I haven’t told her yet.”
My breathing is strained, and I know I wear another pained expression. His sister will hate me on our very first encounter, the rude interloper who’s occupying her couch and disturbing her marathons of PoPhilly. “Did you text her earlier or drop any hints?” Please say yes.
“She didn’t answer me. I’m going to tell her right now, and likely, she won’t mind. So breathe, Thora.” His eyes graze my collarbones.
I exhale deeply, taking his word for it.
He climbs the metal stairs, and then his knuckles rap the upstairs door. “Katya,” he says her name with a Russian lilt. “Katya.” Then he adds something in Russian. He stops himself short in what appears to be mid-sentence with a frustrated noise, and then switches to English. “Open the door. I need to talk to you.”
No reply. He twists the knob and disappears inside the room. Only a second later, he rushes out, skipping two or three stairs on his way down.
My pulse jackhammers. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
“She’s not in her room.”
I check the time on my phone. “It’s only two in the morning. It’s Vegas, right? She could just be out with her friends.”
He bypasses me and grabs the keycard off the kitchen counter. “She’s only sixteen,” he says, setting those pulsing grays on me. “She has a curfew.”
I’d be panicking if Tanner was wandering around Vegas too, so I immediately understand his concern.
I hang back, uncertain on my place in this situation.
But he stops by the door, a hand on the frame and motions to me. “Come on.”
“I can stay here,” I tell him. “In case she returns.”
“I have cousins for that.”
Maybe he’s afraid I’ll steal something if he leaves me alone. I can understand that too. I’m a stranger, really. I use this fact to head over to him.
“We need to be quick,” he says as I pass his body. “I want to find her before three a.m.”
“What happens after three?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” His voice is deep and hollow. “I’ve always found her before then.”
Act Eleven
2:27 a.m.
My ankles and toes are blistered, the summer heat building beneath my coat. We walk briskly on the crowded strip, and I try to keep up with his lengthy stride to my short one.