“I’m that powerful in your eyes,” Timo teases.
John glares at the ceiling with an expression that’s best described as “I hate the fucking world and its incompetent subjects”—and I’ve actually heard him say that exact phrase before.
“Don’t worry, John,” Timo says, “I’ll bring you back to life after I kill you.”
John shakes his head once. “Don’t try and you can’t. In this ghastly overpopulated universe, the dead stay dead and the living stay shittily living….” His voice drifts with his eyes. “Luka, take a seat.”
I sit before I follow his gaze to a drunk cluster of thirty-something guys in nice suits. Their gold-plated watches seem expensive.
“They don’t tip,” John says to me, “and they’ve been throwing down ten-grand a hand. They smell like a rotten ham sandwich and menthol—oh, and they’re fucking clumsy.”
Timo leans into me. “They spilled bourbon on his table last night.”
“I hate people,” John finishes, which makes no sense since he’s a service worker. He’s paid to put a smile on his face and chat-up strangers. He rarely does the former, but he’s way too proficient at the latter.
As the drunk guys look to John’s table, I kick up my legs on all of the empty stools. Stretching out. They’re too plastered to be offended, and they stumble and holler their way to baccarat.
A few of our young cousins pass, no older than ten, and they all say hi to Timofei. Spinning on his stool, he slings his arm over their shoulders, and he compliments them in Russian. Makes them feel better about themselves—I can tell.
They light up, and by the time they leave, they’re all smiling. In a better mood.
Happy.
Timo makes people happy. (Me included.)
“ID,” John tells me.
I smile while I chew my gum and pass him my fake ID. Many times, he’s mentioned that his pit boss is watching, but management knows we’re underage—and they still let us drink and gamble.
(Perks of being a Kotova.)
The Masquerade profits a lot off of my family’s talent. I’m talking millions of dollars that we rack in with every show, and the hotel has become known for Infini and Viva and now Amour. People stay here especially for the circus.
So yeah, management looks the other way when I drink a beer, dance in a club, or sit at a blackjack table. Why shouldn’t they?
The Masquerade is worth 5 billion.
Aerial Ethereal is worth 2 billion.
And I’m just an artist. On the low rung of the Corporate ladder. They all bathe in their wealth, and I’m on stage, working my ass off for the art.
For that final applause.
For my family.
I watch John inspect my ID. Really, I think he just likes reminding us that we’re not special.
He takes longer than usual. “Something wrong?” I ask.
Timo says, “The old man probably needs his glasses.”
John rolls his eyes but hangs onto my ID. “Play a few rounds and then I’ll return this to you.” He slips my ID in his back pocket. I don’t understand what he’s getting at.
“Luk has early-evening practice,” Timo says and spins more towards the table. “I’m betting five-hundred.”
John feeds a deck of cards in an automatic shuffler. “As your dealer, I advise you to bet less.”
Timo almost laughs. “How do you still have a job here?”
“It’s advice I only give to people I can’t stand.”
“So everyone.”
“You,” he corrects.
Timo leans forward. “I’m up two-hundred, and this is my last hand before I leave for work. I’ve made worst decisions.” He gestures to him. “Like dating you.”
It’s supposed to be a joke, but John is the one with the insults while Timo exultantly chases after him, like a firefly in a storm cloud.
John looks more concerned than hurt. “You think I like nagging you, babe? I don’t—I’d rather eat my left foot.”
Timo opens his mouth to say something, but he hesitates and checks the time on his phone. “I have to go warm-up for the show anyway.” Standing off the stool, he avoids John’s gaze and they don’t kiss like usual.
I’m about to follow my little brother to make sure he’s okay.
“I have your ID,” John suddenly tells me—and now I realize why he held onto it. He wants to keep me here after Timo leaves. With twelve-hour practices every single day, it’s not like I’ve been accessible lately. Today is just different. Our practice times were shifted for a Corporate luncheon, all to schmooze investors.
I wasn’t invited. (I’m still Corporate’s Least Favorite.)
Standing, I reach out for my ID and watch my brother vanish towards Amour’s globe auditorium.
John doesn’t even reach into his pocket. “Can you sit?”
I take a seat and face him. “But I’m not playing.” I don’t like wasting money gambling.
John nods understandingly, and for once, he’s quiet.
I laugh into a smile.
He scowls. “What?”
“You’re nervous, dude.” I lean back on two legs of my stool. Balancing. “It’s alright. You can talk about Timo. I’m not going to snitch if it’s serious. It can stay between us.”
John glances at his pit boss before shuffling the cards again. “I couldn’t be more opposite from your brother if I actually tried—and I don’t try. Trying is for idealists and romantics.”
I worry this is about Timo’s lack of relationship experience. He mentioned that John only does monogamous relationships, something my little brother knows nothing about. This is his first.
“When I’m stressed, I let it permeate because misery should be felt by all,” John tells me. “It keeps people grounded. Life sucks, don’t enjoy it.”
I almost smile again. His pessimism is somehow engaging, which is why he’s one of the most liked dealers in all of the Masquerade.
John stacks casino chips. “When Timo is stressed, he holds it all in and gambles. He’s been at my table four times just today, and not because he wants to see my face—which I’m sure is part of it, but not all of it.” He flips a red $5 chip between his fingers, and his eyes finally lift to me.
I see his unease. “What are you getting at?”
“His stress originates from Sergei. He’s been going out of his way to keep me separated from your older brother, and he’s been obsessing over the joint birthday party next week.”
Katya and Nikolai. Their birthdays are one day apart, and we’re supposed to celebrate at The Red Death on Saturday, Nik’s favorite nightclub.
Sergei will definitely be there.
So will John.
He adds, “This familial whatever-you-want-to-call-it: dispute, drama, headache—it’s making Timo sick.”
Chewing my gum slower, I fall onto all four legs of the stool and sit forward. Careful not to touch the tabletop. “Look, I know all of this. I don’t give Timo money when he gambles. I don’t rag on him except when he overdoes it.”
His dark brows furrow. “I’m not sure you’re hearing what I’m saying.” He thinks I haven’t comprehended the severity of the situation.
“No, I am,” I say, self-assured. “You’re telling me that my brother has a serious issue. Mind you, it’s taken you a thousand extra words to come to a point I’ve been aware of forever. You’re also going to ask for my help because I’m the closest person to Timo, and you’re not sure how to intervene without overstepping.”
John skims me up and down. Like he’s never truly seen me before. I listen when people talk. It shouldn’t be such a fucking revelation.
I rip open another piece of gum. “You can ask.”
“I’m going to run into Sergei next Saturday. That’s not a question. It’s a fact, and I need to know how I should react.”
I smile while I pop spearmint in my mouth. “You want me to tell you how you should feel?” I shake my head. “Dude, the minute you see Sergei, you’re going to feel what you feel, and there’s no shutting that off.”
“I can program my feelings.”
“If that were true, wouldn’t you be less…?” I gesture at him.