Page 22 of The Failed Audition

I hesitate to ask. “Why will I repel them?” I settle into the open seat, taking the invitation regardless. I mean, I don’t have many options. Or friends here. So yeah, I’m left with moody John Ruiz. It’s not bad, all things considered.

His eyes flicker to my black leotard and loose pony, flyaway pieces of dirty-blonde hair around my oval face. “They go for the empty tables or the ones with models. You’re neither invisible nor a model. No offense.”

“None taken.” I’m glad he doesn’t ask about my auditions. Not dwelling has alleviated some stress. I watch him shuffle another deck. John wears a tux with a gold bowtie, the dealer’s uniform, and he scowls so much that his forehead wrinkles.

“You have RBF?” I blurt out. I internally grimace. Why did I ask that? Maybe I can relate to someone else who suffers from Resting Bitch Face. I’ve bonded with a girl on the gymnastics team that way. We unite together. But it’s not like that term is common or even a “thing” with lots of people.

His face scrunches more and he gives me a weird look. Then he says, “No, I’m just a bitch.” He smiles dryly.

I can’t help but smile back. And the corner of his mouth even rises in a more genuine one.

“What’s your bet?” he asks me.

“Can I just watch?” I didn’t bring any money to the casino, and this is a pretty expensive table.

“Elbows off the table,” he suddenly tells me.

Okay, that must be a rule. I don’t even know proper poker etiquette. I quickly take them off. And then he passes me a glass bowl of Chex mix. “I’m usually not this nice. But you look like you need a friend, and I’mneverthat friend. Never.” He shakes his head like this is cemented in truth. “This is only because you’re working for me today. Incentive to stay when I become surly at two-thirty. Happens every afternoon. Prepare yourself for it.”

“Surlier than now?” I ask with the raise of my brows.

“You’re meeting the most cheerful me there is. I can’t help it if the world is fucking lousy. There’s not much to take pleasure in. And the only reason more people aren’t like me is because they’re living in a fantasy world of cupcakes and daffodils and—”

“Glitter,” a guy suddenly interjects, sliding onto a stool, two separating us. “Can’t forget the glitter, old man.”

John solidifies, and he shoots the new guy a glare as dark as thunderstorms and lightning. It’s a look only reserved for people you know.

I whip my head from one to the other. It’s like they’re silently having a conversation through their eyes. I scan the young guy’sfeatures: dark brown hair, long in the front so the tips brush his eyelashes. Pale skin. Thin, almost gangly build underneath a leather jacket. Topping off his look with high-cut jean shorts and boots.

By the shorts alone, he seems a bit brazen. And not one of the tobacco-chewing, sunglass-wearing assholes that I’m supposed to repel.

John breaks the death-stare first. “There are ten other blackjack tables, Timo. Go find another one.”

Unperturbed, Timo places a tall stack of chips on the green felt. “I would, definitely, go find another one. You are my least favorite dealer in all of The Masquerade. Congratulations on that, by the way. And yet, I have thisfeeling—” he touches his chest dramatically “—that today you’re going to bring me some luck, old man.”

“Stop calling meold man,” John retorts, his mood darkening as the seconds pass by. “I’m twenty-fucking-five. Don’t make me bring over security again.”

Timo shrugs. “Do it,” he eggs on and then nods to me. “Sorry about this. John doesn’t understand that I’mtwenty-one, and he can’t throw me off his table.”

John lets out a short, humorless laugh. “He’seighteen.And he has a fake ID that everyone in this place overlooks because his last name is Kotova.”

What? My eyes threaten to pop out of my face, and my mouth falls. I focus on Timo again. His hair is the same dark shade as Nikolai’s and his eyes are the same light gray. But his body is built differently, less muscle mass than Nik. My mind reroutes to John’s statement—about how The Masquerade provides special privileges to Kotovas.

That seems highly unlikely. Right?

“I’m sure he’s twenty-one,” I say. “A casino can’t let someone underage gamble just because of his last name.” Don’t they have undercover cops to crack down on that law?

Timo grins, his smile magnetic. “I like you,” he announces and leans forward, holding out his hand. “Timofei Kotova. Born in Munich. Raised in New York, mostly. You are?”

I shake his hand. “Thora James. Born and raised in Cincinnati.”

John gives me a supreme withering glare, as if I just made a blood pact with the enemy.

“Cincinnati,” Timo muses, his eyes shimmering. “I’ve been to Cleveland once. I was four, I think.”

“Riveting,” John says, surly.

“We’re not all John Ruiz. Born in Las Vegas. Raised in Las Vegas.” Timo’s eyes fill with mock enthusiasm. “You are stupendous, my friend.”

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