Page 46 of The Failed Audition

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 likeyou’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 cuteof you to try. And by cute I mean the opposite of yourbest friend’sdefinition.” 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 sayyeah, 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.

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