Amour Amour - Krista & Becca Ritchie

AMOUR AMOUR
KRISTA & BECCA RITCHIE
www.kbritchie.com
Amour Amour Copyright © 2014 by K.B. Ritchie
All rights reserved.
This book may not be reproduced or transmitted in any capacity without written permission by the
publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the authors’
imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales
is entirely coincidental.
Cover image © Shutterstock
Cover design by Twin Cove Designs
MORE BOOKS BY KRISTA & BECCA RITCHIE
THE ADDICTED SERIES
Addicted to You (Addicted #1)
Ricochet (Addicted #1.5)
Addicted for Now (Addicted #2)
Kiss the Sky (Spin-Off: Calloway Sisters #1)
Hothouse Flower (Calloway Sisters #2)
Thrive (Addicted #2.5)
Addicted After All (Addicted #3)
Fuel the Fire (Calloway Sisters #3)
Long Way Down (Calloway Sisters #4)
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Prologue
“You really want to do this?” Shay asks me for the tenth time. He plops roughly on the edge of my bed,
wearing red, athletic Ohio State shorts and nothing more. Beside him, trade paperbacks thud onto the
hardwood. My paranormal romances are so tattered and ragged, the ground won’t hurt them.
I pluck more leotards off hangers in my dorm closet and chuck them into my rolling suitcase. Shay
said he’d help me pack, but I rephrased that to: watching me pack. He’s not the kind of friend that will
neatly organize my toiletries into a shower caddy. I mean, when he saw a box of tampons on my dresser,
he steered five-feet clear of it.
But he’s not here for moral support either. “If I don’t at least try, I’ll regret it forever,” I tell him.
“That’s what you said the first time you had sex, Thora. And once you tried it, you actually regretted
it.”
I spin to him, and he raises his brows at me like I’m right. You know I’m right.
Okay. He may be right about that incident. My first time was in a hurry. At eighteen, I thought it was
“time” and had a one-night stand with a guy from a no-themed dorm party. Cheap vodka may have been an
advocate for the deflowering. It was sloppy and unmemorable. It also hurt, even with the boozy cocktail.
My second time was no better. Led to believe it wouldn’t hurt as much, I slept with one of Shay’s
friends on our fourth date. It ended with a dissatisfied customer—me. It hurt again. A third time is
probably needed. I won’t judge sex yet. But so far, it’s not that epic. Let’s just say, I’m not eighteen,
chasing after it anymore.
I’m twenty-one and chasing after things with higher payouts of happiness.
“I tried it the wrong way,” I tell him, a white leotard heavy in my hands.
“Twice,” he says, raising his fingers to demonstrate the exact number of regrets. I try not to dwell on
them for long. There’s no use.
“This isn’t going to be like that,” I say.
He’s quiet for a moment. Shay does that a lot. It’s not as though he’s waiting for me to interject. It’s
like he’s pooling all of his thoughts and emotions together. Ready to let me hear them in one fatal blow.
I prepare with a deep breath.
And he says, “You mean I’m not going to have to fly out to Vegas and pick up a sullen Thora James
when all her hopes and dreams are crushed?”
I’m not angry at his proclamation; I just take it all in for what it is. But when I catch my expression in
my floor-length mirror, a dark scowl tightens my facial muscles. It’s my normal look, unfortunately. I have
RBF (resting bitch face). It’s one-hundred percent real.
When I first met Shay—thirteen, at a Cincinnati gymnastics gym—he pointed out my contorted,
angered features. I was walking the balance beam with as much concentration as I could muster. Not
annoyed. Just focused. And he sauntered over, resting his forearms at the end.
“Are you about to have a fight with the beam?” He smiled. “I bet I know who’s going to win.”
That day, Shay startled me so much that I slipped and fell on the mat. If I was fighting with the beam
at all, I lost that battle right then. And I had no good retort back. I simply stood up, climbed on, and tried
to walk it again.
In my dorm room, I open and close my jaw to relax my muscles. I look silly, but “content” isn’t in my
catalog of expressions. Unfortunate, again.
When I’ve successfully hidden RBF, I tell him, “I’ve wanted to be an aerialist since I was fourteen.
This shouldn’t be surprising, Shay.”
He gestures to me, his six-pack and sculpted torso flexing. “I always thought you were joking around.
Everyone says they want to do things that they never end up doing: acting, singing—wait.” Shay pauses.
Not one of those long ones. It’s shorter. “Can you even dance, Thora?” His brown brows pinch like I’m
insane for trying to join the circus.
It’s not the traveling circus with fortunetellers and elephants. I’m not running off to escape something.
Many gymnasts and other athletes, like Olympic divers, have joined Aerial Ethereal, in hopes of being an
artist. A performer. An acrobat. Something more spectacular and extraordinary. “I took three rhythmic gymnastic classes, remember?” I say, folding the white leotard while I watch
his features.
His face scrunches in confusion and then he groans. “Thora, you were fifteen.”
“And I was a fucking great fifteen-year-old rhythmic dancer.” I really wasn’t. I remember staying
after to learn the choreography, determined to nail it. I never did. Not as well as the other girls. But I
tried. I really tried.
After setting the leotard in my suitcase, I near him and gather the paperbacks on the floor. I plan to
add them to my overflowing suitcase. I’ve never been much of a partier. I’ll attend two a semester, my
quota.
“Let me get this straight,” Shay says, watching me collect my books. “There’s one opening in a circus
show—”
“Amour,” I say, piling six books in my arms.
“Whatever,” he continues, refusing to even acknowledge the name of my dream. “It’s in Vegas, and
you were called back because of a video that you sent in doing…what?”
“A double layout.” Plus some contortionist tricks. I didn’t have a partner, so I used the balance
beam to do a handstand. Then I curved my legs over my shoulders, my toes meeting my fingers.
Shay gives me a look like I’ve officially lost my mind. “I can do a double layout in my sleep. That
doesn’t mean I’m qualified to join the circus.”
Shay started gymnastics at five. I started late, at thirteen. Suffice it to say, his double layouts are
more beautiful than mine. Like a fine wine to a Two Buck Chuck.
He’s not the Clyde to my Bonnie or the Damon to my Elena. Shay is and will always be the Lucas to
my Haley. A great, protective friend. Like that of One Tree Hill. Who will point out the storm ahead for
me while I choose to relish in the sunshine.
“It’s not just about technique,” I explain. “I mean, that matters, but I’ve read on forum boards that
they’ve turned down Olympic gymnasts for someone that looks the part. It’s about luck too.”
He skims my body in a slow wave: my dirty-blonde hair, my short five-foot-two frame, my wide
hips, an hour-glass shape with muscular arms and shoulders. Add in longer legs and a shorter torso—I
become a balancing hazard at first sight.
But I can balance fine. After years of practice, I’m much better than I used to be. But this dedication
didn’t stop my ass or boobs from growing. Both of which are larger than they probably should be for my
sport.
I’m built like a normal girl, who picked up gymnastics later in life.
I’m average. And the longer Shay stares at me, I feel it. And I want to be more than that. Doesn’t
everyone?
“And what are they looking for exactly?” His eyes land on my C-cups. “Is there partial nudity or
something?”
“Uh…no.” I wish I had a better comeback.
“It’s called Amour,” he says, worry flashing in his light blue eyes. “Did you even think of that,
Thora? What if they ask you to strip on stage?”
“It’s not that kind of show.” I turn my back on him, packing my books on top of my leotards.
“How do you know? It’s one of the newer shows in Vegas,” he retorts, shooting to his feet. “There
aren’t any videos online for it; I’ve looked.”
I glance over my shoulder. “It’s run out of Aerial Ethereal. In the entire troupe’s collection of shows,
there’s not nudity in even one of them.” I hold on to this fact, but I silently wonder if I’d be brave enough
to join a more risqué show. To be in the circus, I think I’d do a lot more than Shay would want me to.
I hear him huff behind me. “So you’re going to fly out on a whim. And what happens if you
miraculously land the role?” He doesn’t think I’ll be offered the position. I’m not talented enough. My dad
practically said that on the phone yesterday: The other girls are in a different league, Thora. Don’t get
your hopes up. I know. I’m not the best, but I want to believe that I have some sort of shot. Even if it’s
small.
“I’ll stay in Vegas and perform for the year.” A light energy bursts in my heart at that idea. It feels
like happiness. A type of love that people search for all their lives.
“It’s summer. Conditioning for the girl’s gymnastics team starts in two weeks,” he reminds me.
“You’ll lose your scholarship.”
It’s all a gamble, I realize. And I’m scared. I’ve never left Ohio for more than a week-long vacation,
never by myself. But this is my one shot. If I don’t try now, I may never have another opportunity. And I’m
tired of learning about finance and accounting as a back-up plan to the life that I want. The one that I can
obtain right now.
So I’m going for it. Every part of my body says to jump and fly, no matter how hard voices like Shay
and my parents try to ground me. I understand their realism, but I don’t want to look back and regret not
taking the plunge.
“It’s a risk,” I say softly, sitting on my suitcase as I zip it.
When he meets my eyes, he shakes his head at me. “You’re one in a million, Thora. It’s a pipe dream,
you realize this?”
I nod. “Yeah, I know. But if I don’t believe in myself, then who will?”
He lets out another heavy breath. “You know what this is like—watching my best friend enter a
burning building, knowing it’s going to collapse on her.”
I must be scowling harder because he rolls his eyes at me.
“In short, I hate you right now,” he says.
“Right back at you.” That was a lame, kindergarten phrase. I sigh in frustration. I suck at bantering,
even with someone I’ve known for years.
He laughs though, but it fades as soon as he watches me. Another long quiet moment passes between
us. “Be safe, okay?”
I nod again. “Be happy, alright?”
“I am.”
I smile, and my phone buzzes on the single bed. He’s closest to it, and he grabs the cell. His eyes
must graze the text on the screen. “Who’s Camila?”
I left this part out to Shay. I thought he’d freak even more if he knew my plans. If our roles were
reversed, I’d be a little worried for him too. But he’s a guy, so the level of protection he needs on his own
seems different, even if it shouldn’t be.
“Camila is the girl that I’m staying with during my auditions,” I say.
“She’s another gymnast?” He passes me my phone.
“Not exactly…”
His lips part. Shay has this All-American look: a suitable body and face for Abercrombie. The short
cut of his light-brown hair, the curve of his biceps. But I’ve only seen those lips part like that for me. In
shock and worry. They part in lust for girls on the track team.
“Who is she then?” he asks.
“I found her on this couch-surfing website, and we exchanged numbers.”
He rests his hands on his head in distress. “No.”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m going couch-surfing. It’s supposed to be real and safe…I did some research.”
“Have you seen her?” he asks valid questions.
“No, but she seems nice in texts.” Off his growing wide-eyes, I add, “It’s nearly free and way
cheaper than a hotel. The plane tickets were expensive.” Since my parents weren’t one-hundred percent
on board with my life choices, they said I should handle all the expenses. I’m an adult now, my dad said.
He’s right in a lot of ways.
Shay starts, “If I didn’t have conditioning this week—”
“You’d fly out with me?”
His whole body goes rigid. “I was going to say that I’d drive to your parent’s house and have them
convince you to stay.”
“They already know what’s happening.” I have a very hard time lying to my parents. I went to one
party in high school and blabbed to my mom and dad the minute I snuck back inside. My mom made me
ice cream, and I dished to her about the uneventful night.
“And they’re okay with it?”
“They’re a lot like you, actually,” I say with a smile.
“It’s not funny, Thora.”
I think I’m smiling and scowling to hide my fear. It grows the longer he talks to me, and I’d rather
stay confident.
“He could be a dude,” Shay adds, pointing at my cellphone. “He could want to fuck you…or worse
—kill you.”
Chills run down my spine. “We’re meeting at a nightclub where she works. It’s a public place.” I’ll
know if she’s a pervy dude or creep then.
Shay is quiet for a second, and he stares hard at me, like he can break my optimism and my plans
with a single, narrowed look.
He can’t. I won’t let him.
“You have one year left at college,” he says, “and you’re going to throw it all away?”
I shake my head. “It’s the opposite,” I tell him. “My life is just beginning.”
Act One
I roll my suitcase along the indoor cobblestone, a pathway leading towards The Red Death. It’s the club
where Camila works, inside The Masquerade Hotel & Casino. She told me the club’s name was a play on
Edgar Allen Poe’s Masque of the Red Death, maybe to alleviate any worries that I’d be catfished and end
this trip in a body bag.
I blow out my stress with a breath. “You can do this, Thora,” I whisper to myself. The pep talk helps
some.
I trek forward, struggling to avoid the pack of stiletto-heeled girls in glitzy dresses. They line up
behind a velvet rope, fitting among the bright lights of Vegas like chameleons. Off to my left, casino
machines glow and flash and ring while people bustle down the wide corridors with places to be, parties
to attend, money to gamble.
I am the elephant, trudging around with my worn Adidas sneakers, spandex pants and oversized Ohio
State shirt. Add in the frizzy hair from a four-hour flight and a bright red suitcase (almost pink from sun-
fading) and I stand out. Badly.
The wheels of my suitcase clink against the cobblestone, drawing attention to myself. This breaks my
usual straight-rigid posture. My shoulders begin to curve forward in ways I don’t like. I take another
breath and then slip out my phone and text Camila while I walk.
I’m here. The line is really long. Should I wait in it? I press send. I have no idea whether
bartenders have the power to let their “couch-surfer” cut the line.
My phone pings.
I gave ur name to the bouncer. Go up to him and he’ll let u in. – Camila
I continue striding forward then. Eyes zone in on me like lasers finding a target. The hot judgment
sears my skin but I try to waft it off. Keeping my focus only on the bouncer—big, burly with tattoos that
decorate his bulging muscles.
“Line starts at the back, sweetheart!” a guy yells near the front.
“Shut up, Trent. Maybe she’s lost,” a girl rebuts.
I clear my throat as the bouncer eyes my suitcase. “I’m Thora. Thora James. Camila’s…” Friend?
Couch-surfer makes more sense, but I don’t know if he’ll understand.
“ID,” the bouncer says gruffly, a clipboard beneath his armpit.
I fish out my wallet from a pocket of my suitcase and pass him my license, hot sweat glistening my
forehead. I wipe it with my forearm and peek at the door behind him, the unknown tossing my stomach.
The bouncer crosses my name off his list, and then pushes the large black door open.
Groans fill the air. “You’ve got to be shitting me,” Trent complains. “I’ve been waiting for over an
hour. You better be a fucking dancer or something!”
He has to shout that last bit because I’m already headed inside the hallway. The door closes behind
me, plunging me into darkness. The faint sound of a thumping bass fills the otherwise silent room. I guess
there are curtains somewhere for an entrance.
I take a few cautious steps forward and notice the outline of fabric, shielding my view of the club.
The music grows as I walk closer, and when my hand brushes against the soft velvet curtain, pulling it
aside, I finally see The Red Death in all its glory.
Flashing red lights illuminate the packed bar in the back left. Everything else is in near complete
darkness. Except for the glow necklaces. Every person wears one, brightening their faces. Red. Blue.
Green.
“Are you single?!”
I jump at the voice on my left. A young woman in a slim, tight-fitted purple dress mans a podium. She
wears a green glow necklace, her arms layered with neon bracelets.
“Are you single?!” she screams at me again, trying to be heard over the electronic beats.
I can’t make sense of this question. Is it a weird cover charge? Instead of cash, I have to tell her my
relationship status? The longer I take to respond, the more her brows knot in aggravation.
“Yeah…” I say, not loud enough. Her eyes widen like what was that? “I’m single!” I scream it. And
she passes me a blue glow necklace.
More people start to push through the curtains, easily snatching a necklace from the hostess. So I take
mine without question and hightail it to the crowded bar. My heart drills into my ribcage. I hate looking
lost, like a tourist—or worse, a goldfish slowly flapping and gasping for air outside of its bowl.
I don’t want to be a water-starved goldfish.
So I stand taller, straighter. No more curved shoulders. And I roll my suitcase like I have important
places to be. Like I’m an important person altogether. I march straight to the crowded bar. I’ve memorized
Camila Ruiz’s features on her Facebook profile: curly brown hair, caramel skin, and honey-colored eyes.
My suitcase bumps into a dancing couple. “Sorry,” I tell them. Important people can still apologize.
The girl gives me a royal stink-eye. I wonder if my RBF is flaring up.
I scoot near the bar, unable to reach the stools just yet. I crane my neck and scope out the bartenders.
Within a couple minutes, my anxiety pops. I spot her loose braid, her green glow necklace on her mane of
pretty curls, like a crown. Her lips are bright yellow with pink eye shadow just as bold.
I haven’t been catfished.
I take this moment to text Shay: She’s a girl. And pretty cool from what I can tell.
In seconds, he replies: Still, keep your guards up. Stay safe. – Shay
I kind of wish he just said I’m glad and left it at that.
By the time I squeeze to the bar, she’s pouring shots for a couple girls on the other end. I try and fail
to scoot my suitcase closer to me. The hard frame hits a guy in the ass. He gives me a world-class glower
for the accidental assault.
“Sorry,” I say.
He makes a grunting noise and mutters under his breath.
I notice his blue necklace before I turn away. “Camila!” I shout over the music. She slides the shots
to the girls and then grins widely as she sees me.
“Hey, Thora!” she yells back and starts pouring another shot. Then she slips closer to my end. She
doesn’t bat an eye at my wardrobe. She merely says, “We’ll swap! Give me your suitcase and you can
have this.” She already passes me the shot of vodka.
I stare between my giant, hefty suitcase and the bottles of expensive liquor on the bar. I imagine
tossing her the suitcase and knocking over all of them. This sounds like a strategy made from hell.
She reads my features and nods to the guy next to me, the one my suitcase most definitely struck.
“Hey, John.” She leans forward on her forearms. “If you can hand me my friend’s suitcase without
breaking any of this.” She motions to the bottles of liquor. “I’ll give you a free shot...