Infini - Krista & Becca Ritchie

Contents
Title Page
Copyright
More Books
Warning
Prologue
Act One
Act Two
Act Three
Act Four
Act Five
Act Six
Act Seven
Act Eight
Act Nine
Act Ten
Act Eleven
Act Twelve
Act Thirteen
Act Fourteen
Act Fifteen
Act Sixteen
Act Seventeen
Act Eighteen
Act Nineteen
Act Twenty
Act Twenty-One
Act Twenty-Two
Act Twenty-Three
Act Twenty-Four
Act Twenty-Five
Act Twenty-Six
Act Twenty-Seven
Act Twenty-Eight
Act Twenty-Nine
Act Thirty
Act Thirty-One
Act Thirty-Two
Act Thirty-Three
Act Thirty-Four
Act Thirty-Five
Act Thirty-Six
Act Thirty-Seven
Act Thirty-Eight
Act Thirty-Nine
Act Forty
Act Forty-One
Act Forty-Two
Act Forty-Three
SPRING
Act Forty-Four
Act Forty-Five
SUMMER
Act Forty-Six
Act Forty-Seven
FALL
Act Forty-Eight
Act Forty-Nine
WINTER
Act Fifty
Act Fifty-One
Act Fifty-Two
Epilogue
Special Thanks
Acknowledgments
Aerial Ethereal
Information & Updates
More Books By KBR
INFINI
KRISTA & BECCA RITCHIE
www.kbritchie.com
Infini Copyright © 2017 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
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KRISTA & BECCA RITCHIE
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Addicted for Now
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Fuel the Fire
Long Way Down
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STANDALONE ROMANCE
Amour Amour
More information and updates about our books can be found on our Facebook page
Warning
This book contains adult language and graphic scenes, including situations that may cause trigger
reactions. Such situations include: grief & loss, bulimia, depression, kleptomania, and various forms of
abuse. This story is meant for readers eighteen years or older.
Prologue
Luka Kotova
Date: January 1st
Subject: Happy New Year AE Artists
From: Marc Duval, Creative Director of Aerial Ethereal
Bcc: Luka Kotova, and other undisclosed recipients
Aerial Ethereal Artists,
A new year means big changes. Please keep this in mind as we begin the process of hiring new &
veteran artists. As a reminder, the current Aerial Ethereal show roster is as follows.
Touring Shows: Somnio, Noctis, Seraphine
Resident Show in Montreal (The Palace Blitz): Nova Vega
Resident Show in New York (The Opal Hotel): Celeste
Resident Shows in Las Vegas (The Masquerade Hotel & Casino): Viva, Amour, Infini
I’d also like to remind every artist (i.e., acrobatic performers, clowns, instrumentalists, dancers,
singers, etc.) of the Wellness Policy that you’re required to follow while under contract with Aerial
Ethereal.
On behalf of the company, I wish the cast of Viva all the best with their performance tonight.
Marc Duval
Creative Director of Aerial Ethereal
[email protected]
I cup my phone and read the email. Everyone in the Masquerade’s backstage dressing room pauses to
check their cells. I hate mass company emails—almost as much as I hate personal company emails.
One of my cousins grumbles, “Damn Wellness Policy,” and simultaneously reads the email while
jumping into a spandex costume: forest-green, silver splashes of glitter on the neckline and sleeves.
I set my phone aside and return to the mirror.
Bulbous lights outline the frame and illuminate my features: tousled brown hair, captivating gray eyes
(just not as much as my brothers’), and sculpted but lean arms and torso.
(I have to lift one of my cousins on my shoulders, for fuck’s sake. And he’s a two-hundred pound
dude.)
I touch my carved jaw, my face a contradiction of hard and soft angles—and depending on the day, I
suppose my personality is just like that too.
My cheeks are half-painted. Vibrant green swirls form leaves, but I have to add more yellow detail. I
work on my eyes, blending green shadow into gold.
If someone out there wants to grant me some luck, tonight will be the last time I do the Viva makeup.
“Twenty minutes until opening!” someone shouts into the room.
Swiftly, I swipe out of my email and into my music. Earbuds in and makeup brush in hand, I nod my
head to the rhythm and prepare for my job.
* * *
Date: January 16th
Subject: Welcome to Infini
From: Antoine Perrot, Director of Infini
To: Luka Kotova
Luka Kotova:
I’d like to formally welcome you back to Infini. This season, we’re hiring a brand new
choreographer who’ll oversee every act in the show.
Including your discipline: Wheel of Death.
We want you to take these new changes with stride, and as a veteran artist, I need you to set an
example at work. I hope we can count on you.
Antoine Perrot
Director of Infini
[email protected]
I dance. Half-intoxicated by the liquor in my veins. Half-intoxicated by the bass thumping the Vegas
club called Verona. Raising my phone up, I squint at the bright screen and try to read the work email. I
retain about a quarter.
It goes something like: welcome back blah blah blah new choreographer blah changes blah blah.
Then I shove my phone in my jeans.
I just dance.
* * *
Date: January 17th
Subject: Congratulations
From: Marc Duval, Creative Director of Aerial Ethereal
Bcc: Luka Kotova, and other undisclosed recipients
Aerial Ethereal Artists,
On behalf of the company, congratulations to all the new artists who have signed on for the
upcoming year(s). We’d also like to give the warmest welcome to the new female aerialist Thora
James, who’ll be a lead in Amour’s aerial silk act.
As most of you may already know, AE has had to make serious changes with our veteran shows.
Infini alone has recast 90% of its roles. We appreciate all the support and compliance moving
forward. We expect to make more changes in the coming months.
We’re a company striving to improve in all avenues: creative and financial.
Marc Duval
Creative Director of Aerial Ethereal
[email protected]
Shoving a piece of pizza in my mouth, I jog towards the performance gym inside the Masquerade Hotel
& Casino. I’ll probably puke. (Nothing new.)
In my other hand, I grasp my phone, trying to read and walk.
Multitasking like a motherfucker.
* * *
Date: January 19th
Subject: Infini News
From: Geoffrey Lesage, Choreographer
Bcc: Luka Kotova, and other undisclosed recipients
Infini Artists:
Firstly, I am not here to be your friend. I’m here to make Infini the best damn show on Aerial
Ethereal’s roster. Most of you choreographed your own routines in the past.
Not happening this year. All acts will be created and approved by me.
Here’s the sad truth: Infini is stale. It’s why more than half of your co-workers were fired (or shifted
to other shows). If the audience is bored to tears, do you think they’ll return for a second and third
viewing? No. They’ll just go gamble at the casino instead.
No whining. No complaining. If I see any empty chairs in the audience this season, I’ll push you all
harder. Don’t kid yourself, Marc Duval will axe Infini if it underperforms this year. You. Must. Sell.
Tickets.
No excuses.
No exceptions.
While we wait for new artists to fly in and get accommodated at the Masquerade, remember to
condition. Do not waste my time. First meeting/practice is February 15th.
For those asking for cast sheets, Antoine Perrot and the rest of the creative team are keeping Infini’s
shakeups quiet from the press. You’ll meet all the artists in person on the 15th.
Geoffrey Lesage
Infini Choreographer
[email protected]
My older cousin’s brash and crude voice blares through my phone, complaining about the email from
Geoffrey.
While he curses, I toss the cell on my mattress and empty my pockets. Three packs of Junior Mints.
Five bottles of tiny hotel shampoos. A Masquerade souvenir keychain. A half-opened bag of Skittles. My
gym card.
* * *
Date: January 20th
Subject: you there?
From: [email protected]
To: Luka Kotova
Nik says you blocked my number and that’s why you haven’t responded to my texts. Unblock me. We
need to talk.
- Sergei
I slam the washing machine closed with more force than I intend. It’s old anyway.
The hotel hasn’t updated the 42nd and 43rd floor communal washers and dryers since I moved to Vegas
three years ago. And they were already archaic back then. I glance back at my phone.
I hesitate.
And then I swipe right to delete.
* * *
Date: January 21st
Subject: Reminder
From: Marc Duval, Creative Director of Aerial Ethereal
Bcc: Luka Kotova, and other undisclosed recipients
Aerial Ethereal Artists,
The Wellness Policy is not optional. All artists need to maintain in good standing in order to
perform. We will not hesitate to suspend you from a show.
Marc Duval
Creative Director of Aerial Ethereal
[email protected]
Cigarette hanging loosely between my fingers, I blow smoke in the frigid air. The gray plume is visible
in the night. Flashy, multicolored lights stretch along the never-ending Vegas strip, radiating.
So fucking bright.
* * *
Date: January 21st
Subject: you there????
From: [email protected]
To: Luka Kotova
I’m your brother. Unblock me so I can at least text you. That is if you’re even getting these fucking
emails.
- Sergei
I hesitate again, for longer than a split-second. I pass my phone from one hand to the other.
And then I delete the email.
Act One
Luka Kotova
Date: January 22nd
Subject: Masquerade Room Changes
From: Marc Duval, Creative Director of Aerial Ethereal
Bcc: Luka Kotova, and other undisclosed recipients
Aerial Ethereal Artists,
In the past week, each of you should’ve received a letter from Human Resources detailing your new
room assignment. I should not even have to send out this email. Nor should any of you be contacting
me or AE’s creative with trivial complaints. No one in the company, and I mean no one, will
accommodate any room changes. They are set for a reason.
New seasons mean new changes. You know this.
In an effort to reduce costs, we had to reduce artist housing from two floors in the Masquerade to
one floor. As a result, there are 4 occupants per room instead of 2.
Need I remind you that each artist still has free room & board at the Masquerade’s luxury suites.
This huge bonus should not be overlooked. If you’re unhappy with your room assignment, you have the
option to pay for apartments or housing in the Las Vegas area.
Any further complaints about room assignments will not be tolerated.
Marc Duval
Creative Director of Aerial Ethereal
[email protected]
I recheck the email—surprised it wasn’t directly addressed to me. A few days ago, I learned my new
room assignment and sent Marc a short but pointed email.
Something like: I’ve roomed with my little brother for 19 years. His whole life. Nearly all of mine.
Can you please change my assignment? It’s kind of bullshit. (Sent from phone)
It was an emotional response. One that I regretted the moment I pressed send. I didn’t even sign my
name at the bottom. Just figured he’d recognize me by my work email.
I’ve been Corporate’s Least Favorite Kotova since I was fifteen. And with an extended family that fills
one-third of all Aerial Ethereal shows, being the worst or best Kotova takes actual effort.
Circus is family.
For most of us, we mean it literally.
My email to Marc probably sealed my least favorite title. And I’m twenty-years-old now.
Look, I understand the whole corporate hierarchy better than anyone. Marc is the founder of the entire
Aerial Ethereal troupe and rarely has contact with the artists unless it’s through company emails. The only
time he does one-on-ones is for terrific news (a long-term contract) or fucking horrific (you’re harming
the company’s standards).
I’ve met him twice.
Obviously for horrific reasons.
An artist’s fate lies in many corporate hands, but Marc Duval’s hand encases all of the higher-ups.
Emailing him directly is like whining to God. He could’ve easily fired me on the spot.
Shit, if Nik even knew I sent it…
I rake my fingers through my dark brown hair, panicked that I’ve now started the season on the worst
footing. I don’t actively shoot for “good”—just somewhere between “okay” and “mediocre” but not
worst.
(What can I say? My name is Luka Kotova. I’m an irresponsible fuck-up. Thanks for your time. Now let
me be.)
I ride the Masquerade’s elevator to the suites. Alone. Numbers tick higher and higher, and then the
elevator glides to a stop.
42nd floor. The doors open to mayhem.
Overflowing boxes, clear plastic tubs, lamps, rugs, and other household belongings fill the hotel
hallway. Voices emanate from ajar doors. People rush in and out. Carrying as much shit in their arms as
they can since no luggage cart can fit through this disaster.
I step over a drum set and what looks like an empty aquarium. Ducking beneath a coat rack, I spot my
suite towards the end of the hallway.
Cardboard boxes are stacked outside the door, the name Timo scribbled on the flaps.
Reality hits me all of a sudden.
We have to move.
If the email hadn’t already cemented our future, the apocalyptic hallway and my little brother’s boxes
just did.
Aerial Ethereal has always given artists the 42nd and 43rd floors of the Masquerade. Taking away an
entire floor is another swift kick in the gut and the ass. AE has so much control over our lives.
At last notice, they can change anything.
All we have are our contracts, but even those usually only last one year. Then they’re rewritten all over
again. Our lives are in constant flux, and as much as I love the circus—this one aspect never stops eating
at me.
With a heavy breath, I slip through the cracked door.
“Shit,” I mutter at the barren state.
It’s a typical two-bedroom, modern hotel suite: sleek black and white furniture, floor-length windows
that, from this side, overlook the ginormous Vegas pool. After being here for three years, the living room
had real character.
An old New York Knicks blanket and throw-rug are gone, and walls that once housed West Side Story
and Les Misérables posters are stark white.
Timo removed the cactus-shaped thumbtacks that said don’t be a prick, my glass bowl of jelly beans,
and his own ceramic Warhol coasters.
I turn left and right. Mixed emotions bearing on me. My jaw and lip twitches, and my throat bobs as I
swallow hard.
I’m grateful that Timo packed up so I don’t have to, but mostly, the disappearance of all my shit makes
me uneasy. It’s not like I haven’t moved before.
I have.
Plenty of times growing up.
But for a while there, I felt rooted to something.
It’s one fucking floor, I remind myself and comb my hands through my hair again. One floor. It’s not a
big deal. My family sees me as the “go with the flow” Kotova, and in a lot of ways, I am.
I’ll go with the flow with this. With everything.
It doesn’t mean it won’t knot my stomach. Doesn’t mean that I’m unfeeling, like some of my cousins
believe. It just means I’m not going to whine or throw a tantrum.
Faster, I pass the kitchenette, sponged-clean, and head to my bedroom. When I push inside, I
immediately spot my sixteen-year-old sister.
Katya peers beneath the wooden frame of my stripped bed. I shut the door, and her head pops up. Long,
straight brown hair sticks to her overdone pink-glossed lips.
I frown at my little sister. When did she start wearing makeup on regular weekdays?
Her saucer eyes widen even bigger on me. “Oh crap,” she says, clutching a…really?
I sigh. She grips a black heavy-duty trash bag, partially filled.
“It was Timo’s idea.” Katya picks herself off the floor, skinny and long-limbed like a ballerina but with
prominent, ethereal features: orb-like eyes, pronounced ears, and big lips. “He said that you wouldn’t
mind if we packed up for you.”
I don’t mind.
What bothers me is that he enlisted Katya’s help to throw away my things. Here’s the deal: I’m really
close to Timo and Kat—as close as most siblings come—but they still have no clue what I can’t get rid
of.
(The cactus paraphernalia better not be trashed.)
“Can you say something?” she asks. “You just look…sad.”
“I’m not sad,” I say coolly. “Just please don’t trash my shit unless you ask, Kat.”
She drops the garbage bag like it’s suddenly toxic waste. “I won’t again. I promise.” Guilt sweeps her
youthful face.
My features soften almost instantly, and I nod. Kat, more than anyone, respects my privacy. Whenever
our older brother Nikolai tries to pry through my things, she’s the most vocal: just trust Luka, Nik. Why
are you searching through his gym bag?
I ask, “Where’s Timo?”
She points to the walk-in closet.
I shuffle around an open box, stuffed with my wardrobe: a lot of gym clothes, plain T-shirts, some
jeans, and baseball caps. Nothing flashy or brazen.
At the closet, I stretch the door further open. I distinguish the back of my brother’s head that bounces to
the beat of music. He’s wearing earbuds, the song inaudible.
Timo is also lost in a mound of shoeboxes and towering stacks of snow globes, and to be completely
honest, a lot of shitty Vegas paraphernalia that has no place or name.
It’s junk.
I can admit that any day, any time.
Timo rifles through a shoebox, not noticing me, and after careful examination, he chucks the box into
his trash bag.
“Timo,” I call out, loud enough that he spins around.
Items clatter beside his lean, athletic frame, but he manages to crawl out. Sweating, he shoves the
longer strands of his dark, disheveled hair out of his charismatic face. He’s only a year and a half younger
than me, but I’m an inch taller.
His gray eyes glimmer like a thousand-watt bulb, and he smiles an incredibly contagious smile. To the
point where I almost forget that I’m supposed to be irritated.
Timo pops an earbud out, an upbeat song blaring through the tiny speaker. “Hey, Luk.” Then he unplugs
the cord, music booming through his phone. Timo swings his head heavier to the rhythm and shifts his
body with the harmony, goading me to join his dance.
My body craves soulful rhythms like an animal craves an endless field to sprint. To run.
For me, it’s unnatural not to dance. I don’t know how, and it takes effort to force my body still and not
move to the beat.
Timo must see that something’s off with me, so he lowers the volume of his music. His black cross
earring sways, and he pockets his phone in his cut-off shorts. Wearing a leather jacket, no shirt beneath—
Timo is the kind of guy you wish you knew. Intriguing. Captivating.
I’m the shadow to his ceaseless light.
(Don’t pity me.) I’m grateful to be anything next to Timo. Even a shadow. That’s how much I love him.
I nod to the garbage. “Dude, what the hell is that?”
Timo eyes me weirdly. “Trash…?” His mouth falls. “Are you glaring at me?” He rocks backwards,
surprised.
“You can’t just throw away my shit without asking.” My knuckles whiten as I grip the door frame
harder.
Timo touches his chest. “I’m doing both of us a favor. Didn’t you read AE’s email—no, scratch that,
you probably skimmed it. Which is why you’re not panicked.” He tosses the garbage bag past me. Glass
clinks, the trash thudding by my bed.
“What do you mean?” I don’t scroll through my emails for proof. I trust Timo to tell me the news.
He raises his brows. “We have to move by five p.m. or else they’ll fine us a grand.”
“Fuck,” I groan.
“We’re way past fuck, brother. Aerial Ethereal isn’t playing games with this one.” He strolls past me
and effortlessly hoists himself on my dresser.
I spin around, unable to detach from the closet door. On the floor, Katya refolds my clothes and places
them more gently in the boxes.
Our salaries aren’t that great, but none of us perform for the money. We do it for the art and to be close
to our family.
And because I literally don’t know how to do anything else. I was raised for this. Only this.
Timo catches my g...