Amour Amour (9 page)

“Yeah?”

“Relax. Breathe
normally
,” he tells me with a smile beginning to lift his lips.

“I can do that,” I say positively.

“Good.” His hand drifts to my spine, pressing my body closer. My thin leotard is all that separates my skin from his. I feel his chest rise and fall a bit heavier than before. And then his unshaven jaw skims my cheek; his lips to my ear, he says, “I’ll swing you, and with that momentum, you’ll reach my shoulders. Don’t be afraid.”

I wonder if I’m expelling fear. I don’t mean to be. “I’m not afraid,” I whisper.

“Then show me.”

With this, I unlock my legs and he grasps my forearms, lowering me. Not to the ground. He swings my body out, and when I careen back into him, I spread my legs so I don’t whack into his knees. We repeat the movement only twice before I’m high enough to grip his broad shoulders.

The adrenaline flows through my veins like an electric shock. My fingers whiten as I clench his shoulders as hard as possible, forcing my body to this position. Upside-down, my head rushes with blood. He stays perfectly rigid, and I press my legs together, mimicking his pose so we’re in a straight, tall line.

Then he places one hand firmly on my ass, the other remaining on my forearm. As though he doesn’t trust
me
enough to release his hold. I point my toes and whisper, “Let go.”

His eyes flicker up to me once before he
very slowly
drops his hands.

“Step forward,” Helen suddenly says, challenging us.

Nikolai’s muscles flex and emerge as he carries my weight. Without shifting his posture, he takes an extra step. My body teeters a little from the movement, and I struggle to remain fixed in place.

His hand instinctively returns to my ass, then to my hip. Trust definitely goes two ways in a partnership.

“Can you contort your body?” Nikolai asks me.

I think I understand where he’s headed with this. I spread my legs into a split and then I slowly curve my torso, so my feet end up on either side of my arms, like a contortionist. I flipped myself around, so I’m able to sit on his shoulders, my legs dangling on his chest.

Helen nods a couple times and murmurs to the other directors at the table.

Nikolai briskly grabs me around the waist, spinning me. My chest melds against his, his eyes pierced through me, and my breathing heavies again, panting like my endurance has depleted with one swift move. We don’t break eye contact. It’s more intrusive than anything I’ve ever felt before. Like someone tugging at things deep, deep inside your soul, stripping that bed again. This time, it’s like he’s trying to cut open the mattress.

It’s a look that defeats all other looks.

And I’m not sure what I express back either, other than breathiness, just dazed. I slide down his muscular build, the tension pricking every nerve.

Then he clutches both of my legs, parting them around his torso. He releases my hands from his biceps. “Use your core,” he instructs, his palm on my abdomen to illustrate. I swallow hard.

And I fall backwards, my head dipped towards the mat, but instead of descending like a limp noodle—I tighten my abs. And I become a flat board, hanging off him in a neat horizontal line. I extend my arms above my head to lengthen the shape.

My thigh muscles burn, especially as he retracts his hands, letting me show off my strength. I blow out breaths from my nose. And then his palm slides from my lower abdomen up to my chest. The black fabric of my leotard has never felt thinner—and I swear, his thumb glides over my barbell piercing.

I skip a breath.

His hand reaches my neck, and I find myself shutting my eyes, losing myself for a moment to his touch. His fingers sensually disappear into my hair, massaging the tense muscles. I force my eyelids open, and he languidly kneels, causing my shoulders to gently hit the mat. Like he’s resting me on a bed.

This is a position that leads straight to sex, my legs still broken apart around him. He leans over me, our lips in kissing distance.
We’re working
, as he once said. That’s why he carries such severity in his movements. Authoritative, in control. But as the silence pools between us, I only become aware of the person above me.

He is power. Man. And strength. He is charm and desire and indestructible things.

I want to emit an equivalent passion. I want to be strength and desire. But I’m not sure how to match him and still move. It’s easy to be confident in the face of average-standing competition. It’s hard to pretend you’re something greater in the face of someone who’s already beyond great.

He combs pieces of my flyaway fluffy hairs from my forehead. “I’m going to swing you on my shoulders again.” He stays in character, his words dripping with sex. His eyes flit along me like he’s not even giving chaste instructions. “Stand on them. Then step onto my palm. I’ll hold you upright.” He pauses. “And Thora?”

I let out a breath, one of his hands traveling to the outside of my thigh. “Yes?”

He looks right into me. “You’re doing well.”

I cling to that honesty. Just as he makes a move to sit up, gruff Russian words chill my bones.

That’s Ivan. I crane my neck and see him charging the blue mats from the table with Helen. I’m not even sure when he ditched teaching Elena. I was focused on the lifts with Nikolai, as he said to do.

Nikolai sits up and replies to Ivan with as much aggravation. He holds up a finger like
one more.
One more lift maybe?

One more minute?

One more shot.

My stomach clenches at Ivan’s reaction. He storms closer, and from this vantage, it almost looks like he’s going to kick me. A bout of panic surges through me, my heart lodging. Before I can react, Nikolai swiftly picks me up, spins me around—his back now facing Ivan. He stands between me and the choreographer, setting me safely on my feet.

And his unusually softened and apologetic eyes speak before he does. “I’m sorry.”

It takes a moment for those words to sink in. And I can feel the color drain from my face. This is the end of my audition.

I can barely breathe “normally” as I restrain these sentiments that crash and attempt to pull me under.
Maybe it’s still uncertain.
I grapple with false hope. I can fool myself until every girl tries out. I can stay positive. I can do something… “It’s not over,” I whisper to him.

His features twist before they harden, his jaw tightening. And he shakes his head once. “Maybe another year.”

It’s not over yet
, I pretend still.

“You should go,” Nikolai says deeply. I know he means
to the mat
and not home. But his voice basically tells me:
move on and forget this. You tried your best.

I don’t want Shay and my parents to be right. I wanted, so desperately, to prove them wrong. That I’m worth success. That I can do more than they think I’m capable of.

I don’t wait for Nikolai to guide me or push me away. I unglue my feet and dazedly wander to the other girls while another is called to audition.

It’s not over yet.
Something hot and wet rolls down my cheek.

I wipe the one tear and take a seat.

Act Seven

I haven’t been able to tell anyone back home the news. It’s been three hours since reality decided to sucker punch me. In retrospect, I should’ve seen the failure coming like everyone else did. But I didn’t want to. So maybe I deserve the onslaught of tears in The Masquerade’s public bathroom, cramped in a tiny stall.

Elena landed the role. Predictable.

I couldn’t even stomach watching the other girls audition. I fiddled with my fingers and acted so interested in my cuticles. I feel more like a loser and a coward right now than in my entire gymnastics career. And it’s this moment—tear-streaked with a toilet paper dispenser digging into my hip—that I wonder if I’m one of those foolish dreamers.

The kind that believes they can sing when they’re so clearly out of pitch.

The kind that believes they can dance when they have nothing more than two left feet.

I shut my eyes, more hot water cascading and searing. What is life if it’s not in pursuit of the things we love? People search a lifetime to find one soul-bearing desire, and now I’m going to have to find two. Because I’m not good enough at the first.

It’s devastating.

I’m clawing at something that doesn’t want me. And to say goodbye is like severing a part of me that I can’t easily replace. I’m lost.

I’m going to be so lost.

The minute I return to college. I won’t know which direction to go.

It’s terrifying.

It’s everything I never wanted, and I can’t bear the thought of my parents saying
I told you so.
To see their disappointment reflect back at me.

Because it’s admitting cold defeat. That
nothing
I do, no amount of hours I practice, no matter how hard I try, I cannot succeed.

One in a million, Thora James.

I’m not that one. I know.

I know.

* * *

“If you go home, will you ever return to Vegas and try again?” Camila asks curiously. She has her feet up on the barstool, overtaking all three as she lounges and eats her slice of pizza. The sleeves of her kimono almost knock over her Diet Fizz.

“Probably not,” I say softly, sitting at the kitchen table with John. I use Camila’s laptop to check plane and bus tickets, deciding which will be cheaper for my return trip to Ohio. My appetite has been lost since this morning. I barely even nibble on pepperoni.

I blink constantly, my eyes dry and scratchy from crying more than I ever have. I ended my pity-party about a couple hours ago at The Masquerade and took the fifty-minute walk to Camila’s apartment.

My phone buzzes, and I catch a glimpse of the text.

How did it go? Is it over?
– Mom

I ignore it for now. John watches my rejection of the text as he sips a Lightning Bolt! energy drink. Preparing for a snide remark, I shut my eyes—but it never comes. He stays quiet, for once.

“You know,” Camila continues, licking the pizza sauce off her finger. “Vegas clubs are always looking for female acrobats doing their thing on trapezes and hoops. Why don’t you just try out for other jobs around town?”

My brows pinch. I never even thought of that avenue. My parents wouldn’t approve. They’d think it was no more than being a waitress in Los Angeles, hoping to become an actress one day. They’d say that a tiny fraction succeeds, and it’s fruitless to waste my time and try.

Off my silence, she adds, “It’s definitely not as prestigious as AE. I was thinking more short-term. It pays the bills, and in the meantime, you may run into someone who has connections to Aerial Ethereal.”

Connections. My lungs expand. That’s what it’s all about. I won’t run into anyone important or useful in Ohio. Not when the industry is here.

I realize I’m clinging to any hope. No matter how small. There is a part of me that wants this trip to mean something. If I go home, everyone will tell me that I wasted hundreds of dollars on a flight to Vegas. That I made a mistake.

My cell vibrates again.

Call us when you can. It’ll be okay. We can help you out for your return flight.
– Dad

He already thinks I lost.
You did, Thora.

My stomach churns from the lack of food, and I bite into a piece of pizza. It hurts to swallow. My parents will be distressed if they hear that I gave up my scholarship on a whim, to stay here and work at a club.

They’re the ties that bind me to Ohio, the strings that root me to safety and security. I fear cutting them. It’s like saying goodbye to the little girl who turned to my mother for advice. Who glowed when my father’s pride for me shined bright at gymnastics meets.

There is no pride from this decision.

There is just more disappointment.

“Don’t put ideas into her head, Camila,” John chimes in. “Let her leave Vegas while she can.” He nods to me. “You’re one of the lucky ones who still has the chance to get out.”

My face twists, unsure of what I feel anymore.

Camila leans forward and narrows her eyes at her cousin. “You
love it
here, John. More than any of us.”

“I would
never
say that,” John grumbles. He sips his energy drink while Camila huffs.

“If you hate it here,” she says, “then why haven’t you left?”

“Because I’m clearly insane like the rest of you.” He raises his Lightning Bolt! in cheers.

I return to the computer, the flight arrival times blurring together. In my heart, I know that I want to stay—no matter how frightening that idea seems. No matter how much I’m risking. The
what if
will haunt me for the rest of my life. I wonder if I’ll be fifty-years-old, looking back at today and wishing I had the courage to take the path less traveled. The one without security and family.

I lick my dry lips and clear my throat. “How much easier will it even be to get a job in a club?” I ask Camila. Those have to be hard to come by too.

Camila perks up now that I’m entertaining her idea. She points at John and waves her finger like
ohh ohhh.
“John, you must know someone who’s hiring.”

“No more than you.” He slouches further and spins a peppershaker.

“Hey.” She snaps her fingers. “Thora needs help, and you know everyone at The Masquerade, Bellagio, and Cosmopolitan.”

My eyes grow big. “Really?” I figured out that John likes to listen to himself talk. But I didn’t realize that he was Mr. Popular. At the blackjack table, those frat types never showed up, but a group of elderly women did, and they bantered back and forth with him for a solid two hours. Even sullen and surly, he’s somehow incredibly endearing.

“No,” John snaps, like his cousin is lying. “That’s a complete gross exaggeration, Camila.”

She gives him a look and shifts her gaze to me. “He’s a social butterfly and refuses to acknowledge it.”