My feet hit the mat, and my knees instantly buckle beneath me. I thud on my ass, and while I stifle the heat of failure, Nikolai towers above my small frame.
“Do you want to be an AE artist?” he asks in a growl.
“You know I do…”
“Then
listen
to me,” he seethes. “If I tell you to jump, you jump. If I tell you to get
the fuck
down, you get the fuck down. Without question.”
I nod tensely, my calf cramping so cruelly that I can’t do much else but cringe and wish for it to stop. I imagine my muscles constricting to the point of snapping, band by band. It’s illogical, but it’s the feeling, most definitely. Pulling and snapping.
With a heavy breath, Nikolai sits and splays my leg across his lap. My quads visibly spasm, and he applies pressure to my thigh muscle, massaging the area. He watches my reaction and my muscles like he’s accustomed to cramps of this nature. I’ve had them,
maybe
once. When I forgot to stretch. But not this extreme.
He digs his fingers a little deeper in my thigh. I wince and instinctively reach behind me, gripping the pole. I rest my spine and head against it.
“Relax,” Nikolai says huskily.
It’s hard. For multiple reasons. My whole body wants to lock by his closeness, my nerves flapping. “I’m trying,” I whisper.
His brows knot as he concentrates on my legs. My hamstrings suddenly tighten, and a literal cry breaches my lips.
His eyes flicker up to me, just once. And I see something different in those grays—something that causes his Adam’s apple to bob. Without much falter, he massages underneath my thigh, and I reach out and hold onto his forearm.
“Wait,” I say, unsure of whether he’s making it worse or better.
“Breathe normally,” he instructs. “It’ll help.”
I blow out like I’m in a Lamaze class.
With my hand still clasped to him, he kneads my muscles. They slowly begin to uncoil, the pain lessening with his rhythmic movements. My next breath is almost a relieved sigh. “Thanks,” I manage to say.
“You need to drink more water,” he tells me. “And how much are you eating?” His eyes find me again, and they carry this real concern. It’s a new look from him.
“I was on a twenty-five-hundred calorie diet in college,” I say softly, watching his hand move back up my thigh. The gymnastics team had a nutritionist that gave us tips about healthy eating.
“You used the past tense.”
“Well…since I’ve been here, I haven’t been able to really eat…as much.” My voice trails off at his glare.
“When you work with me, you’re on a three-thousand calorie diet,” he demands. “No exceptions. And I’ll start you on a few supplements, the ones that the female artists take in AE.” He pauses before he adds, “I’ll get a copy of their nutrition plan for you.”
Three-thousand calories. I try to add up the cost of eating
that
much a day.
Plus the cost of new costumes.
Plus rent.
And the down payment.
I already feel sick.
But I have to make it work, somehow.
“I’ll help you stretch and then we’ll call it a day. I don’t want you to pull a muscle.” His hands no longer apply pressure, but they remain on my bare skin, on my thigh. His intense gray eyes graze the length of my legs.
My lungs collapse as silence stretches for an extra moment or two. “…sounds good,” I say to break the quiet.
He turns his head some, like he’s lost in thought.
I lick my chapped lips. “I’m sorry, for before. I should’ve listened to you and come down.”
“It’s not all you. I have a lot I’m dealing with, and I’m just trying to be more cautious.”
I wonder if he’s referring to his old partner or his new one. I haven’t asked about his training with Elena because it’s never surfaced until now. Curiosity overpowers me. “How’s Elena?” I put it out there.
His hands run down to my knee, resting there. “She’s decent.” He chooses his words carefully. “A fast enough learner, but she’s young and not as emotive as…” He stops himself, shutting down some, like he’s drawing up the bridge of his fortress.
“Tatyana?” I wonder.
He nods. “It’s not fair to compare anyone to Tatyana. She was a third generation acrobat and one of the best in her discipline.” He shrugs, unbendingly. It’s probably still raw—her injury and dismissal from Amour. “I shouldn’t tell you this. It’s not important to your training.”
“But it’s important to you,” I say under my breath.
He flashes a weak smile. “Which has no business in the gym.”
Right. “You forget,” I point out, “that we’re already unprofessional.”
He smiles, a real one this time. “I never forget, myshka.” He rises and holds out his hand for me. Without hesitation, I take it, and Nikolai helps me to my feet.
Act Twenty
By the end of the week, my body has gone through a brutal beating. The tiniest muscles ache, even the ones in my pinky finger. I can’t support my weight with only my hand yet, not while extending my legs outward in a horizontal, straight line. So we haven’t moved onto aerial silk. I just keep envisioning my final goal: a contract with Aerial Ethereal.
Any
contract, honestly. I’d even take Magus which is still in the early planning stages.
I try not to focus on the five-month deadline where Elena will grace the globe auditorium in Amour, and my parents will believe that I’m supposed to be there. I’m still trying to formulate another lie to keep them in Cincinnati before that happens.
Tonight, I practice the art of relaxation.
The Red Death is at maximum capacity, a long line spindling outside the door. Like every Saturday night. A perk to knowing Camila: I just slipped right on by again. Currently pop remixes blare through speakers and create a unity of grinding bodies.
I rotate my blue glow choker, the connector resting against the back of my neck. Admittedly, I hesitated on whether to take an “it’s complicated” necklace—but it’s not really that complicated, I guess. Nikolai is training me. That’s it.
I grab a shot of tequila from Camila while she mans the bar, green glow ring atop her curls. She has more colorful makeup on, pink sparkles beneath her eyes and cheeks, gold glitter on her neck and collarbones.
“I can’t believe you haven’t fucked him yet!” She shouts to me over the music. Then she leans closer, forearms on the bar. First thing she asked was my relationship status.
I can’t be the only girl who’d choose this path. “We’re just friends,” I assure her.
Camila looks disappointed, like she was ready to pass me extra celebratory shots.
“Why the hell are you pouting?” John asks his cousin. He sits on the stool next to me, fisting a beer. “And please don’t tell me you’re living vicariously through Thora’s sex life. That’s just sad. Especially since you have a boyfriend—no, not a boyfriend actually. More like a fuck face, piece of shit.” He raises his beer to her in cheers.
My eyes grow big. I met Craig at Camila’s apartment during my couch-surfing days. He seemed normal. Nice, even. He brought Camila a bouquet of roses, just because.
Though I can’t deny their intense verbal sparring matches that shook the walls at night. Maybe John knows about those.
Camila stands straighter. “It’s called
empathy
,” she says, sidestepping the boyfriend insult. “Something that was removed from you at birth.”
“I can empathize with people. But I choose not to because I’m the only sane person in this godforsaken country. Seriously, why should I feel bad that Thora didn’t get laid? She probably saved herself from an STD and a broken heart.” Dear God—I didn’t even think about STDs. I cringe.
“
John
,” Camila snaps.
He lets out a breath and rolls his eyes. “I’m just making conversation.”
“Nikolai doesn’t seem like he sleeps around a lot,” I mention. Though I’m not certain about this. Katya never talks about his previous relationships. He’s a full-on mystery there, and I feel like it’s stepping out of bounds if I even ask.
“See,” Camila says, pointing a finger at John.
“Whatever,” he mumbles. “I need another drink.” He slides his cousin the empty beer bottle, and she retrieves him a new one.
“Thora James!”
I whip my head and notice Timo approaching, his face bathed in green, red and blue from three stacked necklaces. He’s added silver glitter on his bare chest and cheeks to his usual attire: no shirt, leather jacket, and dangling cross earring. He looks like part of the club folk.
John curses under his breath the minute Timo nears. He can’t keep his mouth shut though. “The under-twenty-one club is down the street,” he tells him. “It has a big giraffe and R-Us at the end.” He gives Timo a dry look before taking a swig of beer.
Timo only smiles more. “The over-ninety club is also down the street. It’s where all these headstones are, old man. Can’t miss it.” Then he rotates to me, and he lets out a long whistle, scrutinizing me from head to toe. “Thora James, turning it on tonight.”
I’m actually dressed up this time—not in sneakers or my Phantom costume. Camila lent me a tight black dress that zips in the back and lifts up my boobs. I keep tugging the hem since it rides up as I sit on the barstool, appearing shorter.
“Better than the sweats?!” I have to shout over the loud bass.
“Most definitely!” he yells back. “My brother is going to love it!”
My stomach clenches. “That’s…”
not what I planned.
My voice drowns in the music.
Okay, don’t fool yourself, Thora.
If I can’t be honest with myself, then I am fucked.
I knew Nikolai would be here tonight, as he is every Saturday.
And yeah, I wanted to look my best. I wanted to draw a reaction from him—the kind that electrocutes my nerves and tingles my skin.
Tingles.
I’m talking about tingles in association with a
guy
. I internally groan. Shay would call me ridiculous. But I don’t even want to take the wish back. I’m only human.
John slices through what would’ve been an awkward moment from my open-mouthed, stupefied-self. He zeroes in on Timo again. “This area…” He motions around us. “…is for people who can
legally
order at the bar.” He shoos him away with the swat of his hand.
Timo’s blinding, magnetic smile never fades. “In another life, you were a fat old police officer addicted to donuts.”
Camila spits out her water from behind me, and the spray dampens my neck. “I’m sorry!” she says between fits of laughter. “That’s just…”
My laugh begins at the sight of hers, and she shakes her head, her stomach heaving with humor. She has to hold herself upright.
“I can’t…” She flashes her palm like she has to step away, heading to another couple who wave her down.
I reach over the bar for a little square napkin and pat my neck, my hair in an edgy French braid. (Camila did it for me.)
“Your cousin likes me.” Timo cocks his head at John.
“She likes everyone. This comes from a place of love when I say that she has the
worst
sense of judgment. For everything, really. Including people.”
“Hey,” I say. “She likes me.”
“And you’re sharing a bedroom with a Kotova,” he rebuts. “That kind of puts your quality at the bottom of the barrel.”
“I’m sleeping on the
couch
,” I emphasize.
“Wait,” Timo cuts in with a confused look. “You don’t sleep in Nik’s bed?”
What is with everyone and this? I’m not abnormal. “I…” I trail off as his frown deepens.
“Do you not like him or something?” He scratches the back of his head, more downtrodden than usual. He didn’t phrase the question as: does Nikolai not like you or something? As if it was all my choice to sleep on the couch.
“I mean, he’s just training me.” Those are Nikolai’s words too. He’s said them to me before.
Timo looks just as perplexed as I feel. “I thought he liked you.”
I rock back, my heart convulsing. It’s like someone fisted my internal organs. “What gave you that idea?” I think I want it to be true.
I shouldn’t.
He’s just training you, Thora. Stay concentrated.
Goals. I have goals.
John stares at the ceiling like this conversation is killing him.
“You’re living with him,” Timo says. “Duh, Thora James.”
I don’t feel like I’m so oblivious. I just think we’re all more confused than they’d have us believe.
John suddenly stands and nears Timo, only an inch taller than him. “What is this?” Clutching his beer, he gestures to the three glow necklaces.
“I’m single, complicated and taken,” Timo replies with a burgeoning smile.
John looks to me. “He’s a liar.” Then to Timo. “Seriously, you’re a liar.”
“Or I’m just a mystery, old man.”
John swiftly snaps off the red and green glow necklaces, leaving Timo with only blue. “Look at that, I solved your pathetic mystery.”
Timo licks his bottom lip and laughs. “You want me to be single, John?” This took a turn. I stare between them, my eyes pinging back and forth with intrigue.
John puts the beer to his lips. “I’m out of your league, Timo.”
“If you say so.”
“TAT! TAT! TAT!” The room yells over the pumping music, and my heart double skips. John groans at the commotion, but his feet carry him closer to the spectacle.
Timo clasps my hand, tugging me along. I’ve somehow slid deeper into the Kotova circle. He slings his arm around my shoulder and follows John Ruiz. “He’s a walking contradiction,” Timo says, amused. His eyes lower to John’s ass, squeezed in a pair of dark-colored jeans.
I just ogled John’s butt. I scrunch my face. That was not on my to-do list tonight.
I don’t have to ask Timo to clarify his statement. John is cynical, pessimistic, claiming to be drama-free, but he seeks it out and thrives on watching it. He’s also popular enough that three people scoot over, awarding us the closest view.
Timo wedges between John and me, his other arm swooping around John’s shoulders. I’m shocked when John doesn’t push him off.
My gaze casually drifts to the open circle, where the crowds have parted for Nikolai. And the minute I see another girl in it, my whole face tightens. Nikolai leads the twenty-something brunette to the lone chair, his hand on the small of her back.