Page 12 of The Failed Audition

He takes my hand and places it on his bare chest, his muscles unintentionally flexing beneath, warm on my skin. My ribs want to padlock my lungs. I swear.

But I try to exhale and inhale, trained breaths this time. And his hand falls lower, towards my heart. His brows rise at me, and I realize he must feel my heart hammering, pulsing in a sporadic way.

I sink lower in the chair, and he lifts me up with his free hand, grabbing my waist. He says a couple words in Russian that I don’t understand.

I shake my head at him.

“You’re cute,” he translates vaguely.Unsexy friend.“But you need to stay still.”

I nod. “I can do that.”

“Good.” Then he uses his foot to push mine aside, abruptly breaking my legs apart. What… I open my mouth to ask what’s happening, but he sits on the edge of the seat, facing me. He swiftly lifts me by the hips, setting me on his lap.

I’m straddling a Russian man. I can’t tell if my eyes are about to pop out or if I’m scowling again. I’m rigid. Like he said I’d be. A straight-laced gymnast.

“Deep breaths,” he coaches. A fraction of a smile peeks at his lips. He knows that he’s driving me to an edge. A sexual, exhilarating one that I can’t compute. My brain is frying too fast.

I don’t know where to put my hands. “I don’t…” I start. But I can’t finish because he takes my hands in his and puts them on his shoulders. My arms must’ve been hesitating midair.

“Thora,” he says, training my focus on his eyes. “You have a choice. I’m going to tell you what I’m piercing. If you want out, there’s the exit.” He motions to the literal club exit, a door in the far-right corner.

“What are you piercing?” I ask, not letting my mind mull over quitting. I’ve come this far. Right?

Without balking or breaking eye contact, he says, “Your nipple.”

I gape.What?“What?” I think I’ve heard him wrong. My voice is lost in the shouts of glee from the guys around the club. Some even high-five and slosh their liquor.

“Thora,” Nikolai says again. “Focus.”

What? I pull my gaze off the surrounding people and back on him. “You said my nose,” I say, wishful thinking, I guess.

He laughs. “No, myshka. I said your nipple.” Again, he’s unflinching. Like he’s done this before.

“Have you done this before?” I question. “Pierced a nipple, I mean.” I grimace at my own words. Why am I grimacing? He said nipple without flinching. I should be able to too. It’s onmybody.

“On men, yes. On women, no.” He says, “You’ll be my first.” This lessens what little to no excitement I had. But he seems okay with the idea. “Most of my firsts are crossed off, so you’re lucky.”

Lucky. “I think…that’s a strong word.”

He rephrases, “I may remember you for a while, Thora.” As though that’s a prize people seek with him. Maybe they do. He’sa performer—someone people observe from a distance. To be on his mind for even an ounce of time, that must be special to fans.

“Why my…nipple?” I ask, trying not to scowl or wince or cringe. None of the above.

“You tucked in your shirt before doing a handstand,” he explains. “You didn’t want to flash the crowds. I always choose the hardest consequences, the things people fear. You should know this.”

Because I stalked him and wore sneakers, just so he’d choose me tonight? He’s so off-base, but he never asks. He just assumes everything.

Waiting for my answer, guys start yelling at me tonot pussy outand togrow a pair of balls.It makes me mad and angers me enough that my chest puffs out.

I nod to Nikolai, my mind spinning at this agreement. Standing up and leaving in front of this crowd would take more strength than I have right now. It may be the gutsier move than staying here, half-under peer pressure, half-under my own stubbornness.

“Sports bra,” Nikolai guesses.

I inhale. “Maybe.”Yes.

“I’m about to find out,” he tells me, “so there won’t be any maybes between us.”

I’m keenly aware that his hand is on my thigh while the other holds the piercing needle. My legs hang loose around him.

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