Page 27 of The Failed Audition

“Whatever passion you’ve ever encountered in your life, you use it now, Thora,” he tells me, reminding me that this is more than gymnastics. This is a performance.

Passion.

I wrack my brain. And I see a sloppy drunken night. And I see an awkward, short-lived one. Passion has never been in the cards for me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t fake it. That’s what acting is, right?

We’re all putting on a show here.

I take another strong breath, fixating on his lips in hopes that I look sultry enough. I’m tiny in his arms, little and breakable but still strong.Not as strong as him, my conscience retorts.I’ll get there, I snap back, attempting to snuff out any self-doubt.

“We’ll try a handstand on my shoulders,” he instructs. “I’ll be able to tell if you’re struggling, so don’t worry about falling.” He searches my eyes for affirmation that I understand. But his hand caresses my cheek, my whole body warming and my mind jumbling. “Thora?”

“Yeah?”

“Relax. Breathenormally,” 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 hisunshaven 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 trustmeenough to release his hold. I point my toes and whisper, “Let go.”

His eyes flicker up to me once before hevery slowlydrops 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 flippedmyself 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.

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