Page 51 of The Failed Audition

That is true too.

My mind soars to new heights. “I’m floating,” I whisper.Or spinning.

“Close your eyes, myshka,” he breathes in a soothing, deep tone. I don’t close them though. His forearm rests beside my head, his body less than an inch from descending into me.

“What does that mean?” I ask softly. “Myshka?”

His eyes search mine, hypnotic, soulful. Ones that tether me here, to him. And his lips close over my cheek before drifting to my ear. “Little mouse.”

Little mouse.

I spin.

And the blackness of the night takes me completely.

ACT FOURTEEN

My head pounds viciously.

I roll over, whirling. A soft, metallic comforter molds my body, like a fluffy pillow. I freeze. This is not my bed in Ohio.

I’m in Vegas.

And this isnotCamila’s couch.

My blurry eyes begin to grow and clear. The never-ending night suddenly floods me in choppy, disjointed waves. What. Did I do?I’m on my period.It’s the first terrified thought I have.

Did I have sex?

Those two—sex and menstruation—they don’t mix. I’m going to look down and see a horrific bloody mess, something from a scary movie. LikeSaw.The eighth sequel took place in Nikolai’s bed.

Before I agonize any longer, I take a peek. No blood.

No mess.

I pat my body for my phone, and it dawns on me. I’m wearing a men’s black button-down. Bra-less. Or rather, corset-less. No stockings. No—wait, I still have my black underwear on, the bottoms that matched the top.

I find my phone sitting on a pillow beside me. No other body is here.

He kissed me?

Maybe. Did he?

Did we have sex?

I want to turn off my frantic brain. Please. I stare at the ceiling, expecting to have a one-on-one talk with God, but this isn’t the time. And I don’t think He wants to hear me groan about my drunken black-out night.

I just hope it’s not one full of regret.

I check the time on my cell. 9:32 a.m.

Why am I up so early after going to bed so late? What’s wrong with my body? Doesn’t it understand that it needs sleep? I’m about to fall back into the pillow and force my eyes shut.

But a fist raps the door frame.

Nikolai stands with a glass of green slush, wearing black workout shorts and a gray shirt. Strands of his hair fall over his rolled, red bandana. Like usual, it’s distracting and more attractive than he probably realizes.

“How is your body functioning?” is the first thing I say, of all things needing to be said.

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