Page 70 of The Failed Audition

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.Anycontract, 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 totake 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 calledempathy,” 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.

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