Page 11 of The Failed Audition

I don’t take a second glance at Nikolai or the stiletto-heeled girls surrounding us. I just rest a single palm on the cold concrete floor and hoist my legs in the air. Thighs pressed tightly together. My muscles stretch in this familiar position.

My shirt is secured in my workout pants, unable to fall to my neck and flash the audience. While upside-down, I catch a glimpse of Nikolai across from me—his strong build supported by a single hand. Unwavering. His thick hair spills over his eyelashes, and his flexed muscles carve in defined lines, running up his arms, veins protruding.

Still, it seems so easy for him.

He’s like a rock that juts out of the ocean, the thing people cling to when they’re caught in an undertow. No matter how powerful a wave crashes against him, he’ll always just be.

Blood rushes to my head, the alcohol setting in minute by minute, flushing my skin in a hot, sticky sweat. More nauseous than dizzy.

The boisterous spectators overpower the electronic music with a new mantra: “God of Russia! God of Russia! God of Russia!” It has to take more than winning handstand competitions to achieve that title.

“God of Russia!”Not helping.

“Go, Thora!” a lone guy cheers for me, the underdog. It’s not John—that I can tell. “Kick his ass!”

Nikolai lets out a short, irritated laugh and says something in Russian.

The guy responds with the same lilt. I take it, they know each other. When Nikolai speaks English, it’s perfect. No accent really, and part of me wonders if he’s Russian-American. Born here. Parents from there.

Concentrate, Thora.I inhale a breath, blinking as my stomach roils in violent protest of this position. And of what I ingested. My confident, focused glare morphs into unease. I glance at Nikolai again, and he switches hands on the concrete floor without even teetering.

Perfect balance.

My core tightens, and I sense my downfall before it even happens. Before he even gives me a look that says,you’re about to lose, myshka.I know. I know.

Alcohol, handstands, and Thora James do not mix. Lesson learned.

It’s not my arm that gives out.

It’s my stomach.

An acidic liquid rises, and I impulsively drop to my ass, swallowing the vomit before it escapes. While the burn sets in, the cheers escalate, blistering my ears.

Nikolai effortlessly returns to his feet, and he takes the applause with less self-gratification than I thought he would. No blinding grin or smirk. It’s not about the win, then. He likes this part, maybe. Where he pushes someone out of their comfort zone.

He squats right in front of me, almost eye-level. I watch him comb a hand through his dark brown hair, the strands out of his face, but pieces still brush his ears and neck. Then he says in that low, husky voice, “I won’t lie to you. This is going to hurt.”

My nose flares as I restrain more emotion.I can do this.“Okay.”

He clasps my forearm and literally pulls me to my feet in one swift motion. The air plunges out of my lungs. His hand lingers on my hip. “Follow me,” he says, heading to the empty chair.

I do. He leads me there, and someone hands him a piercing needle.

“Sit,” he commands.

I cautiously lower my ass onto the seat, wondering which body part he’ll puncture with the needle.My ear, I hope.

The silence between us pounds my heart. I’m left with those gray eyes, that strong jaw, and the red devilish hue that casts down on us. I’m breathing too heavily, and since he’s so perceptive, he calls me out on it.

“Relax,” he says, resting a hand on the frame of the chair.

How can I relax? He’s a foot from my body, and he’s holding a giant needle. I can’t do anything other than pant like an out-of-shape linebacker.

“Breathe,” he instructs, waiting for me to calm down. Though his eyes flit around me, trying to determinewhatto pierce.

“I am breathing.”

He shoots me a look. “Breathenormally,” he clarifies. He places a hand right below my collarbones. His palm feels heavy, weighted, but it carries an electric current that zips through my nerves. “Match me, myshka.”

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