Page 57 of The Failed Audition

He points that plump finger again. “You need to stop trying to make it so artsy. Make it more sexual, Mary. This is fucking Vegas, not Kansas.”

“I’m from Ohio,” I mutter. I’m also pretty positive he no longer remembers my real name.

“Same thing.” He waves me off, and he hones in on my breasts. “And I’m tired of seeing this same costume. Go buy more. I want a different one every night. Change it the fuck up.” He glances at his phone, the screen glowing from an incoming call. “Also, try a red lip next time. The pink is too virginal.” He walks off at that, leaving me to calculate the price of seven more costumes in my head.

My teeth ache from clenching them.

At least…he didn’t say that I completely sucked. There were some positives there, right? Layered beneath disgusting comments, sure.

I exhale slowly.

Temporary.I have to repeat it over and over in order to retain my sanity.

This is temporary.

I swipethe keycard into the slot above the door, entering Nikolai’s hotel suite. Yes, I have a key to his place. Yes, it feels weird. But after our marathon night—chasing Katya and chaperoning Timo—Nikolai feels less like a stranger and even less like an acquaintance.

Still “friends” may be a strong word. Maybe he’s more like my trainer.A trainer that’s hot enough to bang.

“Unprofessional, Thora James,” I mumble under my breath. I walk further into his place, setting my purse on the barstool and slipping into his bedroom. Then the bathroom.

I’m also using his shower.

“And as far as unprofessional goes,” I say to myself, releasing my boobs from the corset, “this has to be high up there.” I try not to waver or second-guess my actions.

I’m here, right now, and I need a shower, no matter if I’m naked in my somewhat-friend’s or trainer’s bathroom. So what. Right? “He already pinched your nipple,” I mutter. This is a good fact to keep me moving.

I swing open the glass shower door and turn on the hot water. I step in, the hot liquid raining on me. In a couple minutes, the steam mists the mirror.

Soothing. Until I catch sight of the male body products—the men’s shampoo and soap. If I wasn’t being doused with hot water, I might’ve frozen again.

“Thora.”

I jump. And knock over the shampoo bottle and a washcloth. I carefully set them back in their proper places. My heart performs a death-defying acrobatic routine without my permission.

“Thora,” Nikolai calls again, muffled behind the door. The shower is loud enough to drown out most noise, including him returning from Amour tonight.

“Yeah?!” I call back.

“I have to wash my face,” he tells me, his deep voice hard to hear. “I left my remover…” He’s drowned out by the splash of water on tiles.

I whip my head to the rack of gray towels nearby. I can snatch one and spread it across the fogged glass, but it’s misted enough that he’d only see my body shape, nothing more. I think.

The brazen side of me, the one that I’ve been tapping into, sayswhat if?What if I stay put? Just like this. I’ve been satisfied being the unsexy friend in Shay’s eyes, but my stomach drops at the thought of Nikolai ever awarding me that title.

I channel my confidence and run my fingers through my wet hair, able to see a blurry outline of the door as it opens. Nikolai slips inside, shirtless, I can tell. After shutting the door behind him, he takes a few lengthy strides to the sink.

“Sorry,” he apologizes in that low tone. He wipes fog off the mirror with the side of his fist. “I would’ve washed my face backstage, but I needed eye drops…fuck.”

I instinctively wipe the glass like he did—a clear streak by my face so I can see him better. His eyes are tightened shut like makeup got in them. He fumbles around for his eye drops and remover, searching through the cabinet and cupboards for the bottles. Frustration lines his forehead and binds his shoulders.

I’m about to step into the most fearless part of myself. Without hesitation, I shut off the shower, secure a towel around my body and go to his aid.

He knocked over his eye drops in the sink, and I find his remover in the lower cupboard. I quickly gather them. When I rise fully, he squints in my direction, his eyes incredibly bloodshot. Dark purple shadow is smudged beneath both lidsand black liner swept above. He has dots of silver paint by his hairline and brows.

I’d think he wore it well if he wasn’t in pain. “You must be allergic to something,” I say softly.

He gestures to the purple shadow. “I bought a new brand…” His face contorts. I wonder if his eyes burn. Before he rubs them, he turns away from me and rinses his face with sink water, gripping the counter with white knuckles.

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