Page 69 of The Failed Audition

I’m hugging onto the pole, my legs wrapped around it. “Just give…me a second!” I shout back, a wince contorting my face.You can do this, Thora James. Climb this fucking pole.

I use my hands to pull my body higher, my legs worthless beneath me. One handhold extra and I stop. There’s no way I can support my weight with one hand. My body is out of commission. At least until the cramping ends.

“Climb down!” Nikolai shouts, his voice pitching in worry, but the severity—the strictness, chills my bones.

I inhale. “One more—”

“Now,” he forces. “I’m not playing the fuck around, Thora.”

When I glance at him below, he braces a hand to the pole, standing right underneath it like he’s prepared to catch me if I let go and accidentally drop. His whole no-nonsense demeanor sways me. And I slide down the pole like a fireman or little kid in an indoor playground.

My feet hit the mat, and my knees instantly buckle beneath me. I thud on my ass, and while I stifle the heat of failure, Nikolai towers above my small frame.

“Do you want to be an AE artist?” he asks in a growl.

“You know I do…”

“Thenlistento me,” he seethes. “If I tell you to jump, you jump. If I tell you to getthe fuckdown, you get the fuck down. Without question.”

I nod tensely, my calf cramping so cruelly that I can’t do much else but cringe and wish for it to stop. I imagine my muscles constricting to the point of snapping, band by band. It’s illogical, but it’s the feeling, most definitely. Pulling and snapping.

With a heavy breath, Nikolai sits and splays my leg across his lap. My quads visibly spasm, and he applies pressure to my thigh muscle, massaging the area. He watches my reaction and my muscles like he’s accustomed to cramps of this nature. I’ve had them,maybeonce. When I forgot to stretch. But not this extreme.

He digs his fingers a little deeper in my thigh. I wince and instinctively reach behind me, gripping the pole. I rest my spine and head against it.

“Relax,” Nikolai says huskily.

It’s hard. For multiple reasons. My whole body wants to lock by his closeness, my nerves flapping. “I’m trying,” I whisper.

His brows knot as he concentrates on my legs. My hamstrings suddenly tighten, and a literal cry breaches my lips.

His eyes flicker up to me, just once. And I see something different in those grays—something that causes his Adam’s apple to bob. Without much falter, he massages underneath my thigh, and I reach out and hold onto his forearm.

“Wait,” I say, unsure of whether he’s making it worse or better.

“Breathe normally,” he instructs. “It’ll help.”

I blow out like I’m in a Lamaze class.

With my hand still clasped to him, he kneads my muscles. They slowly begin to uncoil, the pain lessening with his rhythmic movements. My next breath is almost a relieved sigh. “Thanks,” I manage to say.

“You need to drink more water,” he tells me. “And how much are you eating?” His eyes find me again, and they carry this real concern. It’s a new look from him.

“I was on a twenty-five-hundred calorie diet in college,” I say softly, watching his hand move back up my thigh. The gymnastics team had a nutritionist that gave us tips about healthy eating.

“You used the past tense.”

“Well…since I’ve been here, I haven’t been able to really eat…as much.” My voice trails off at his glare.

“When you work with me, you’re on a three-thousand calorie diet,” he demands. “No exceptions. And I’ll start you on a few supplements, the ones that the female artists take in AE.” He pauses before he adds, “I’ll get a copy of their nutrition plan for you.”

Three-thousand calories. I try to add up the cost of eatingthatmuch a day.

Plus the cost of new costumes.

Plus rent.

And the down payment.

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