6. Act Six
ACT SIX
I lie wide awake, not because I’m tormented by tomorrow’s final cut or the discomfort of Camila’s couch.
My mind snaps alert because of the sounds that emanate from Camila’s bedroom. Her breathy moans puncture the air, mixing with her boyfriend’s heavy groans. The squeak of the mattress springs is even audible through the thin walls. I’ve only ever heard noises like this from HBO’s True Blood .
And as soon as the sounds of ecstasy in the apartment end, a new type of sound begins. Screaming. Yelling. Not-so-pleasurable noises that vibrate the air. My imaginative mind starts to create visions of Camila having rough, angry sex with a vampire. Only this vampire is a giant asshole who ends sex by arguing about stupid things.
Needless to say, my imagination is wrong.
Vampires don’t exist.
And just as Camila’s non-vampire boyfriend stops screaming, the pleasurable moaning begins again. It’s a cycle that has kept me awake all night.
In college, I chose to live in a single dorm after my freshman year fiasco. My roommate brought her boyfriend over almost every night, and I slept on Shay’s futon more than I did my own bed. I managed to avoid other people’s sex noises for that long.
My clean record is now broken.
Camila’s boyfriend must be stellar because the bedposts thump against the walls. I smash my pillow over my face and exposed ears. I just don’t want to be half-asleep tomorrow. Zombies can’t act like felines in heat.
Sleep , I command myself.
Camila cries out in pleasure.
Sleep, Thora.
Please.
My eyes are heavy-lidded, and the gym’s fluorescent lights sear my pupils. I yawn into my jacket sleeve as Kaitlin slumps down on the blue mat beside me.
“Late night?” she asks with a mild look of disdain. I catch the very, very hidden meaning.
“Not with anyone,” I tell her. Definitely not Nikolai. “I was by myself.” That sounds like a lie for some reason. “I just had bad sleep.”
She nods, her guards dropping. “Me too.”
Not only did Camila go at it on the bed last night, but she switched to the shower. To top it off, when I finally caught some shuteye, I had a nightmare.
And I fell off the couch, face-planting, hard. Which triggered a bloody nose. Now I have a bruise on the bridge and another bruise on my cheekbone to show for it. Concealer covered some of the purplish tint but not all.
“You nervous?” Kaitlin asks. Her brunette bun is so tight that the follicles along her hairline look ready to snap.
“Kind of,” I say honestly with another yawn in my arm. “Are you?”
She nods and leans in close to me to whisper, “Elena has been chatting with Ivan in Russian all morning.”
Her gaze drifts to the aerial silk, where Ivan and Elena stand. As though about to instruct her. Like she’s already been awarded the role.
Kaitlin reaches for her toes, stretching. “I swear these things are made for people who can talk their way into them.”
I’m not a fan of that reality—the one that says the hardest-working individual will always lose out to the most sociable. And I don’t want to live in that world. Shay would tell me that I have no choice, that this isn’t fiction. I have no say in which world I live in.
As I spread my legs open into a split, I reach as far as I can, my muscles extending with the position. The back doors suddenly burst open, and the directors march into the gym, carrying folders, tablets and clipboards. They exude an air of superiority, vacuuming all oxygen.
Nikolai is among them.
He chats with Helen as they near the long table. Dressed in his usual gym attire (shorts, red bandana, shirtless), I wait for him to turn his head and acknowledge the four of us left to audition. But he’s in a heated discussion with Helen, and I catch him gesturing to Ivan by the aerial silk more than once.
Helen raises her hands in defense, and Nikolai’s lips snap shut, his nose flaring. She speaks calmly, it seems. And then her eyes plant on me.
I freeze, wondering if I was just caught eavesdropping. Everyone was doing it though—I assume. I’m about to look to Kaitlin for verification when Helen calls my name, “Thora.”
I instinctively jump to my feet. Glancing briefly at Nikolai, I can’t read him beyond his six-foot-five, masculine dominance. He’s an intimidating fortress in a gym full of straw huts.
“You’re first today,” Helen tells me. “We’d like to see some basic acro dance lifts. We want to know how well you work with Nik. He’ll lead you through them.”
I try to bottle some of my nerves, slowly approaching the center of the mat. In the corner of my eye, I spot Elena twisting the red silk in her fist, clearly being instructed by the choreographer to practice. My stomach twists and backbends and somersaults—in the worst ways.
“Thora,” Nikolai breathes, very close. He grips my attention, his concentrated gaze on me. “Don’t watch them. Right now, this is about you and me. Do your personal best, so that whatever happens, you have no regrets.”
I inhale a deeper breath, flooded with more confidence. I nod and retrain my mind, blocking out my competition.
He steps even closer, and I sense my ribcage jutting out in a heavy rhythm. He notices, concern knotting his brows. Which only causes me to breathe harder. Fantastic.
His intense steel gaze searches my features with headiness, care and lust. Intimate. A combination for long-time lovers, for something greater than a friend. Than anything we are. His acting is up to par. That’s for sure.
His large hand cups my oval face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. His frown darkens, and heat builds across my skin at one thought: what if he’s not acting?
“Did someone hit you?” he asks lowly. His jaw muscles tic.
The bruise. “No, I, um.” I roll my eyes at myself. “I fell.”
Doubt crosses his features.
I realize falling is a cliché excuse used to cover worse things. But it’s sadly the truth here.
He says slowly, “You fell. On your face?”
I sound like a royal klutz. Someone you would definitely not want as an acrobatic partner. “I had a nightmare,” I explain, my throat closing. I’m a ball of hot lava right now, the swelter spreading and it’s not just from embarrassment. It’s just—he’s so close. Of course he is, Thora.
“Must have been some nightmare.”
I was being drained of blood by vampires. I purposefully leave this part out. “Yeah…it was really gruesome.”
“Let’s hope you don’t land on your face again, myshka.” His finger lightly brushes along the ridge of my nose, like a feather tickling my skin. If I blinked, I would’ve missed it. “What’s your favorite lift?” he asks before I can process anything else.
I go cold, despite his hand that falls to the base of my neck. “I…” have never done an acro lift. Or worked with a partner on aerial silk. I’ve been solo since no one would practice with me.
His eyes dance around my face, reading me quickly. “Do you have any formal circus training? Even a summer camp?”
“Not formal.” I watch him glance cautiously over his shoulder at Helen and then focus on me again. His closeness and deep, hollow voice cement my joints to stiff, unbendable shapes. When I should be just the opposite. Flexible and lithe.
“You’ll follow my lead then,” he says. “I’m assuming you can do that unless you tell me otherwise.”
“I can,” I nod, more eagerly than usual. I want to learn. As much as possible.
He stares down at me again, his gaze raking my small frame in a long wave. “This isn’t about executing the best pitch tuck or vault somersault. There’s no score at the end of a show. People attend the circus to see the impossible become possible, and it’s up to us to create that illusion.” His hand descends to my hip, his grip firm. “And we do that using our bodies.”
I’m wide awake, all yawns vanishing. His touch leaves hot imprints across me.
“We’ll try something simple first…” He clasps my hips and swiftly lifts me to his waist, and I instinctively wrap my legs around him. Thump. Thump. I can feel my heart slam into my ribs.
One of his hands rises to my hair, clutching the back of my head. And his unwavering bedroom eyes try to melt parts of me. On purpose. This is purposeful lust that I cannot defend myself against. It’s too strong. He’s too strong.
“Whatever passion you’ve ever encountered in your life, you use it now, Thora,” he tells me, reminding me that this is more than gymnastics. This is a performance.
Passion.
I wrack my brain. And I see a sloppy drunken night. And I see an awkward, short-lived one. Passion has never been in the cards for me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t fake it. That’s what acting is, right?
We’re all putting on a show here.
I take another strong breath, fixating on his lips in hopes that I look sultry enough. I’m tiny in his arms, little and breakable but still strong. Not as strong as him , my conscience retorts. I’ll get there , I snap back, attempting to snuff out any self-doubt.
“We’ll try a handstand on my shoulders,” he instructs. “I’ll be able to tell if you’re struggling, so don’t worry about falling.” He searches my eyes for affirmation that I understand. But his hand caresses my cheek, my whole body warming and my mind jumbling. “Thora?”
“Yeah?”
“Relax. Breathe normally ,” he tells me with a smile beginning to lift his lips.
“I can do that,” I say positively.
“Good.” His hand drifts to my spine, pressing my body closer. My thin leotard is all that separates my skin from his. I feel his chest rise and fall a bit heavier than before. And then his unshaven jaw skims my cheek; his lips to my ear, he says, “I’ll swing you, and with that momentum, you’ll reach my shoulders. Don’t be afraid.”
I wonder if I’m expelling fear. I don’t mean to be. “I’m not afraid,” I whisper.
“Then show me.”
With this, I unlock my legs and he grasps my forearms, lowering me. Not to the ground. He swings my body out, and when I careen back into him, I spread my legs so I don’t whack into his knees. We repeat the movement only twice before I’m high enough to grip his broad shoulders.
The adrenaline flows through my veins like an electric shock. My fingers whiten as I clench his shoulders as hard as possible, forcing my body to this position. Upside-down, my head rushes with blood. He stays perfectly rigid, and I press my legs together, mimicking his pose so we’re in a straight, tall line.
Then he places one hand firmly on my ass, the other remaining on my forearm. As though he doesn’t trust me enough to release his hold. I point my toes and whisper, “Let go.”
His eyes flicker up to me once before he very slowly drops his hands.
“Step forward,” Helen suddenly says, challenging us.
Nikolai’s muscles flex and emerge as he carries my weight. Without shifting his posture, he takes an extra step. My body teeters a little from the movement, and I struggle to remain fixed in place.
His hand instinctively returns to my ass, then to my hip. Trust definitely goes two ways in a partnership.
“Can you contort your body?” Nikolai asks me.
I think I understand where he’s headed with this. I spread my legs into a split and then I slowly curve my torso, so my feet end up on either side of my arms, like a contortionist. I flipped myself around, so I’m able to sit on his shoulders, my legs dangling on his chest.
Helen nods a couple times and murmurs to the other directors at the table.
Nikolai briskly grabs me around the waist, spinning me. My chest melds against his, his eyes pierced through me, and my breathing heavies again, panting like my endurance has depleted with one swift move. We don’t break eye contact. It’s more intrusive than anything I’ve ever felt before. Like someone tugging at things deep, deep inside your soul, stripping that bed again. This time, it’s like he’s trying to cut open the mattress.
It’s a look that defeats all other looks.
And I’m not sure what I express back either, other than breathiness, just dazed. I slide down his muscular build, the tension pricking every nerve.
Then he clutches both of my legs, parting them around his torso. He releases my hands from his biceps. “Use your core,” he instructs, his palm on my abdomen to illustrate. I swallow hard.
And I fall backwards, my head dipped towards the mat, but instead of descending like a limp noodle—I tighten my abs. And I become a flat board, hanging off him in a neat horizontal line. I extend my arms above my head to lengthen the shape.
My thigh muscles burn, especially as he retracts his hands, letting me show off my strength. I blow out breaths from my nose. And then his palm slides from my lower abdomen up to my chest. The black fabric of my leotard has never felt thinner—and I swear, his thumb glides over my barbell piercing.
I skip a breath.
His hand reaches my neck, and I find myself shutting my eyes, losing myself for a moment to his touch. His fingers sensually disappear into my hair, massaging the tense muscles. I force my eyelids open, and he languidly kneels, causing my shoulders to gently hit the mat. Like he’s resting me on a bed.
This is a position that leads straight to sex, my legs still broken apart around him. He leans over me, our lips in kissing distance. We’re working , as he once said. That’s why he carries such severity in his movements. Authoritative, in control. But as the silence pools between us, I only become aware of the person above me.
He is power. Man. And strength. He is charm and desire and indestructible things.
I want to emit an equivalent passion. I want to be strength and desire. But I’m not sure how to match him and still move. It’s easy to be confident in the face of average-standing competition. It’s hard to pretend you’re something greater in the face of someone who’s already beyond great.
He combs pieces of my flyaway fluffy hairs from my forehead. “I’m going to swing you on my shoulders again.” He stays in character, his words dripping with sex. His eyes flit along me like he’s not even giving chaste instructions. “Stand on them. Then step onto my palm. I’ll hold you upright.” He pauses. “And Thora?”
I let out a breath, one of his hands traveling to the outside of my thigh. “Yes?”
He looks right into me. “You’re doing well.”
I cling to that honesty. Just as he makes a move to sit up, gruff Russian words chill my bones.
That’s Ivan. I crane my neck and see him charging the blue mats from the table with Helen. I’m not even sure when he ditched teaching Elena. I was focused on the lifts with Nikolai, as he said to do.
Nikolai sits up and replies to Ivan with as much aggravation. He holds up a finger like one more. One more lift maybe?
One more minute?
One more shot.
My stomach clenches at Ivan’s reaction. He storms closer, and from this vantage, it almost looks like he’s going to kick me. A bout of panic surges through me, my heart lodging. Before I can react, Nikolai swiftly picks me up, spins me around—his back now facing Ivan. He stands between me and the choreographer, setting me safely on my feet.
And his unusually softened and apologetic eyes speak before he does. “I’m sorry.”
It takes a moment for those words to sink in. And I can feel the color drain from my face. This is the end of my audition.
I can barely breathe “normally” as I restrain these sentiments that crash and attempt to pull me under. Maybe it’s still uncertain. I grapple with false hope. I can fool myself until every girl tries out. I can stay positive. I can do something… “It’s not over,” I whisper to him.
His features twist before they harden, his jaw tightening. And he shakes his head once. “Maybe another year.”
It’s not over yet , I pretend still.
“You should go,” Nikolai says deeply. I know he means to the mat and not home. But his voice basically tells me: move on and forget this. You tried your best.
I don’t want Shay and my parents to be right. I wanted, so desperately, to prove them wrong. That I’m worth success. That I can do more than they think I’m capable of.
I don’t wait for Nikolai to guide me or push me away. I unglue my feet and dazedly wander to the other girls while another is called to audition.
It’s not over yet. Something hot and wet rolls down my cheek.
I wipe the one tear and take a seat.