21. Act Twenty-One
ACT TWENTY-ONE
M y studio apartment has a single bedroom-kitchen-living area and a confined bathroom. One where I can sit on the toilet, use the sink or reach in the shower at the same time. The kitchen is also miniscule with portable counters, a hotplate, a microwave and a mini-fridge. Actually, miniscule is probably a forgiving word to describe the place.
But I don’t care much.
I lie on my mattress, an old one that Camila helped me pick out at a thrift store. Gross, yes, but I put new and clean sheets on top of it. No springboards. It rests on the scratched hardwood floors as is. I stare up at the ceiling tiles, yellowed and maybe moldy.
My lips tug up.
I can’t help it.
I’m here.
In Vegas.
I’ve made enough to have my own apartment.
Independence has never felt so satisfying. I’m grateful for every second of it. And I don’t ever want to forget this feeling, right now. I did something—I accomplished something . I won’t let anyone’s realism take that from me.
This is the first strong foothold of my new life. The beginning of my dream and career.
I wipe the wetness beneath my eyes. “Well done, Thora James,” I whisper.
My phone buzzes on the floorboards, and I roll onto my stomach and grab my cell. I notice the name on the screen before I press the speaker button. SHAY.
“Hey,” I say, my face all smiles.
I can hear the sound of weights hitting benches and muffled chatter in the background. It’s safe to assume he’s at the gym. “Hey,” he replies. “So from your text earlier, I take it you’re not coming back.” His dejection sinks my stomach, my smile vanishing.
This morning I texted him a picture of my new view: the side of another stucco apartment complex. I thought it’d be funny. Especially since I told him I was apartment hunting last week. But maybe I should’ve known he’d be sullen. Friday he sent me a link to off-campus apartments in Columbus, Ohio.
I guess it’s just wishful thinking on my part—that he’d see the positives of why I’m here.
“I told you I wasn’t going back home,” I mutter, picking at the sheet on the mattress, dazed. My parents called for my new address so they could mail me some boxes of things: clothes, dishes, and stuff I took to college. When I gave them the address, I mentioned how it’d be easier to ship boxes to my “friend’s” place than have to pay The Masquerade the fee to receive large packages.
They bought the lie. They had no reason not to. I’ve always been truthful with them. Maybe that’s why it hurts to even think about.
“At least tell me you didn’t sign a year lease, Thora,” he says.
“I’m going month-to-month.”
“First smart decision.”
Ouch. I stay quiet, squinting at the ceiling. I know he’s just trying to leave a door open for me, so I can return to Ohio. But I need to be all in here. When he throws you a lifeline, don’t grab it. Even if it’s hard.
Shay sighs in frustration. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“It’s okay,” I breathe. “How’s conditioning?” Partly wanting to divert the discussion and partly wanting to hear more about him.
“Alright. Coach wants me to up the difficulty on my pommel horse routine.”
“You should,” I tell him. “You’re good enough to do it.”
“Thanks.” Voices escalate, and he muffles the phone as he talks to someone else. When he returns, he says, “I have to go. Some of the guys want to grab subs for lunch. Talk to you later?”
“Yeah.” We say our goodbyes, and I sit up, already wearing workout clothes.
Before I click off my phone, I notice the time.
Almost three.
My eyes grow and I spring to my feet, already late. I’m supposed to train with Nikolai today. I mentally calculate the bike ride to The Masquerade. If I don’t pedal fast, I’m going to be later than late.
I check my texts that I must not have heard.
Where are you? – Nikolai
Call me. – Nikolai
You’re breaking a fucking rule. – Nikolai
I text back: On my way. So sorry!
Last night, I grabbed my suitcase from his place, and he walked with me outside The Masquerade. I didn’t have to wait long for a cab, and he kissed me before I climbed in and left. I have trouble containing this smile in remembrance. I even subconsciously touch my lips.
I’m falling for him.
But I haven’t seen Nikolai since then. He had to practice with Elena this morning, so he scheduled a later time to train me.
I don’t know how things are going to be. I guess I’m about to find out. I just need to get there first.
By the time I arrive at the gym, my forehead is dripping with sweat, my cotton pants sticking to my legs, butt and thighs. I rode my bike (another thrift store find) as fast as I could without breaking the rusty, old thing.
Halfway there, I feared the chain would fly off. My one thought was: don’t fall off . Not don’t be late. My mental energy can’t turn back time. I’m just happy that I’m here, in one piece, with a bike also in one piece.
I spot Nikolai sitting on a large blue yoga ball, his eyes flitting to the clock with agitation and maybe some concern. He clutches his cell tightly.
When I approach with hurried feet, his head swings my way, pieces of his hair falling over his red bandana. I throw up my hands. “I’m so…sorry…” I lose my initial thoughts at the relief in his eyes. “You didn’t think…” something bad happened.
He stands. “I have no idea where you live, Thora,” he reminds me. “Just don’t be late again.” He gives me a harder, stricter look, delivering the lines with finality. Then he takes a few steps closer, with a much more intense gaze.
Butterflies swarm my insides. Stop smiling like a fool, Thora.
I bite the inside of my cheeks so hard. And I nod. “I will…I mean, I won’t.” Why? Why am I screwing this up right now? “You know what I mean…” hopefully.
He crosses his arms over his bare chest, his brows raised. “Think you can hold your weight today?” He’s all no-nonsense, seriousness—business.
Right.
He’s determined not to step in the way of my goal, and that means keeping things as professional as we can in the gym. Good , I think.
“I’ve been practicing on the aerial hoop,” I tell him, “so I hope so.”
“We’ll see then.” He leads me to the pole.
I stare up at the thirty-foot vertical structure that stands between me and the aerial silk. You can do this, Thora. I exhale a tight breath and step out of my cotton pants.
“Use your core,” he reminds me. “Don’t put all of your weight in your arm.”
I grip the pole. You can do this.
There is so much that says I can’t. But I’m going to try—with everything I have. I begin the climb in thin acro-shoes, using the tips of my toes and hands as I quickly make the ascent.
“Stop at ten feet,” he calls to me.
I gauge that height and halt not even halfway up. I exhale through my nose and tighten my clutch. Then I begin to extend my legs out, toes pointed. The muscles in my forearm burn and my body shakes.
“Use your core, Thora,” he says again.
It’s natural to want to use my arms as the force behind my power. I shut my eyes, exhale again, and try to focus on my abdomen, flexing and extending my body outward. In a curved line. You need to be horizontal , I tell myself.
I have to lift more of my weight. And I need to release one of my hands.
It seems impossible.
Try.
I will.
Two more breaths. My muscles constrict as I raise my body another degree. Every tendon burns. Sweat beads off my forehead.
No longer vibrating, I dig deeper and channel strength in my quads, in my core.
I am horizontal. Then I slowly release one hand. And I immediately grab the pole again. My legs drop like someone poked a balloon, busting whatever helium kept me afloat.
I feel heavier. Sagging in defeat, I slide down the pole, careful the friction doesn’t burn my bare thighs. I touch the blue mat and finally meet Nikolai’s narrowed gaze.
“You look upset,” he says.
“I just thought today I’d be stronger.” I feel like I’m wasting your time when I fail. It’s not a good feeling.
His eyes smile. “Today you were much stronger than yesterday. And tomorrow you’ll be even stronger. That’s the great thing about practice, myshka, you can only go up.”
I’m weightless again. It’s rare that someone else boosts me more than I do myself. “Thanks. I’ll try again tomorrow then.” I figure he’ll want to do some sort of workout: dead lunges, crunches, sit-ups, pull-ups—
“No.” He fractures my thoughts.
“No?”
“We’re moving on.” He nods to the aerial silk.
My shoulders rise, and I’ve already begun to smile. “But I didn’t—”
“You held your weight with one hand. Even for a millisecond, it was a millisecond more than most can do.” He studies me for a second, and I realize that I’m rocking on the balls of my feet, too excited to stay completely still. “You know the basics?” he asks.
I nod rapidly. “Yeah. I can do a Half-Moon and Back Walk-Over and other…stuff.” He’s trying to contain a smile of his own. “What?”
“Nothing.” He places a hand on my shoulder, but his fingers caress my neck, so subtly that chills prick my arms. “This way.”
My heart beats quicker, curious about what he’ll have me do. We reach the red silk, rigged to the high ceiling. But we don’t immediately start. He makes me stretch my arms first.
After that, I slip off my acro-shoes and Nikolai leaves my side. He pulls the fabric apart, displaying two silks. “I need to see your skill level. Show me the splits, a Back Walk-Over, and a simple single-foot-tie-in.”
Before he passes me the nylon material, he grabs a bottle of resin nearby and approaches, the aerial silk skimming my cheek as a foot of space separates us. The fabric opens up, and we’re almost cocooned within the crimson, wispy material.
His intimate gaze cuts through me for a second. He pauses and soaks in my features.
My breath shallows.
“Hold out your palms,” he whispers lowly, the words sounding like sex.
I flip my hands over, and he sprays resin on them, which’ll help my grip on the silk. When he sprays some on his palms, I realize that he may demonstrate later on.
He passes me the silk. “Show me.”
The material is more elastic than what I used in my garage, a higher difficulty, but I’m determined to perform these few tricks and poses. I climb up the silk with my hands, my muscles burning from the earlier routine. I wrap one foot, recalling the technique.
“Where’d you learn this?” he asks, watching me closely.
“Am I doing it wrong?” I wonder, my eyes popping out. I look at my foot, secured in the fabric, to the point where I can stand up with ease. My heel and toes aren’t covered with the red material.
“No, it’s right. I’m just curious.”
“Don’t laugh when I tell you.” I remember when Shay went through my DVDs in my dorm room and snickered like you can’t be serious? Then he actually said, “At least it’s not pole dancing.” I didn’t have the heart to admit to studying YouTube clips of pole dancers and being envious of their tricks.
Nikolai’s brows pinch in more confusion. “I wouldn’t, Thora.”
“I learned from videos. There were more when I got older though, when YouTube existed.” While he digests this, I grip the top of the silk and extend my body, my spine curving inward and creating a shape like I’m flying. Instead of just dangling my other leg, I bend my knee and point my toe.
“You’re self-taught,” he says. “That’s not something anyone should laugh at you for.”
My cheeks heat. And I climb higher on the silk. Then I break it apart and wrap my foot in each. I let go, dropping upside-down. The blood runs to my head, and I easily do the splits by stretching out my legs. Climbs. Wraps. Drops. It’s the bread and butter of this apparatus. That, I do know.
Nikolai is silent for the rest, and after a few more minutes, I finish and drop down. I can’t read his expression well enough to figure out if I’m better than average. So I just ask. “How’d I do?”
“I thought you’d be worse.”
I nod with my hands on my hips, breathing a bit heavier. “That’s good. I’ll take that.”
He rubs his lips and breaks my gaze.
“What?” I frown.
His hand goes to his eyes—he’s rubbing his eyes in distress.
No. What did you do, Thora?
He says, “I want to kiss you—even more than that. It’s distracting me.” He pinches his eyes. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
My belly flips and somersaults and refuses to stay stationary. “Really…?” I pause, wondering if that sounded rude. “I mean, you really want to kiss me? I wasn’t responding to your second…” statement.
He grimaces as he shuts his eyes tightly, as though I’m making it worse.
I’m gaping, very breathy. I manage to close my mouth, but I imagine my lips on his. His body against mine. Tangled together. I try to wipe away the visuals, but they keep coming.
After Nikolai exhales a deep breath, he tries to mask his feelings. He’s more severe again. “You need to work on your presentation.” Back to business.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re performing for an audience, not for yourself. You’re not trying to master the hardest trick, you’re trying to create the illusion that you’re dancing in the air.” He clasps my hand. “Be graceful. Be lithe and elegant with every move you make. Everything about aerial silk should look seamless.”
He combines the silk with one hand and takes a short running start. His feet lift off the ground. He flies like he lives up high. Like he’s never been grounded before. My ribcage juts in and out, watching as he effortlessly circles around me, as he supports his body with one fist wrapped around the silk. He extends his arm out to me.
Grab his hand.
The next time he nears, I do. I clasp his palm, my soles leaving the safety of the blue mat. My heart has never beat this hard. Or this fast.
“Climb up,” he commands.
I scale his rock hard body, as though he’s the pole I’ve been practicing on, and when I reach his chest, I grasp his shoulders.
“Breathe,” he whispers.
I let one out, his eyes boring through me. We start to slow, the momentum depleting. He wraps the second silk around my hand. We’re going to detach. I strangely, strangely would love to stay right here. Pressed against him.
His eyes flit to my lips.
Business only , I try to read his mind. I think I guess right because he forces those gray gunmetal skies on my almost-black irises.
“Inhale,” he instructs.
I’m forgetting to breathe. How am I forgetting to breathe?
I inhale. Exhale. In. And out. Then he pushes me off his body, with so much power that I go flying. I try not to smile too much. Graceful. With this speed, I can spin. So I do. I twirl with pointed toes, using the power he’s given me to go even faster.
When I near him in my full rotation, I reach my hand out, and he seizes it, slinging my body into his chest, not too hard, but enough that a jolt of energy courses through me. Adrenaline. An intoxicating rush.
He hugs me close, one of his hands rising to my face.
Again —I’d love to do this again and again. With him. Only with him. I can’t say I’m entirely graceful and completely lithe. But I feel weightless once more.
It takes me a moment to realize that we’ve decelerated entirely. We’ve come to a stop. He unwinds my hand as though he’s gently removing lingerie, with the most sensual, slow-burning movement. He keeps me clutched to his chest as he descends, his feet hitting the mat before he sets me down.
It feels like we had aerial sex.
Aerial sex. Now I’m thinking about that—the real act of it. Dear God in heaven. Is that even a thing? Do people do that?
He tosses me my towel, waking me up from my dirty stupor. “You still need lots of work.”
“But I’m not hopeless.” I smile.
“Like you said,” he nods to me, “you’re a work in progress . But landing a contract, there’s luck involved. You need some of that too.”
“I know,” I breathe. He’s not trying to elevate my hopes too much.
“That’s it for today. Make sure you wash the resin off your hands and use lotion every night. It’ll dry out your skin if you don’t.”
I dab my sweaty hairline with my towel and just now notice how rigid he is, his shoulders unbending. I slip on my cotton pants and acro-shoes while he puts our water bottles in his gym bag, not saying another word. It spindles more tension in my joints and muscles.
“I’ll walk you out,” he suddenly adds.
He’s never walked me out of the gym before.
The nervous flutters return. I wonder when we leave the gym if business will end. And something else will begin. I’m not sure what happens after we exit the double doors. This is all really new.
Since it’s Sunday and not the morning, there are more than a few people practicing today. We pass a couple doing hand-to-hand tricks, her palm flat on his forehead as she lifts her legs vertically. A handstand. On his head.
Insane.
Nikolai lets out a growl of annoyance. Not at the acrobatic couple. He clasps my hand, tugging me in a new direction before I can even follow his gaze.
Katya lies on top of a giant rolled mat, earbuds in and reading One Last Kiss, Please. The paranormal romance I loaned her. Nikolai drops my hand and yanks out the cord to her iPod.
She gawks at him and sits up. “Hey.” When she notices me, her eyes seem to light up. “Hi, Thora. I just got to the best part—”
“You’re supposed to be practicing,” he cuts her off, and a wave of guilt washes over me. My book has inadvertently become a distraction, but in my defense, that is one hell of a good werewolf-vampire novel.
“I am,” she says. “In my mind.” She’s about to put her earbuds back in and lie down again.
He steals her iPod and the book out of her hands.
“Nik—”
“You almost didn’t land a tucked back somersault on Friday.”
I remember Nikolai mentioning that she works with the Russian bar, as the flyer apparently. It’s dangerous, an elevated balance beam held by two people at each end. She springs into the air and has to land straight back down. But I guess, what isn’t dangerous here.
Her mouth falls. “Luka told you that?”
“He’s one of your porters , Katya. If you fall and break your leg, he’s going to blame himself.” Her older brother must help support the bar, I deduce.
“I wasn’t going to fall,” she mutters, the remorse pulling her lips down.
“If you want to try out for Noctis, you need a full-in, full-out or a triple sault, and you’re not going to get there by sitting on your ass, reading…” He scrutinizes the paperback’s title and cover (legs intertwined on a blue silk sheet) with confusion and then gives me a weird look.
“It’s a good book,” I assure him. Though I start to wonder whether it’s age appropriate. I mean, I was reading explicit adult books at twelve—but I didn’t really understand some of the graphic sex scenes. Sixteen can’t be that bad.
“I love it,” Katya adds, reaching out to snatch it back.
He stuffs it in his black gym bag with her iPod. “It’s mine until your practice is over.”
“You’re so mean,” she says, sliding off the rolled mat and thudding to her feet. “It’s not like I’m ever going to land a full-in, full-out.”
It dawns on me. That’s why she doesn’t even want to try. “Who says you can’t do it?” I ask.
“The universe,” she tells me dramatically. “I was born a girl.”
I don’t understand. “So?”
“So my brothers are always better than me. I do everything slower than them, so there’s no point.” To live in the shadow of the male Kotovas, of every sibling and cousin—it must be hard.
“Don’t you want to at least try to show them up?”
“I have tried,” she refutes. “It’s impossible.”
Nikolai cocks his head. “You’ve never even stayed late after practice.”
She crosses her arms over her white tank top. “It’s not that easy.”
I don’t want to gang up on her. So I say, “I know the feeling. I spent most of my days in gymnastics, trying to be better than my best friend. And I never was. Not once. He always won. But every time I tried to beat him, I actually ended up improving anyway. So there were some positives in there.” I realize I might be rambling, so I add quickly, “I just like to look on the bright side of things, I guess.”
She’s quiet for a moment, mulling over her thoughts. Then she turns to her brother. “You better give that book back to me. I’m at the part where Rafael fights Derek.”
That’s the climax. “It’s a good part,” I tell Nikolai.
His lips almost tic into a smile. Then he nods to his sister, agreeing to return the book later. “You’re going to practice.” It’s an assumption.
“Yeah.”
It’s a right assumption.
She leaves with a wave, and Nikolai guides me back towards the double doors. He doesn’t speak. The conversation with Katya seems to flit away, left behind us.
His arm brushes my shoulders and my pulse kicks up, even more so when he rests it there, drawing me closer to his side. The no talking has my mind on a freefall, unable to pick apart what’ll happen soon. I just descend.
Quick. Fast.