40. Act Forty
ACT FORTY
R oger ushers me along a dark corridor. Another girl in lingerie shuts a door and walks back up the hall. I cover my chest with my arms, hiding my mesh, push-up bra, the white fabric see-through. Barbells and nipples unfortunately visible. I would’ve never chosen this outfit, but I had nothing else. I was lucky enough that they had an extra costume, Roger told me.
The bra is a half-size too small, and the cups squeeze my boobs uncomfortably together. I refuse to look down at the panties, also mesh, also white, and only covering half of my ass. If I do look, I may chicken out.
“Same deal as if you’re on stage,” Roger tells me quickly. “You’ll have a purple light flash at the one minute mark, and then you descend, bow or whatever the fuck you do. Leave out the back, alright?”
I nod. The neon sign at the end of the hallway says: yes yes ohh yes
We stop by a closed door, and he puts a hand on my shoulder. “Hey, look fucking sexy, not like you’re going to hurl on the clients.”
I swallow more nausea. “Sorry.”
He shakes his head at me like come on, girl. And then he grabs my wrists so that I’m no longer in a shell, my boobs exposed. “You’re lucky that you even have a gig. Other girls would kill for this.” Roger has expressed this sentiment about six times in the past five minutes.
You’re lucky, Thora James. Be excited.
My body is anything but. I try to exhale my reservations. Maybe when I see the hoop, all the nerves will float away. It’ll feel normal and natural again.
There you go.
You can do this.
“Don’t hurl,” Roger demands again. And then he turns the knob, letting me inside the mysterious room. With each step, I concentrate on all the pros to this decision and willfully ignore the cons. It buries more of my anxiety.
I see the low metal hoop and the black leather couch it faces. Two men, in suits. Waiting for me. I quickly look away, avoiding eye contact. As soon as I near the hoop, I realize I’m close enough to outstretch my arm and touch the men.
They’re middle-aged, I guess. Businessmen, according to their clean-shaven faces, their well-groomed hair.
The music kicks on. Thank you. The sultry tune puts me in motion, and I begin to dance around the hoop, to the best of my ability. I’m nearly naked. Don’t fixate on it. My body is stiffer than usual, even with these last-ditch encouragements.
It’s so hard to be lithe and beautiful and graceful when my raucous pulse has decided to be even more erratic. Inside I’m steel drums and metal bands. Outside, I’m hopefully classical portraits and poetry.
“Do you see her piercings?” I hear one of them whisper, his voice too eager.
“She’s—” Ignore.
I’m sure it looks like I’m painting by numbers, my joints tense and needing oiled. I can’t help it though. My mind and body are in another heated disagreement.
I make a quick decision and cut the dancing short. I jump to grab the bottom rung of the hoop. Unlike the main stage, this hoop is stationary and won’t rise any higher than it is.
I swing my leg over the bottom rung and begin to spin, creating large circles before I hook my ankles and drop upside-down. And this—this is worse than dancing.
I stare right at them, so close that I distinguish their eye colors. Blue and hazel. Blue Eyes leans into his friend next to him, his gaze still pinned to me, sizing me up. Sweeping me over. Undressing the last of my clothes.
The sickness returns. Swallow it . I try. I always try.
But it’s like he’s marking every bit of me in his memory. Every freckle. Every eyelash. Like I belong to him tonight. How is this different than Nikolai being on stage? He was the object of your gaze, moments ago, Thora. My conscience is working hard to sway me. But it is different. For starters, Nikolai is far away from the audience. He’s not physically this close.
And I’m not an awe-inspiring aerialist like him. People pay to watch his talent. I’m just a woman these two men bought for the night, to ogle and fantasize.
My nerves fire off, vibrating my concentration. And in one second, my grip loosens, and I fall. Hard, on my shoulder, my tendons shrieking in pain.
“Jesus, are you okay?” Hazel Eyes jumps to his feet, and he hovers over me.
“I’m fine,” I say softly. “Sorry about…” I trail off as his hand rests on my elbow and my hip, helping me to a stance. His touch coils the rest of my muscles. In the small space between the hoop and the couch, my legs have knocked into his. I inhale, and the strong musk of his cologne churns my stomach.
I can’t.
I can’t.
“I’m sorry,” I say, backing up abruptly, and my head collides with the metal hoop. Fuck. That really hurt. White spots dance in my vision.
“Careful,” Hazel Eyes tells me, but I push away from him before he steadies me again. I press my hand to my forehead, shuffling back in my stiletto heels.
“I can’t. I’m sorry.” I recognize how much I don’t want to do this. And the sad thing is that I wish I could suck it up and finish the act. I wish I could be that fearless, no-holds-barred girl. Who can separate work and emotions—who can bask in the paycheck afterwards.
But I found my personal limitation. I can’t do whatever it takes to be here. I want to be okay with that, I do. I should be. You tried, Thora.
“What do you mean?” Blue Eyes asks.
I shake my pounding head in a daze. “I’m sorry.” And I rush out of the room before anyone stops me. I beeline down the dark corridor, walking as fast as my heart hammers. Once in the dressing room, I catch sight of myself in a vanity mirror, my skin ashen and a stream of blood trickling down my forehead.
“Fantastic,” I mutter, my throat swollen. I snatch a tissue and blot the skin that’s split open. I pass a couple giggling dancers to reach my locker. Which is…empty.
What? I turn to one of the dancers in confusion.
“Lana was pissed you took her gig,” the go-go dancer says.
I didn’t even realize it was hers. “So she stole my clothes?”
“I think she threw them in the trash out back.”
My eyes burn. Right. I inhale, pressure bearing on my chest.
“Virgin Mary.”
My blood runs cold at Roger’s voice. Maybe this is all karma. But if I didn’t try tonight…I would’ve always questioned if I did everything I could. I know I’m justifying a mistake so that I’ll feel better, but it’s easier than living with bigger regret.
The moment I feel it, I’ll start crying. And I don’t want to cry right now. I just want to go fall asleep and pretend that everything turned out in my favor. That I’m lucky, just like Roger said.
I shield my boobs with my arm and face him.
His anger flushes his skin. “What are you fucking doing?”
“I can’t…” I feel blood trickle down my forehead sliding over my brow. I try to dab it up with the tissue.
Roger notices. “Because you bumped your head? Wipe it off and get your ass back there. You’ve committed tonight. They paid for you.”
“I quit.”
He’s boiling. “Are you shitting me? You just started.” He shakes his head repeatedly. “Okay, you have two options.” He raises two fingers in my face. “You go and finish your act, or you pay for the time you’ve wasted the club.”
I can’t finish. I know I can’t. I’ll puke all over myself, for one. For another, I can’t live with the memory of them watching me like that. I already want to scrub the partial one from my brain.
“I’ll pay,” I say.
“One grand.”
I feel more color drain from my cheeks. “I…I don’t have that kind of money.”
“Then get your ass back in that room.”
I made a costly mistake—one that was supposed to do the inverse of what’s happening now. I can’t even worry about paying for rent. That’s gone. It’s not even on the table anymore. Maybe I can max out credit cards and search for a solution later.
“I’ll pay you.”
He rolls his eyes like make up your fucking mind. I’ve made it. I made it the moment I walked out of the private room. I’m certain that I’m never walking back in.
In the next five minutes, I find a thin blue jacket, zipper broken. If I choose to pull it closed over my chest, the hem rises higher than my ass. I pick my losses and expose my bottom, in favor of not flashing everyone. Then, with Roger’s assistance, I swipe credit cards and pay off a debt.
I’m out of Phantom for good.
Tonight of all nights.
Not long after, I teeter in my high heels along the uneven cobblestone, inside The Masquerade’s lobby. Blood drips down my forehead, and I am one-hundred percent mooning people on the slots. I’m pale. Close to crying. And just really, really wanting to erase myself.
For just one moment.
Please.
“Thora!”
My heart lurches, and I rotate towards the voice.
Nikolai is running down the east wing, past a 24-hour café and gift shop, silver and purple paint streaked over his eyes. But it can’t mask his raw concern.
I sway to a stop, queasy and despondent, too many feelings entering me at once. Don’t cry. His distraught presence tries to puncture the dam I’ve built. I skim him quickly: shirtless, red slacks, hair slicked back—he’s in his costume. I check the giant 1920s inspired clock that hangs in the center lobby. Amour is still playing, isn’t it?
“Thora…” He reaches me, his phone in a fist. His other hand holds my face, scrutinizing the line of blood. His eyes flit rapidly over my features, studying my state of being.
“What happened?” I ask him.
He flies over my question. “A guy hit you with something,” he states, brushing my hair back and examining the cut. His phone rings incessantly, adding to my confusion. He lets out an irritated growl at his cell, ignoring the call.
I hone in on that phone. “Did Amour end?” I think I know the answer. And it scares me.
“Thora—” His phone rings again. He curses under his breath, presses another button, and slips it in his pocket. He holds my face once more. “What the fuck happened?” The distress in his eyes nearly sweeps me backwards.
I open my mouth to gush forth the night’s events, but those words aren’t the ones that come. “Why are you here? I mean, how are you here?”
He breathes heavily, like I’m chasing him up a mountain with these questions. He’s making me just as out of breath with uncertainty. He glances over my shoulder, and before I have time to capsize his previous assumptions, he storms towards Phantom, where I just left. Where I am never returning.
I sprint around him, almost face-planting with these stupid heels. But I manage to place my palms on his chest, in a runner’s stance. “Stop.” I try to push him backwards with all my might.
“We’ve already played this game before.” He peels my hands off.
That’s right. We did this in The Red Death. And I lost. But I foolishly never stop trying.
My failures are finally starting to catch up to me.
“What are you planning on doing?” I question with a frown.
“Do you even know what you look like right now?” His voice is gritty with anger. “You’re pale. You’re bleeding, and I have no idea—”
“I hurt myself,” I tell him. “I smacked into the hoop. Okay?” I try to push him back again, but he’s not budging. And he’s still glaring at the direction of Phantom, as though my pain and all the answers lie there.
His phone rings again. “Goddammit,” he curses and puts the cell to his ear. He shouts Russian, and my insides start to twist again.
He left Amour for you.
I shove him in the chest, pissed, tears welling. “Go back…right now, go back.” He still has time. He can make the last act, right?
Except for the firm hand on my shoulder, Nikolai ignores me, focusing on his phone conversation. He can’t be here right now. I grip his wrist and try to yank him towards The Masquerade’s globe auditorium, marching ahead.
His foreign words accelerate, and then he shouts at me, “Thora!” Just my name, his arm hooking around my waist and drawing me back into him, so quickly. He spins me and opens my jacket, skimming the length of my body, noticing my wardrobe for the first time.
He must have seen my exposed bottom, when I tried to tug him in the other direction. I swat his hands off and point towards the auditorium. He shakes his head like no. But he only speaks Russian, to the phone line, trying to multitask between me and someone else. He touches his bare chest, as if ready to give me his nonexistent shirt.
His costume just reminds me where he should be.
“Go back,” I say, my eyes stinging with tears. “You shouldn’t…” I choke on my own words, guilt pummeling me. And I inhale. “You can’t be here.”
He gives me a harsh look like how can you think I wouldn’t?
“You go back,” I tell him strongly. “And I’m going to leave you now. Okay?”
He speaks rapidly in the phone as I begin to walk away, towards the revolving glass doors. “Thora!” He catches up to me, slipping his cell into his pocket. He draws me to his chest again, shielding my half-naked body from the old women at slots, the casino carpet semi-full of gamblers.
“Let me go, Nik,” I say in a shaky tone.
His gray eyes puncture me. “There’s no chance of that. So stop pushing me away right now.”
I try to layer on a glare of my own, and I point at the east wing again. “You can still finish—”
“I can’t.” It’s a knife in my gut. “Amour ended.”
I relax a bit with this new hope. “So you left after it finished?”
He shakes his head once.
And my heart nosedives. “No,” I wince. “Nik, you can’t—”
“I did,” he forces. “I chose you tonight, and you have to fucking accept that so I can take care of you.” If our situations were reversed, he would’ve never let me pick him. He would’ve made me stay at the show. This isn’t right.
“The circus is your love,” I whisper. “You told me that, remember? You can’t choose me over your passion.”
He stares at me with this stern expression, like we’re back at the gym. And then he lifts me in his arms, his hands underneath my bottom, covering my ass from onlookers. My legs instinctively wrap around his waist, even though I want to be on the ground.
I want him to reverse time and not chase after me. I never wanted my dreams to negatively impact him, and I’m beginning to realize they have. Right now, they’re tearing through his life, and I don’t need him to be assailed by the paths I take.
“Put me down,” I say.
He ignores me, carrying me to the elevators. His phone starts ringing again, but he talks over the default tone. “Luka texted me during the show.”
I curl my hands into shaky fists. I feel horrible. “You should’ve stayed until it ended. I was fine.”
He jaw locks, and he glares down at me. “You’re bleeding, barely clothed and shaking. That’s not fine, Thora.” He punches the light on the elevator, thankfully no one else waiting for one. It’s not long before doors slide open.
Once inside, Nikolai sets me on my feet and he swipes his keycard, pressing the number of his floor.
As we begin to rise, I rest my body against the mirrored wall. “There’s nothing you could’ve done. I had to try, to see if I could do this,” I choke out the last words.
His nose flares as he restrains more emotion. And then he stares down at me like I’ve impaled him repeatedly tonight, but doesn’t he understand…
“I took you away from your job,” I nearly cry. On top of more awful outcomes tonight. “I feel so badly…”
“What do you want me to say?” His voice is so low. “Do you want me to apologize for caring about you?”
I shake my head. “No.” I blink, and tears roll down.
He steps forward, to comfort me, but I raise a hand to stop him. “Myshka—”
“This only works if we don’t choose each other first.” He knows I’m talking about our relationship.
He tilts his head at me, with that no-nonsense look.
“I may leave soon,” I remind him. “Are you going to run after me then?” His whole world is in Vegas. His life, his family, his career. I’m just a small blip that will fly in and out.
His eyes redden. “Do you want me to feel guilty for loving you?”
It’s one of the most painful things—each word, each syllable. “I just—I want you to always choose the circus over me.”
He shakes his head repeatedly, and I can’t tell if he’s rejecting this notion or if he’s just hoping it’ll never come to fruition. He will push me towards Somnio if I land the role, and I have a horrible feeling that he’ll want to leave everything behind to join me.
“I’ll stay here,” I say. “I’ll choose you if you choose me.”
“No,” he forces. And then his face hardens, understanding my initial proclamation. This only works if we don’t pick each other.
“You once told me that there are things you can’t leave behind. You meant your family.” I point at the floor. “You meant Katya, and Luka, and Timo and all the people you love .”
“You’re a part of my family, whether you realize it or not.”
It rocks me back. And he steps closer now. His eyes dance over my features. He uses the hem of my jacket to wipe my cut that still bleeds.
“We don’t have to decide anything tonight,” he says.
I nod. “I’m broke.” I just come right out and say it. He doesn’t look surprised, so I elaborate, “I owed Phantom a grand for bailing on the gig tonight. I was stupid, right?”
His face hardens. “You couldn’t have known…” He shakes his head. “We don’t have foresight. You take risks, some pay off, others don’t. But we all have to take them.”
The weight on my chest starts to lift some. “Can you…let me know when the hard choices end? I mean, there has to be a point for both of us, right…where there are only easy choices left to make?” My voice cracks. “Right?”
He cups my face, his thumb drying my tears. “Thora,” he says my name like it comes from a place deep, deep within him. “Whatever you need, I’m going to give you.”
“A place to stay?” I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand.
He kisses my lips, hot pressure beneath the touch, a silent yes.
“A shirt,” I whisper.
Another kiss, this time, his body melding against mine, more urgent. I stand on the tips of my toes, to reach him.
Tears keep streaming, wetting his hands that hold my jaw. “Tissues?”
He smiles into the next kiss. A breath away, he says, “Yes, myshka.”
I never thought that love could be this difficult. Once you have it—that should be it. No more hardships. No more confusion. But clarity hasn’t struck me yet.
There’s just more guilt. And my only hope is by January, we’ll be free of it.