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.