He gestures to me and then to the mat with all the other girls. Nikolai tries to talk above him, but this only sparks another verbal shouting match.
Helen struts to the mats, approaching from a safe distance. “Thora, that’s it for you,” she says. “You can take a seat and wait for the other girls to audition. We’re making the first round of cuts at the end of the day.”
Her words knock me backwards a bit. She might as well have said: you failed so much that we only gave you five minutes instead of fifteen. My legs feel heavy as I trudge over to the girls. They shift nervously and none make snide comments or laugh and jeer about my cat-in-heat routine.
I plop down beside Kaitlin, who remains quiet. And I watch Nikolai and the choreographer come to a somewhat peace, their hands raised like let’s end this and move on.
When they separate, Nikolai rubs his jaw and takes a few extra paces behind Helen. The older man stays on the sidelines of the blue mats. And it’s Helen who calls the next girl forward.
“Number 1,” she says.
Elena, the bleach-blonde, gracefully rises to her feet, nearly gliding to a halt in front of Helen. In her green leotard, her limbs seem thinner and her chest flatter.
I don’t even want to watch, my insides stretching to their limits. I fiddle with my fingers, pushing down my cuticles while I cross my legs.
“You’re a flower in a meadow,” Helen says. What?
My heart stops.
“The winds are strong,” Helen continues, and Elena begins to sway back and forth, like she’s performing a lyrical dance.
This whole time, he wasn’t messing with me? Nikolai observes Elena with a stiff, rigid posture. While the young gymnast pretends to be blown over, I try to make sense of my audition.
He was really trying to help me.
From the beginning, maybe.
Trust me.
He said that last night. Trust. I was supposed to do as he said, without question, because he’s supposed to be my partner. If I get this role. It’s looking grim now.
“Purr,” Helen instructs. She might as well have kicked me in the gut.
And apparently humans can purr. The sound that Elena produces is like a vibration off her tongue.
Fuck my life.
I tuck my legs to my chest, and I plaster my gaze right on Nikolai, hoping he’ll feel the heat off my stare. I’m not looking for reassurance. I think, mostly, I want to apologize. I should’ve stepped out of my box today. He was trying to pull me out of it, and I fought back. I resisted.
He concentrates solely on Elena.
“You’re madly in love with the blue mat,” Helen tells her.
And that’s when Nikolai has enough of my penetrating gaze. He finally turns his head and gives me a look like I’m working, Thora before I can offer an apologetic one.
I mouth, I’m sorry.
I wish I could have a redo. I’m not sure I’d be a better horny cat or a more vicious dog, but I wouldn’t have faltered so much.
I would’ve barreled forward, no matter how awkward I felt.
He shakes his head at me like it’s over now. But his eyes seem to soften a fraction before he returns them to Elena.
I can’t believe this is how it’s all ending.
Act Four
After each girl auditions, the directors go into deliberation and Helen says that we can look around the gym while we wait for first cuts.
I end up in the locker rooms, scanning the names on the blue metaled doors. I don’t think I was the worst one at acting. One girl was asked to be fire and water, and she ended up doing the worm. But I definitely didn’t possess Elena’s grace or Kaitlin’s head-first, no-holds-barred gusto.
Honestly, I think I faded into the background.
I skim my fingers over a worn name scribbled on the locker label: Dimitri
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I jump at the deep voice behind me. Nikolai leans his shoulder on a blue locker, arms crossed, his dark hair spilling over his red bandana. His intensity doesn’t diminish.
“You never asked me anything,” I whisper, even though it’s already quiet here.
He blinks a few times and lets out an exasperated laugh before shaking his head like he can’t believe this happened. I can’t either. “At The Red Death,” he begins, “did you even know what I was going to do?”
“I told you it was my first time in Vegas.”
He rubs his lips, upset it seems. “I assumed you heard about what happens from a friend.”
“No,” I say. “I knew nothing.”
His face turns grave, and he stares at the concrete floor, processing what this means.
“You never asked,” I reiterate this.
“Because I thought you were no one!” he shouts at me, frustration lining his forehead. “I don’t ask anyone at The Red Death anything, Thora. I don’t want to hear about their lives while they’re in Vegas for the weekend. There’s no point. It’s exhausting and I’d rather assume…” he trails off, realizing he assumed wrong this time.
“I should’ve said something then,” I tell him. “You’re right.” I can’t even recall why I stayed quiet. Maybe because I was ticked off by his lack of questions. Maybe because I was overwhelmed. Mentally, emotionally—last night is far off compared to today.
I find myself sitting on the wooden bench between the lockers. Silence stretches between us. I expect him to leave, but he stays in the same place.
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” I say softly, my eyes threatening to well with defeated tears. “You won’t see me around anymore.”
He lets out an exasperated noise and walks deeper into the locker room, nearing me. He stops a few feet away. “Look at me, myshka,” he says lowly.
I lift my gaze to his.
“Don’t count your losses before you see the scoreboard.” While encouraging, he still looks agitated. “It’ll plague you with insecurities that aren’t worth your energy or emotions.”
He just passed me an ounce of hope. Maybe out of pity. I’ll take it though. “Thanks for helping me, before,” I suddenly tell him. “I didn’t realize what you were doing…”
“The choreographers usually judge easier on the first person who auditions. They know you’re blindfolded for it unlike the others.” He drops his gaze again, something he rarely does, I’ve noticed. “I’m not going to lie. I was angry when I first saw you, and I still am.”
“Yeah, I can tell,” I whisper.
He nods a couple times. “But I wanted to give you a better shot because I felt like I put you at a disadvantage, and that wasn’t fair to you.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
His eyes rise to mine again. “Our relationship,” he says, “is unprofessional.”
I sway back a little. “I wasn’t aware we had a relationship.”
He still towers above me. “Whatever you want to call it—it’s not right. I don’t shit where I eat. I pierce and tattoo people looking to have fun in Vegas. I give them an experience. You were here for a job.” He shakes his head. “I regret what I did. More than you can possibly know.”
“Don’t,” I tell him. “It’s just a piercing. And I said it was okay.”
“We may work together,” he says. “It’s not just a piercing to me.” He gestures to my small frame. “And how old are you?” He grimaces some. “Please tell me that you’re not eighteen.” Maybe because he supplied me shots all night. Or because he fondled my boob, and that’d mean we’d have a significant age gap than the one that already exists. I’m going with the latter.