“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” the familiar male voice says. “It’s just that I don’t trust you.” I imagine John Ruiz’s surly, unapologetic face.
“That makes perfect sense,” Nikolai replies. “What am I going to do with Thora’s clothes? Steal them? Wear them for myself?”
My clothes. I’m opening the door in a flash, too pleased with the slant of the universe, dipping on my side. My solution just walked into Nikolai’s suite with my suitcase. I creep into the living room, my toes throbbing from the torture I put them through last night.
It isn’t until John sees me that I notice my mistake. His eyes travel down the length of my body, clad in a black button-down. Nikolai’s shirt. And nothing else.
The universe giveth and taketh away.
“I can explain,” I say quickly. “We didn’t…” I motion between Nikolai and me. He stays quiet, domineering, not helping at all. “Do anything—we didn’t do anything. I just didn’t have a change of clothes.” It’s the best excuse there is. Maybe because it’s true.
“It’s not my business,” he says, my hefty suitcase by his side. “But either way you’re still certifiably insane.” He lets out a dry laugh. “You really would rather stay with him than go to a hotel or a hostel. Honestly, Thora, I pegged you as a degree above stupid.”
A degree above stupid must be a fairly good compliment from John.
Nikolai’s biceps flex, a sign that he’s ticked off. “And what’d I do to you?”
John never backs down. Not even shrinking in place. Even if Nikolai is taller, broader, and a year older—John is angrier, moodier, and tapping into the I hate this fucking world vibe with expertise.
“For starters,” John begins, “you turn a perfectly good club into an idiot fest every Saturday night. And the rest of you Kotovas are all the same. Thinking you’re above the rules. Your little brother practically pisses everywhere he goes—”
“You can leave,” Nikolai interrupts, his jaw hardened severely. His muscles coiled, on offense.
They have some sort of staring match that I can’t make sense of. John unflinchingly stays his course, as though he expected that type of reaction from Nikolai. He breaks the eye contact first, not in defeat really. He just hands my suitcase off to me, and I grab the handle.
“Camila told me to tell you not to ditch her just because you’re not crashing at her place anymore,” he says. “She doesn’t have many friends who stick around here.”
I nod, my heart swelling that she’d even want to stay in touch. “I’ll text her. Thanks for this.”
He shrugs. “Camila made me do it. Don’t think I’m a nice guy.”
“That’d be impossible,” Nikolai says, his voice deep and threatening.
John rolls his eyes dramatically before giving me a half-wave and exiting out the main door. When he shuts it behind him, Nikolai spins back to me. As if nothing happened, he says, “Get dressed. We have practice.”
Right.
Practice with the God of Russia.
I wonder if I’m about to see why he’s called that.
Act Fifteen
Aerial Ethereal’s gym within the hotel & casino seems different now that I’m no longer auditioning. I still feel like an interloper, but not quite as much as before. Sunday morning, only a few coaches and choreographers linger by the glass office doors. Barely any artists practice now, and I have a feeling their main source of training comes from ten live shows a week.
Nikolai has spent the past fifteen minutes giving me a tutorial on circus equipment, probably waiting for my hangover to subside. I stumbled into his body three times, still slightly intoxicated. I’ve never been that black-out drunk before, so this is all new to me.
I’m just proud of myself for not vomiting.
He places his hands on my shoulders, rotating me towards the apparatus. I’ve been staring at the wall for two minutes. Dear God. He gestures to the red aerial silk that’s rigged on the eighty-foot ceiling.
“I know this one,” I tell him. “I had a makeshift silk in my garage.” My dad helped me rig it when I was fourteen. At the time, I think he believed it’d stay a hobby. If he thought it’d turn into a career aspiration, I wonder if he’d still lend a hand or allow it.
Nikolai pinches my chin and turns my head to face him. “That’s dangerous, Thora.”
“It was secure,” I defend as he releases his grip, my attention now his. It’s harder to capture when I’m hungover, and I can tell it’s frustrating him. “I never got hurt.”
“You could have,” he refutes. “You’ll work on this equipment. Don’t go to a different gym or build your own apparatuses.” I catch the concern in his voice, and I guess his paranoia comes somewhere fresh. Tatyana, his old partner, was injured for reasons unsaid.
Honestly, I’m too nervous to ask why. He’s been more than generous, and I’d rather not scare him off with my insensitive curiosity.
“This way.” He rests a hand on the small of my back, guiding me across the gym to a new apparatus, the aerial silk already out of view. We barely spent any time there, but maybe it’s awkward. It’s the discipline I lost out to Elena. It’s the one they’re using together, not me.
After showing me around the Russian swing, a large apparatus that oscillates front to back, allowing the flyer greater height, he brings me to a new kind of structure. Something built specifically for a show. It looks like a metal jungle gym, or metal cubes stacked together, bars and bars. And a teeterboard lies underneath.
“That’s dangerous,” I point out. I imagine someone jumping on the end of the teeterboard, catapulting an artist at the other end, like a springy seesaw. If they’re off, even a degree, they could smack into a metal bar. Hit their head. Land wrong on one—this is a death trap.
“It appears that way,” he says, “but there’s enough room for a triple layout. Every movement has to be precise and calculated, but that’s with anything here.” He takes a few steps to the side and watches me. “When you stare at this, what do you see?”
I take a deep breath and inspect the bars from afar. “A jungle gym?” I’m not sure if this is the right answer.
“What do you feel?” he asks.
I open my mouth, unsure of what I’ll even say. But I hesitate as he sits on the blue mats, his forearms resting on his knees. “Show me,” he says, about ten feet from the apparatus.
I look at him uncertainly and he nods in encouragement. Okay. I try to smother drunken, hungover Thora James as I approach the metal structure. Up close, it dwarfs me, looming like the bare bones of a futuristic house. I rub some chalk on my palms and grip one of the cold bars, a vertical beam.
Nikolai says a few Russian words to someone by the glass office, and they slip back inside. Melodic, sweet sounds fill the cavernous gym, the main speakers playing a familiar song that simultaneously soothes and quickens my pulse. I recognize it as “One Day I’ll Fly Away” from Moulin Rouge.
What do I feel?
I exhale another breath and use my upper-body strength to lift my torso horizontal. I concentrate on the angle and then reach out for another beam, this one like monkey bars. I jump onto it and then swing my body out, gaining more momentum.