My feet hit the mat, and my knees instantly buckle beneath me. I thud on my ass, and while I stifle the heat of failure, Nikolai towers above my small frame.
“Do you want to be an AE artist?” he asks in a growl.
“You know I do…”
“Then listen to me,” he seethes. “If I tell you to jump, you jump. If I tell you to get the fuck down, you get the fuck down. Without question.”
I nod tensely, my calf cramping so cruelly that I can’t do much else but cringe and wish for it to stop. I imagine my muscles constricting to the point of snapping, band by band. It’s illogical, but it’s the feeling, most definitely. Pulling and snapping.
With a heavy breath, Nikolai sits and splays my leg across his lap. My quads visibly spasm, and he applies pressure to my thigh muscle, massaging the area. He watches my reaction and my muscles like he’s accustomed to cramps of this nature. I’ve had them, maybe once. When I forgot to stretch. But not this extreme.
He digs his fingers a little deeper in my thigh. I wince and instinctively reach behind me, gripping the pole. I rest my spine and head against it.
“Relax,” Nikolai says huskily.
It’s hard. For multiple reasons. My whole body wants to lock by his closeness, my nerves flapping. “I’m trying,” I whisper.
His brows knot as he concentrates on my legs. My hamstrings suddenly tighten, and a literal cry breaches my lips.
His eyes flicker up to me, just once. And I see something different in those grays—something that causes his Adam’s apple to bob. Without much falter, he massages underneath my thigh, and I reach out and hold onto his forearm.
“Wait,” I say, unsure of whether he’s making it worse or better.
“Breathe normally,” he instructs. “It’ll help.”
I blow out like I’m in a Lamaze class.
With my hand still clasped to him, he kneads my muscles. They slowly begin to uncoil, the pain lessening with his rhythmic movements. My next breath is almost a relieved sigh. “Thanks,” I manage to say.
“You need to drink more water,” he tells me. “And how much are you eating?” His eyes find me again, and they carry this real concern. It’s a new look from him.
“I was on a twenty-five-hundred calorie diet in college,” I say softly, watching his hand move back up my thigh. The gymnastics team had a nutritionist that gave us tips about healthy eating.
“You used the past tense.”
“Well…since I’ve been here, I haven’t been able to really eat…as much.” My voice trails off at his glare.
“When you work with me, you’re on a three-thousand calorie diet,” he demands. “No exceptions. And I’ll start you on a few supplements, the ones that the female artists take in AE.” He pauses before he adds, “I’ll get a copy of their nutrition plan for you.”
Three-thousand calories. I try to add up the cost of eating that much a day.
Plus the cost of new costumes.
Plus rent.
And the down payment.
I already feel sick.
But I have to make it work, somehow.
“I’ll help you stretch and then we’ll call it a day. I don’t want you to pull a muscle.” His hands no longer apply pressure, but they remain on my bare skin, on my thigh. His intense gray eyes graze the length of my legs.
My lungs collapse as silence stretches for an extra moment or two. “…sounds good,” I say to break the quiet.
He turns his head some, like he’s lost in thought.
I lick my chapped lips. “I’m sorry, for before. I should’ve listened to you and come down.”
“It’s not all you. I have a lot I’m dealing with, and I’m just trying to be more cautious.”
I wonder if he’s referring to his old partner or his new one. I haven’t asked about his training with Elena because it’s never surfaced until now. Curiosity overpowers me. “How’s Elena?” I put it out there.
His hands run down to my knee, resting there. “She’s decent.” He chooses his words carefully. “A fast enough learner, but she’s young and not as emotive as…” He stops himself, shutting down some, like he’s drawing up the bridge of his fortress.
“Tatyana?” I wonder.
He nods. “It’s not fair to compare anyone to Tatyana. She was a third generation acrobat and one of the best in her discipline.” He shrugs, unbendingly. It’s probably still raw—her injury and dismissal from Amour. “I shouldn’t tell you this. It’s not important to your training.”
“But it’s important to you,” I say under my breath.
He flashes a weak smile. “Which has no business in the gym.”
Right. “You forget,” I point out, “that we’re already unprofessional.”
He smiles, a real one this time. “I never forget, myshka.” He rises and holds out his hand for me. Without hesitation, I take it, and Nikolai helps me to my feet.
Act Twenty
By the end of the week, my body has gone through a brutal beating. The tiniest muscles ache, even the ones in my pinky finger. I can’t support my weight with only my hand yet, not while extending my legs outward in a horizontal, straight line. So we haven’t moved onto aerial silk. I just keep envisioning my final goal: a contract with Aerial Ethereal. Any contract, honestly. I’d even take Magus which is still in the early planning stages.
I try not to focus on the five-month deadline where Elena will grace the globe auditorium in Amour, and my parents will believe that I’m supposed to be there. I’m still trying to formulate another lie to keep them in Cincinnati before that happens.
Tonight, I practice the art of relaxation.
The Red Death is at maximum capacity, a long line spindling outside the door. Like every Saturday night. A perk to knowing Camila: I just slipped right on by again. Currently pop remixes blare through speakers and create a unity of grinding bodies.
I rotate my blue glow choker, the connector resting against the back of my neck. Admittedly, I hesitated on whether to take an “it’s complicated” necklace—but it’s not really that complicated, I guess. Nikolai is training me. That’s it.
I grab a shot of tequila from Camila while she mans the bar, green glow ring atop her curls. She has more colorful makeup on, pink sparkles beneath her eyes and cheeks, gold glitter on her neck and collarbones.
“I can’t believe you haven’t fucked him yet!” She shouts to me over the music. Then she leans closer, forearms on the bar. First thing she asked was my relationship status.
I can’t be the only girl who’d choose this path. “We’re just friends,” I assure her.
Camila looks disappointed, like she was ready to pass me extra celebratory shots.
“Why the hell are you pouting?” John asks his cousin. He sits on the stool next to me, fisting a beer. “And please don’t tell me you’re living vicariously through Thora’s sex life. That’s just sad. Especially since you have a boyfriend—no, not a boyfriend actually. More like a fuck face, piece of shit.” He raises his beer to her in cheers.
My eyes grow big. I met Craig at Camila’s apartment during my couch-surfing days. He seemed normal. Nice, even. He brought Camila a bouquet of roses, just because.
Though I can’t deny their intense verbal sparring matches that shook the walls at night. Maybe John knows about those.