He tosses me my towel, waking me up from my dirty stupor. “You still need lots of work.”
“But I’m not hopeless.” I smile.
“Like you said,” he nods to me, “you’re a work in progress. But landing a contract, there’s luck involved. You need some of that too.”
“I know,” I breathe. He’s not trying to elevate my hopes too much.
“That’s it for today. Make sure you wash the resin off your hands and use lotion every night. It’ll dry out your skin if you don’t.”
I dab my sweaty hairline with my towel and just now notice how rigid he is, his shoulders unbending. I slip on my cotton pants and acro-shoes while he puts our water bottles in his gym bag, not saying another word. It spindles more tension in my joints and muscles.
“I’ll walk you out,” he suddenly adds.
He’s never walked me out of the gym before.
The nervous flutters return. I wonder when we leave the gym if business will end. And something else will begin. I’m not sure what happens after we exit the double doors. This is all really new.
Since it’s Sunday and not the morning, there are more than a few people practicing today. We pass a couple doing hand-to-hand tricks, her palm flat on his forehead as she lifts her legs vertically. A handstand. On his head.
Insane.
Nikolai lets out a growl of annoyance. Not at the acrobatic couple. He clasps my hand, tugging me in a new direction before I can even follow his gaze.
Katya lies on top of a giant rolled mat, earbuds in and reading One Last Kiss, Please. The paranormal romance I loaned her. Nikolai drops my hand and yanks out the cord to her iPod.
She gawks at him and sits up. “Hey.” When she notices me, her eyes seem to light up. “Hi, Thora. I just got to the best part—”
“You’re supposed to be practicing,” he cuts her off, and a wave of guilt washes over me. My book has inadvertently become a distraction, but in my defense, that is one hell of a good werewolf-vampire novel.
“I am,” she says. “In my mind.” She’s about to put her earbuds back in and lie down again.
He steals her iPod and the book out of her hands.
“Nik—”
“You almost didn’t land a tucked back somersault on Friday.”
I remember Nikolai mentioning that she works with the Russian bar, as the flyer apparently. It’s dangerous, an elevated balance beam held by two people at each end. She springs into the air and has to land straight back down. But I guess, what isn’t dangerous here.
Her mouth falls. “Luka told you that?”
“He’s one of your porters, Katya. If you fall and break your leg, he’s going to blame himself.” Her older brother must help support the bar, I deduce.
“I wasn’t going to fall,” she mutters, the remorse pulling her lips down.
“If you want to try out for Noctis, you need a full-in, full-out or a triple sault, and you’re not going to get there by sitting on your ass, reading…” He scrutinizes the paperback’s title and cover (legs intertwined on a blue silk sheet) with confusion and then gives me a weird look.
“It’s a good book,” I assure him. Though I start to wonder whether it’s age appropriate. I mean, I was reading explicit adult books at twelve—but I didn’t really understand some of the graphic sex scenes. Sixteen can’t be that bad.
“I love it,” Katya adds, reaching out to snatch it back.
He stuffs it in his black gym bag with her iPod. “It’s mine until your practice is over.”
“You’re so mean,” she says, sliding off the rolled mat and thudding to her feet. “It’s not like I’m ever going to land a full-in, full-out.”
It dawns on me. That’s why she doesn’t even want to try. “Who says you can’t do it?” I ask.
“The universe,” she tells me dramatically. “I was born a girl.”
I don’t understand. “So?”
“So my brothers are always better than me. I do everything slower than them, so there’s no point.” To live in the shadow of the male Kotovas, of every sibling and cousin—it must be hard.
“Don’t you want to at least try to show them up?”
“I have tried,” she refutes. “It’s impossible.”
Nikolai cocks his head. “You’ve never even stayed late after practice.”
She crosses her arms over her white tank top. “It’s not that easy.”
I don’t want to gang up on her. So I say, “I know the feeling. I spent most of my days in gymnastics, trying to be better than my best friend. And I never was. Not once. He always won. But every time I tried to beat him, I actually ended up improving anyway. So there were some positives in there.” I realize I might be rambling, so I add quickly, “I just like to look on the bright side of things, I guess.”
She’s quiet for a moment, mulling over her thoughts. Then she turns to her brother. “You better give that book back to me. I’m at the part where Rafael fights Derek.”
That’s the climax. “It’s a good part,” I tell Nikolai.
His lips almost tic into a smile. Then he nods to his sister, agreeing to return the book later. “You’re going to practice.” It’s an assumption.
“Yeah.”
It’s a right assumption.
She leaves with a wave, and Nikolai guides me back towards the double doors. He doesn’t speak. The conversation with Katya seems to flit away, left behind us.
His arm brushes my shoulders and my pulse kicks up, even more so when he rests it there, drawing me closer to his side. The no talking has my mind on a freefall, unable to pick apart what’ll happen soon. I just descend.
Quick. Fast.
Act Twenty-Two
Maybe it’s only a minute before we reach the exit, but the trek is the longest of my life, with my stomach tossing, my muscles constricting, my heart speeding—there is no reprieve when you’re falling for a guy. It’s the worst and best carnival ride.
After he pushes through the door, we enter the narrow hallway, walls lined with framed Aerial Ethereal posters. The elevators are in sight which’ll bring us to the lobby of The Masquerade. Make it to the elevator without stumbling, Thora.
I can do this. Share the company with a six-foot-five Russian-American man. Muscular, brawn—all power. Five years older, who’s a perfect flirt and an even better kisser. I imagine all of him possessing me, controlling most movements, leading the charge—pushing into me.
Thora.
I can almost hear my own breath. Stop panting.
Five steps into the carpeted hallway, I’m about to try my hand at small talk again, just to break the quiet. He drops his gym bag though. And he clasps my hips, his gaze peeling off every thin article of clothing, stroking my skin.
I keep him at a foot’s distance, even though I can tell he wants me closer. “I’m…sweaty,” I throw it out there.
He tilts my chin. “So am I, myshka.”
I let him tug me to his chest, one of his hands warming the back of my neck. The longer he just stares through me, the heavier my breathing becomes. He’s eye fucking me. My legs tremble, the spot between my thighs pulsing for a harder pressure. For him. I’ve never ached for that this much.
I lick my lips. “Why do you call me myshka?” I’ve known, but I want to hear him say it.