John groans. “This is my stool.” He points at the one he always sits at. “This stupidity can’t happen at my fucking stool.”
“You love it, John,” Camila retorts. “And technically this is happening at my bar. And I say, proceed.” She waves Nikolai on, who’s watching me, waiting for me. He takes a couple steps into the middle of the semi-circle, and he begins to unbutton his black shirt.
People holler, excited that his after-show is finally beginning.
I prepared for this tonight, even going as far to wear spandex shorts underneath my aquamarine dress. Maybe he realizes this. Don’t back down now.
I won’t.
I don’t want to.
I grip the bar behind me, my back digging into it, and then I raise my hand, our eyes never drifting apart. I say, “Choose me.”
His lips rise, and the girls let out a series of awwwws. He removes his shirt fully, his body chiseled, sculpted—familiar.
He reaches me, lifting me onto the bar so that our lips are parallel. My heart hammers, my pulse throbbing.
A breath away, he whispers, “Every day.”
The hot kiss burns my skin, and I accidentally knock over one of the celebratory shots.
Every day, he chooses me. It rings in my ears.
When he parts, he turns to the crowd and tells them exactly what we’ll be doing. A one-handed handstand competition. I watch him climb onto the bar, standing, towering above us all. And extends his arm, for me to take his hand.
I do, and he pulls me swiftly to my feet.
His gaze flies across my features. “Your eyes are black.”
“They’re always like that…” I lose my thoughts at the devilish smile he wears, the red strobe lights bathing us in the hue.
“You’re ready,” he states, reading me well.
I nod.
And we split apart. We’re doing this on the bar. For the entire club to see. The crowd—it’s larger than ever before, pushing up to the lip of the bar, and John still has his stool, Timo next to him.
You can do this, Thora James.
“On the count of three,” Nikolai calls out.
“One!” the club yells.
“Two!”
I inhale.
“Three!”
And I place my hand on the sticky bar, my legs broken apart at first, but when I find my balance, I put them together. Straight, like a board. I glance over, and notice Nikolai in the same position.
Don’t fall.
There’s nothing that says I can’t beat him. The cheers from the crowd jumble together, but I hear my name, from multiple, indistinguishable voices.
“Thora! Thora!”
What?
My eyes flicker to Nik again. And even upside-down, his curved lips are unmistakable. Very rarely does anyone root against the God of Russia. And he’s happy. Really happy that they are.
“Thora! Thora!”
I shut my eyes, concentrating, smiling, unable to stop my pulse from speeding. My muscles ache, pull and stretch, but I ignore the pain. Mentally sound, I stay at peace, motionless and still.
Thirty minutes pass and my eyes snap open at the gasps and “Ohhhhhs!”
I turn my head.
Nikolai dropped.
No way.
He sits on the bar, his forehead beaded with sweat. Looking shocked, he shakes his head over and over. I bet he’d already picked out a place to pierce me. When he sees me as I sit next to him, he lets out a short, humored laugh. “You’re beaming!” The crowds are so noisy that I barely distinguish the words.
“I can’t believe you lost!”
“You won!” he rephrases.
I won. My heart somersaults. Which means… “Tattoo or piercing?!”
He runs a hand through his hair, still in disbelief. Nikolai is not the kind of man who’d lose on purpose, even for his girlfriend. This is a true win, one that everyone in the club sees. It’s insane. The whole night.
“Tattoo,” he says.
My smile fades. I have no idea how to ink a tattoo on someone. I could permanently mark him with a messy blob.
He leans into me. “I’ll guide you.” And then he motions for the tattoo gun from someone, and he asks them for another thing—his words lost behind me.
I scan his body, and it takes me a quick second to figure out what I want to draw. Where I want to draw it. At least you’re sober.
Yeah—I’m not sure my sloppy self would tattoo something pretty.
Nikolai passes me…a magic marker. “Draw it first.”
I nod, relaxing at this idea. Without hesitation, I straddle him. On the bar. Whistling—everyone is whistling. Including Camila, who even winks at me and I read her lips: get ‘em, Thora.
Timo is tossing dollar bills at us, and John is muttering things—that I can only assume are variations of this is so stupid and crazy and is that tattoo gun sterile?
Nikolai turns my chin, so that I focus on him, his eyes descending into mine. “What’s it going to be?”
I open my mouth to tell him my plan.
“Show me,” he says.
“You don’t want to know first?” I question.
He shakes his head. “I trust you.”
I am full of life today. Uncapping the marker, I place one hand on his chest, his heart pounding in a drumbeat that matches mine. Deep. Slow. With the other hand, I pinch the marker between two fingers and lean close to his ribcage. In my neatest cursive, I write three small words.
circus is family
His hands rise up my thighs, up to my hips and when he sees what I drew, his face floods with too many emotions to pick apart. Our gazes lock, and the noises around us seem to drown into silence.
“Where did you come from?” he asks again, shaking his head more. In a daze.
I have a better response this time. “Cincinnati, Ohio.”
He breaks into a laugh, and he kisses me, my skin tingling, on fire. His hand warms the back of my neck. And I feel his smile against my lips.
I’m average. I’ve been average most of my life, but there are moments where I feel extraordinary. Invincible. Able to conquer any fear and step outside any box. There is no illusion, no fantasy. I can climb a forty-foot pole. I can fly eighty-feet in the air. I can be taller than tall.
It’s a dream that I’m living.
Every day. With him.
Epilogue
1 Year Later
I shift on an office chair, the wheels squeaking beneath me.
“Sign here.” The shaggy-haired businessman pushes a stack of white papers, flipping it open to a highlighted line. “And all the pages with marks.”
I’ve already spent fifteen minutes reading the papers, so I click my pen and scrawl Thora James in each and every free space. I smile when I reach the last one.
“Is that it?” I ask.
“You’re all done,” he verifies, standing up with me. And then he extends his arm, for me to shake his hand. “We’re ecstatic to have you, Thora.” He’s reiterated this sentiment a few times since I entered the office, praising me with more and more compliments.
I almost wonder if they thought I wouldn’t sign. “Two more years,” I say with a bigger smile. Two more years in Amour. It’s the longest-term contract they could offer me.
“Twelve more years,” he rephrases, shaking my hand like we did it.
It’s the first time I’ve ever met him: the creator of Aerial Ethereal. I absorb his words twelve more years. Meaning—he plans to keep me around, in this same act, for maybe that long. It’s more than I expected coming in here today. I was just happy that The Masquerade bought Amour for another twelve years, their contract signed and sealed last week.