Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(20)

Needless to say, my imagination is wrong.

Vampires don’t exist.

And just as Camila’s non-vampire boyfriend stops screaming, the pleasurable moaning begins again. It’s a cycle that has kept me awake all night.

In college, I chose to live in a single dorm after my freshman year fiasco. My roommate brought her boyfriend over almost every night, and I slept on Shay’s futon more than I did my own bed. I managed to avoid other people’s sex noises for that long.

My clean record is now broken.

Camila’s boyfriend must be stellar because the bedposts thump against the walls. I smash my pillow over my face and exposed ears. I just don’t want to be half-asleep tomorrow. Zombies can’t act like felines in heat.

Sleep, I command myself.

Camila cries out in pleasure.

Sleep, Thora.

Please.



*



My eyes are heavy-lidded, and the gym’s fluorescent lights sear my pupils. I yawn into my jacket sleeve as Kaitlin slumps down on the blue mat beside me.

“Late night?” she asks with a mild look of disdain. I catch the very, very hidden meaning.

“Not with anyone,” I tell her. Definitely not Nikolai. “I was by myself.” That sounds like a lie for some reason. “I just had bad sleep.”

She nods, her guards dropping. “Me too.”

Not only did Camila go at it on the bed last night, but she switched to the shower. To top it off, when I finally caught some shuteye, I had a nightmare.

And I fell off the couch, face-planting, hard. Which triggered a bloody nose. Now I have a bruise on the bridge and another bruise on my cheekbone to show for it. Concealer covered some of the purplish tint but not all.

“You nervous?” Kaitlin asks. Her brunette bun is so tight that the follicles along her hairline look ready to snap.

“Kind of,” I say honestly with another yawn in my arm. “Are you?”

She nods and leans in close to me to whisper, “Elena has been chatting with Ivan in Russian all morning.”

Her gaze drifts to the aerial silk, where Ivan and Elena stand. As though about to instruct her. Like she’s already been awarded the role.

Kaitlin reaches for her toes, stretching. “I swear these things are made for people who can talk their way into them.”

I’m not a fan of that reality—the one that says the hardest-working individual will always lose out to the most sociable. And I don’t want to live in that world. Shay would tell me that I have no choice, that this isn’t fiction. I have no say in which world I live in.

As I spread my legs open into a split, I reach as far as I can, my muscles extending with the position. The back doors suddenly burst open, and the directors march into the gym, carrying folders, tablets and clipboards. They exude an air of superiority, vacuuming all oxygen.

Nikolai is among them.

He chats with Helen as they near the long table. Dressed in his usual gym attire (shorts, red bandana, shirtless), I wait for him to turn his head and acknowledge the four of us left to audition. But he’s in a heated discussion with Helen, and I catch him gesturing to Ivan by the aerial silk more than once.

Helen raises her hands in defense, and Nikolai’s lips snap shut, his nose flaring. She speaks calmly, it seems. And then her eyes plant on me.

I freeze, wondering if I was just caught eavesdropping. Everyone was doing it though—I assume. I’m about to look to Kaitlin for verification when Helen calls my name, “Thora.”

I instinctively jump to my feet. Glancing briefly at Nikolai, I can’t read him beyond his six-foot-five, masculine dominance. He’s an intimidating fortress in a gym full of straw huts.

“You’re first today,” Helen tells me. “We’d like to see some basic acro dance lifts. We want to know how well you work with Nik. He’ll lead you through them.”

I try to bottle some of my nerves, slowly approaching the center of the mat. In the corner of my eye, I spot Elena twisting the red silk in her fist, clearly being instructed by the choreographer to practice. My stomach twists and backbends and somersaults—in the worst ways.

“Thora,” Nikolai breathes, very close. He grips my attention, his concentrated gaze on me. “Don’t watch them. Right now, this is about you and me. Do your personal best, so that whatever happens, you have no regrets.”

I inhale a deeper breath, flooded with more confidence. I nod and retrain my mind, blocking out my competition.

He steps even closer, and I sense my ribcage jutting out in a heavy rhythm. He notices, concern knotting his brows. Which only causes me to breathe harder. Fantastic.

His intense steel gaze searches my features with headiness, care and lust. Intimate. A combination for long-time lovers, for something greater than a friend. Than anything we are. His acting is up to par. That’s for sure.

His large hand cups my oval face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. His frown darkens, and heat builds across my skin at one thought: what if he’s not acting?

“Did someone hit you?” he asks lowly. His jaw muscles tic.

The bruise. “No, I, um.” I roll my eyes at myself. “I fell.”

Doubt crosses his features.

I realize falling is a cliché excuse used to cover worse things. But it’s sadly the truth here.

He says slowly, “You fell. On your face?”