Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(83)

Concentrate on the music, Thora. And I do.

I breathe out, and I point my legs straight, releasing a hand and supporting my weight with one single grip. As the music escalates, I lower onto the hoop, straddling the metal. I move more often than I hold shapes.

They enjoy watching me spin and twist and basically gyrate along the apparatus. Gyrate. Not my favorite word when I describe my profession.

No worries.

I exhale strongly.

January. I have to wait for January and then I’ll be auditioning for Aerial Ethereal. You can do this. When my act finally ends, I receive that warm applause, and the hoop descends to the stage.

“Show us your tits next time!” Someone yells out.

My stomach lurches. That’s a new one. My feet hit the stage, and I swallow the rising lump in my throat. They’ll always want more, won’t they? The fact is hard to digest.

On my way backstage, a man at a high-top table slaps my ass and then grabs it in a firm clutch. Fuck. The force is so hard that I wince, stinging, and the sound of the whack rings in my ears.

I spin around to shove him off. My heart races and pumps with adrenaline, but security already slips between me and him, separating his grip on my ass. Let it go, Thora.

My eyes burn.

Stop burning.

I lift my shoulders. You’re still you. And I redirect my course. Away from the man, heading backstage. I avoid eye contact with everyone.

Safely in the employee’s only area, I open my locker. Not far away, Roger is in a serious discussion with one of the veteran girls. She nods, her brown curls bobbing with her head. I step into sweat pants over my rouge lingerie and then tug on a baggy maroon shirt.

When I untie my hair from the loose braid, I notice faint bruises on my forearm from training with Nikolai. I’m not even sure how I acquired it—a mystery bruise. And not the first one. Nor the last. As long as I stick with it.

I close my locker and jump, my heart rocketing. Roger is two feet from me.

“Virgin Mary,” he says. What? My face tightens. All week he’s been calling me Thora. I even celebrated at The Red Death with an extra shot. “I need to talk to you.”

I nod for him to continue.

“We’re cutting your act.”

“What?” My voice is a whisper. “Why?” I thought I’ve been doing better. I even did the splits. My rent, the bills, the food, clothes—I need this job. It’s the only thing keeping me financially afloat.

“You’re not great, but you’ve improved, sure. The cleavage helps.” He gestures to my breasts, thankful they’re covered in the shirt.

“There has to be something else…I can do, anything.” Anything. It just came out, but I struggle to take it back. I am so, so desperate. I’m about to be a stray cat in the rain, wandering a freeway. And I have to bank on Roger, of all people.

“It’s not about your routine,” he says, grimacing like he hates pleading.

But I’d grovel, I think. I wonder if I’d shamefully drop to my knees. No. Yes. I don’t know. My eyes burn again.

I’m about to lose my job.

He scratches at his thick red hair. “The owner wants to reduce the number of aerial acts in favor of go-go dancers.” I open my mouth to offer, but he raises his hands, silencing me before I release a word. “You’re not dancing for us. For starters, the other girls would look like giants next to you. And we’re here to make them look fuckable, not like they popped out of Jack and the Beanstalk.”

“So there’s nothing else?” I’d do anything. That’s what I’m telling him.

He scans me, from head to toe. Am I selling my soul right now? What the fuck are you doing, Thora? Surviving. On my own.

“There is something,” he says. “We have these private shows for top clients. Just you and a low hanging hoop and a room. Maybe one or two men. No sex. Too many lawsuits there, but it has to be way sluttier than that shit you do up there.” He checks his cell as my mind seesaws between my morals and my boyfriend and my independence. “That’s all I have. You’ll make twice what you make now.”

“How much?”

“A grand.”

“In a week?”

“A night.”

A night. My heart stops. That’s not just twice what I make now. That’s so, so much more. Tempting—this part of Vegas is very tempting. Say no.

Say yes.

“I need to know by tomorrow. I have to start filling the calendar.” He leaves me with my indecision. I can spend tonight and tomorrow searching for jobs, and if there’s nothing—then I can proceed from there.

All I know is that I can’t be broke.

If I’m broke, I go home.

I leave Vegas.

Return to a life that I have left behind. Start back at the beginning. Try to forget about the person who clutches my heart. Without money, I fail.

It’s simple.

I’ll figure it out. I have plans set for today and tomorrow. It’ll be okay. Motivational boosts in check, I walk through the club, hoping to grab a drink from the bar on the way out.

I make it five feet, and I stop dead.

No.

Standing by the stage, right behind a bald bouncer that blocks drunken men from slipping into the dressing rooms—I see them.

My parents.

At Phantom.