Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(95)

“Can we call it what it is?” I ask him softly.

He hands me the silk. “It’s a modified straddle slide.” His no-nonsense voice tries to put my head in the game.

“It’s a death drop,” I emphasize.

I’m not being dramatic about this either. The longer title is a butterfly drop into a death drop with some alterations. Honestly, I’ve never even heard most of the tricks he’s taught me so far. Some he flat-out created from scratch. And others, he’s tweaked so they appear more dangerous.

Modified straddle slide really does not encompass the fear that I feel from this one.

“If I thought you’d die, I’d never let you try this above twenty feet.” He steps back from me. “Climb.”

I inhale a motivational breath and start my ascent. Since the beginning of my training, I doubt I’d be able to scale the silk this easily and this fluidly. Nikolai’s instruction has been invaluable. When I begin wrapping my legs in the silk, I try to harness whatever grace I possess.

“You look angry!” Nikolai calls up from the bottom. “Relax your face.”

He knows that’s my “concentration face” and he says if I exhibit that expression during auditions, no one will want to hire me. I open and close my jaw. Go away, bitch face. I think it’d be more amusing if I didn’t just refer to my own face as a bitch.

Now fully wrapped and facial muscles softened, I’m ready for the drop. I think.

Catch yourself, Thora. You can do this.

Nikolai is at the base, his arms crossed over his chest. With a fixed gaze, lines crease his forehead, his focus only on me.

Do it, Thora. My heart slams into my ribcage.

Wait.

“Am I wrapped right?” I ask Nik, just double-checking.

“You know you are.” Though his eyes flit around my body, just to confirm it himself.

Do it.

I hesitate.

“Drop, Thora.”

I pull my knees through loops in the silk, and legs spread, I shoot downwards without the support. I squeeze my eyes closed, scared. Rarely am I ever scared about heights in general. Then I feel my body jerk upwards, the silk tightening around my thighs and catching my fall.

I open one eye. And then two.

I’m upside-down. And still too high up. About seven feet, maybe a little less.

Nikolai approaches, straight-faced. When he stops, our lips are in perfect symmetry, but he stays still, a commander that refuses to kiss his soldier. A teacher unwilling to make a pass at his student.

At least not in the classroom.

“Your face should be an inch from the mat, not right in front of me.” He grips the fabric above my foot.

“I realize this,” I say softly.

“When you begin the wrap, you need to give yourself more slack, more than you think is necessary.”

But the terrifying part is what happens if I give myself too much slack.

He reads me well. “Don’t be afraid.” His gaze flickers to my lips, like he may break his own rules this once.

My heart is on its own death drop.

“Nikolai…?” That’s not me. The voice, with a string of Russian jargon, comes from a petite, willowy platinum-blonde a few feet behind him.

I recognize Elena from tryouts months ago, and I’ve had the good fortune of never running into her here. Nikolai spins around and listens to her talk. I roll out of my position, climbing down from the aerial silk. Elena jabs her finger in my direction, her cheeks flushed with what appears to be anger.

Nikolai runs his hands through his hair, pushing back the longer strands. He replies in gruffer Russian.

I uneasily shift my weight from one foot to the other, noticing how she steps near him. Noticing how her body language isn’t closed off, despite being frustrated and incensed. She leans towards him. Like they’re good friends.

I’ve blocked out his dynamic with Elena, the passion they’re supposed to exude on stage. I just pretend that she doesn’t exist.

The same way he pretends I don’t work at Phantom.

My chest caves, and I realize that training is going to be cut short. By me. “I’m going to go,” I tell Nikolai when there’s a pause in his conversation.

He rubs his eyes, exhausted, by whatever she’s telling him. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

Elena is throwing knives into my body, glowering like I’ve stolen her time with him. In this situation, maybe I have.

“You should practice with her.” I let go of the silk. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tonight,” he rephrases.

I shake my head. “I’m going to head home.” It’s weird that I consider my apartment my home now, when Ohio still exists. Waiting for me. I guess I’m not waiting for it anymore.

Nikolai looks more conflicted, but Elena distracts him with a barrage of Russian. I’m too used to not understanding three-quarters of conversations to be annoyed. I simply wave him goodbye and depart, planning on a hot shower and a night with my paranormal book.

I still have time to conquer the death drop, RBF, gracefulness, and passion before auditions. I hope. It feels like a lot.

Like more than me.





Act Thirty-Nine



Luka plops down in the auditorium seat with two buckets of popcorn, offering me one. I raise my brows at him, not exactly trusting how he acquired it. Our “Skittles” pact still exists—I won’t rat him out.