Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(98)

The bra is a half-size too small, and the cups squeeze my boobs uncomfortably together. I refuse to look down at the panties, also mesh, also white, and only covering half of my ass. If I do look, I may chicken out.

“Same deal as if you’re on stage,” Roger tells me quickly. “You’ll have a purple light flash at the one minute mark, and then you descend, bow or whatever the fuck you do. Leave out the back, alright?”

I nod. The neon sign at the end of the hallway says: yes yes ohh yes

We stop by a closed door, and he puts a hand on my shoulder. “Hey, look fucking sexy, not like you’re going to hurl on the clients.”

I swallow more nausea. “Sorry.”

He shakes his head at me like come on, girl. And then he grabs my wrists so that I’m no longer in a shell, my boobs exposed. “You’re lucky that you even have a gig. Other girls would kill for this.” Roger has expressed this sentiment about six times in the past five minutes.

You’re lucky, Thora James. Be excited.

My body is anything but. I try to exhale my reservations. Maybe when I see the hoop, all the nerves will float away. It’ll feel normal and natural again.

There you go.

You can do this.

“Don’t hurl,” Roger demands again. And then he turns the knob, letting me inside the mysterious room. With each step, I concentrate on all the pros to this decision and willfully ignore the cons. It buries more of my anxiety.

I see the low metal hoop and the black leather couch it faces. Two men, in suits. Waiting for me. I quickly look away, avoiding eye contact. As soon as I near the hoop, I realize I’m close enough to outstretch my arm and touch the men.

They’re middle-aged, I guess. Businessmen, according to their clean-shaven faces, their well-groomed hair.

The music kicks on. Thank you. The sultry tune puts me in motion, and I begin to dance around the hoop, to the best of my ability. I’m nearly naked. Don’t fixate on it. My body is stiffer than usual, even with these last-ditch encouragements.

It’s so hard to be lithe and beautiful and graceful when my raucous pulse has decided to be even more erratic. Inside I’m tribal drums and metal bands. Outside, I’m hopefully classical portraits and poetry.

“Do you see her piercings?” I hear one of them whisper, his voice too eager.

“She’s—” Ignore.

I’m sure it looks like I’m painting by numbers, my joints tense and needing oiled. I can’t help it though. My mind and body are in another heated disagreement.

I make a quick decision and cut the dancing short. I jump to grab the bottom rung of the hoop. Unlike the main stage, this hoop is stationary and won’t rise any higher than it is.

I swing my leg over the bottom rung and begin to spin, creating large circles before I hook my ankles and drop upside-down. And this—this is worse than dancing.

I stare right at them, so close that I distinguish their eye colors. Blue and hazel. Blue Eyes leans into his friend next to him, his gaze still pinned to me, sizing me up. Sweeping me over. Undressing the last of my clothes.

The sickness returns. Swallow it. I try. I always try.

But it’s like he’s marking every bit of me in his memory. Every freckle. Every eyelash. Like I belong to him tonight. How is this different than Nikolai being on stage? He was the object of your gaze, moments ago, Thora. My conscience is working hard to sway me. But it is different. For starters, Nikolai is far away from the audience. He’s not physically this close.

And I’m not an awe-inspiring aerialist like him. People pay to watch his talent. I’m just a woman these two men bought for the night, to ogle and fantasize.

My nerves fire off, vibrating my concentration. And in one second, my grip loosens, and I fall. Hard, on my shoulder, my tendons shrieking in pain.

“Jesus, are you okay?” Hazel Eyes jumps to his feet, and he hovers over me.

“I’m fine,” I say softly. “Sorry about…” I trail off as his hand rests on my elbow and my hip, helping me to a stance. His touch coils the rest of my muscles. In the small space between the hoop and the couch, my legs have knocked into his. I inhale, and the strong musk of his cologne churns my stomach.

I can’t.

I can’t.

“I’m sorry,” I say, backing up abruptly, and my head collides with the metal hoop. Fuck. That really hurt. White spots dance in my vision.

“Careful,” Hazel Eyes tells me, but I push away from him before he steadies me again. I press my hand to my forehead, shuffling back in my stiletto heels.

“I can’t. I’m sorry.” I recognize how much I don’t want to do this. And the sad thing is that I wish I could suck it up and finish the act. I wish I could be that fearless, no-holds-barred girl. Who can separate work and emotions—who can bask in the paycheck afterwards.

But I found my personal limitation. I can’t do whatever it takes to be here. I want to be okay with that, I do. I should be. You tried, Thora.

“What do you mean?” Blue Eyes asks.

I shake my pounding head in a daze. “I’m sorry.” And I rush out of the room before anyone stops me. I beeline down the dark corridor, walking as fast as my heart hammers. Once in the dressing room, I catch sight of myself in a vanity mirror, my skin ashen and a stream of blood trickling down my forehead.

“Fantastic,” I mutter, my throat swollen. I snatch a tissue and blot the skin that’s split open. I pass a couple giggling dancers to reach my locker. Which is…empty.