Infini (Aerial Ethereal #2)(120)
My heart is in my throat, but I lift my gaze to the eighty-foot ceiling. I listen and wait for Marc’s decision to either capsize the lives of hundreds or make it better.
Perrot clears his throat and reads a checklist off his phone. “I’ll begin with the easiest point of contention.” He places his hand on my shoulder. “Luka Kotova will still remain employed by Aerial Ethereal—”
Clapping from my cousins and siblings cuts into Perrot’s speech.
It feels too bittersweet to smile. I stuff my hands in my sweatpants, my fingers skimming wrapped peppermints and keys to nowhere.
Perrot waits patiently for the noise to die before continuing. “The last two issues of concern are the no minors policy and the contracts signed by Baylee Wright and Luka Kotova.” He pauses and points at a young girl and boy from Viva. “Please put away the phones. No recording.”
Secrecy has always been important to Aerial Ethereal.
(Clearly.)
But I understand. This world is exclusive to those allowed to enter, and there’s a whole section about “social media” conduct in everyone’s contract. No one can make YouTube videos or live-stream any kind of footage from practices, rehearsals, and definitely not performances.
Marc would flip if any of this traveled to the press.
As soon as the phones disappear, Perrot speaks. “Marc wants to assure the entire troupe that he values and respects the opinion of every artist. He understands your fears and concerns, and with great consideration, he has made a decision.” Perrot reads off his cell. “‘To protect the integrity and morale of the Aerial Ethereal troupe across the globe, the no minors policy will not be instated or used as a future mode of…’” he trails off at the cheering. It explodes, especially from all the kids.
I end up smiling, but I also cage a breath.
It’s good.
That’s really good, and Bay’s face says the same. It’s good, but there’s a part that still hurts. We have no idea where we stand in all of this.
“Quiet!” Dimitri yells, gesturing with his hands for everyone to sit.
Perrot talks over the fading cheers. “And lastly, Marc has decided to dissolve the contracts—” Baylee covers her face, bowing forward with emotion, and it hits me like a tidal wave.
We’re allowed to be together.
Truly.
I barely hear Perrot say the reasoning: to rectify any emotional and psychological distress inflicted upon the recipients.
I beeline through the half-seated crowd. People spring to their feet. Hugging. Cheering louder. I aim for one person. One girl.
The sea of people starts parting for me, knowing where I’m headed. As soon as Baylee rises to her feet, I clasp her hand and draw her to my body.
“Come here,” I breathe.
She clutches the back of my neck, and I hold her face gently, her cheeks slicked with tears. Our eyes dance over one another again. And again.
I tune out all the commotion. It’s just me and her.
We sway like music plays, and her brown eyes smile before her lips do. My smile stretches wider and higher, and I dip my head down to whisper, “You know what I’m going to do, Bay?”
“What?”
“I’m going to kiss you for the first time in front of a crowd.”
Isn’t that fucking bizarre? That in all our lives, in all our time together, we’ve never kissed for other people to see. It’s been private. It’s been ours, but if we could’ve unrestrained it and let it free, we would’ve from the beginning.
Baylee’s smile overpowers her features, and my lips touch her rising grin. Our kiss pulls us together like a magnet, and I clasp the back of her head, my tongue parting her lips. Deepening the kiss—and then loud, dry clapping breaks into our reverie.
We lean back only slightly to spot the source.
Geoffrey Lesage saunters through the troupe, still clapping, and his gaze is dead-set on us.
“Congratulations,” he says loud enough for all to hear. “You got what you wanted. You won your dispute.”
Why the hell is he bitter? The no minors policy isn’t enforced, and the whole cast is intact. He got what he wanted too.
“It wasn’t a game to me,” I say easily. “It’s my life—”
“It’s my career.”
Realization pummels me. I assume that Marc didn’t appreciate his blackmail tactic or usurping his power. Geoffrey skipped rungs of the Corporate hierarchy, and I bet he was slapped on the wrist.
“You’re not our choreographer anymore?” I ask.
“Would you like that?” he snaps. “For me to leave?”
I go rigid, my hands on Bay’s shoulders, and Geoffrey stops about ten feet from me, his gaze flitting to Nikolai, who glares threateningly an arm’s length away.
Geoffrey’s focus returns to me. “Well?”
“I don’t want you to leave.” (Yes I do.) He fixes his blazer. “Then you’ll be happy to know I’m still your choreographer and dedicated to Infini’s success.”
Baylee nods, tensed. “We all want the same thing.”
“Good.” His voice is tight, and he scans the discomforted cast. “Dress rehearsal tomorrow for Infini. Don’t be late.” His scowl darkens at the two of us. “No exceptions.”
We bruised his ego.