Infini (Aerial Ethereal #2)(15)

I look away, my muscles flexed.

“You’re holding onto an idea. She’s not in love with you anymore. Maybe she never even did—maybe you concocted it all in your head.”

(Fuck you.)

“She never hesitated. I gave her the choice, and she grabbed the pen ten times faster than you.”

I don’t want to believe him. Not even if it’ll hurt less. I don’t want to believe that.

“Look at me.”

I force my gaze to his.

“I’ll say this plainly, Luka. You’re in Viva. She’s in Infini. You have no reason to communicate. If you’d like to speak to her, then I’ll take this as your formal termination. In which case, the no minors policy will be instated—”

“No,” I say immediately, resigning from this fight. I didn’t come here to tear up the contract and ruin everyone.

I came here for one open window.

And he slammed them all shut again.

“I’m not quitting,” I tell him as I stand.

“You’ll respect the contract you previously signed?” Marc asks.

I nod, frozen inside.

“I need more than a head-nod.”

“I won’t talk to her.” My voice is hollow. “I won’t look at her.” And maybe, one day, I’ll forget what our love felt like. And I’ll finally stop hanging on.

“We understand each other then,” Marc says.

I nod as stiffly as before, and then I exit, my disdain replaced with cold numbness. I realize now that I did have something to lose.

I lost all hope.





Act Five

Baylee Wright




My Aunt Lucy once said that I’m unnaturally predisposed to shitty situations. That, and I’m far too obsessed with grilled cheese, a boy who is trouble, soca music, and dancing barefoot in living rooms. Sometimes all four were tangled together—in a whacky, just right kind of way.

Three days ago, right after the hellish moving day for all Aerial Ethereal artists, I found myself in another shitty situation.

I thought I’d be able to pull myself out of the quicksand. I groveled to Aerial Ethereal and complained to Human Resources, all to be met with your thousand-dollar fine still stands.

So I’ve succumbed to my shitty fate.

Technically it wasn’t my fault. Someone stole my last cardboard box, after I already made eight trips upstairs to my new suite. Then after I ran around searching for the box, it somehow turned up in another person’s suite on the 42nd floor at midnight.

The floor that AE were desperate to have cleaned by 5:00 p.m.

“The box has your name on it,” they said. “Therefore, you were late on moving and incurred a fine. It doesn’t matter if your suite had been empty. You cluttered another room.”

Cluttered. It was one neatly packed box.

Still, the thousand-dollar fine stands.

I cringe thinking about the depletion in my already low bank account. It’s not like artists make loads of money. Aerial Ethereal tries to justify pay cuts with “oh but you live in a Vegas hotel and casino for free. It’s worth more than your salary”—yeah, but I’d like money to eat too.

I stand on the carpeted casino floor and wait for my brother.

Inside the heart of the Masquerade, slots ping all around me. And even though people gamble at velvet card tables and at flashing machines, I’m alone with my sad thoughts.

“Where are you, Brenden?” I mutter and crane my neck beyond the casino floor. I try to spy my older brother through the hoards of people. Some wheel their suitcases towards the elevators. Others meander along the Masquerade’s indoor cobblestone walkway, which leads to bars, dance clubs, gift shops, and the ginormous pool.

Everything you could ever desire is at the Masquerade, or so the brochure says.

I check my phone for any missed texts. My Facebook app is currently up, clicked into a closed group.



INFINITE LOOPHOLE – TOP SECRET (cast only) Description: if you’re a part of this group, then you know what’s up. Narks will suffer severe consequences. Don’t be a nark.

pinned post Meet up at 1842 (for all newbies, 1842 is the name of a bar in the Masquerade hotel. First floor, red disco balls line the hallway it’s on) and arrive no later than 10 p.m. IMPORTANT: do not verbally spread this event to anyone else. Not unless they’re in the same show (refer to post title).



“Bay.”

I jump at my nickname and turn around to my tense-faced brother. Usually he wears mirth like another layer of skin. Always friendly. Constantly smiling.

Then he sees me upset, in any way, and he stiffens to rigid attention. Like he’s a soldier reporting for duty.

Black hair cut short, he runs a hand over his head, and I watch as he assesses my features for answers. We tell each other almost everything, so he was the first to hear about my plan to beg Human Resources one last time tonight.

Now he’ll be the first to hear how poorly it went.

I open my mouth, but he speaks first.

“No,” he groans, absorbing my dejection. “No, no. They can’t just fine you a grand for doing nothing.” Wearing a green V-neck, charcoal pants, and a spritz of cologne—which suggests a “night out” not confronting HR—he spins towards nowhere really. “I’m going to talk to these idiots.”