Infini (Aerial Ethereal #2)(16)

“No you aren’t,” I tell him seriously.

Slowly, he faces me again.

I respect his great show of brotherly valor, but I’d never let Brenden sink his reputation or career. Mine is already bruised, so one more complaint from me won’t make much of a difference.

“Baylee,” he forces my name like I’m being unreasonable.

“Brenden,” I shoot back. I may prefer to stand in the shadows over commanding the spotlight—I’m not loud or brash and I don’t really like being the center of attention in my personal life—but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a backbone.

“You’re my little sister,” he argues.

I always tell him, you’re only one year older.

He always replies, a year is plenty of time.

I don’t have the heart for that banter. Honestly, I’m too upset about the situation, and even if I bottle most of the sorrow, it still enlarges a hollow pit inside of me.

A cavernous hole that I have no idea how to fill.

“So I’m your little sister,” I say, shrugging tensely. “It won’t change anything. Aerial Ethereal won’t listen to anyone but themselves. You could even have evidence, and they’d still fine me. Can we please just go?” I wave him towards the cobblestone walkway.

Brenden lets out an incensed breath and then scans my wardrobe.

I threw on a red cotton dress for Infini’s secret cast party. The outfit is simple like the rest of my wardrobe, and I didn’t even bother fixing my hair. Long and loose curly strands mold my oval face and splay over my A-cups.

I’m not exactly slender like a contortionist or ballerina, but I’m not muscular and stalky like a typical gymnast either. I have wide hips like my Aunt Lucy and a flat chest like my mom. As a juggler, I have more leeway in how I look than other artists. I’m lucky in the sense that I only need to be fit and in shape.

Brenden shakes his head at my dress. “That thing is ancient.”

“What? No it’s not.” I touch the short hem. “I bought it…two years ago, four years…” I stretch my mind. “Oh.” I had this dress when I was fourteen, at least.

“Yeah. Oh.” He’s not amused. “You should buy new clothes. If you’re worried about money—”

“It’s not that,” I interject but then go quiet.

It’s hard to part with things that still have a place in my life. If I’m not being forced to say goodbye to this dress and it still fits, then why wouldn’t I just keep wearing it?

I touch the fabric, and I remember a moment with a boy I’m not supposed to name. I wore this dress when we were together, traipsing around Brooklyn on a brisk, fall day.

I try not to picture the moment. I try not to visualize him at all.

I can’t start walking down a road that has an eighty-foot drop-off into a rocky ravine. There’s only danger at the end of his name. At the end of us.

I have to remember this. Constantly.

Before Brenden offers to pay for a shopping spree or cover half of my fine, I speak up.

“I’m nineteen,” I remind him, “and if I need a new dress, I can always buy it on my own.” I also add, “Aunt Lucy sends me new clothes almost every month, so you really don’t have to worry.”

Our aunt is a brand & marketing executive for a major NYC and Philadelphia-based fashion company. She’s at the very top of her career, but it wasn’t always that way. When my parents died, a lot changed for my mom’s little sister Lucy. At thirty, she paused her goals, moved to Vegas for us, and took her new role in our lives very seriously.

I love her more than she may even know.

Brenden stares at me for a long moment. Maybe he feels our past inside my words. Quietly, he says, “Let’s go.”



*



“It’s dead in here,” I say to Brenden.

We step inside 1842, a bar that resembles an old timey speakeasy: dark-green velvet booths, wooden high-top tables, and mood lighting thanks to gothic chandeliers.

It’s almost completely empty. A bored bartender scrubs the already-shined counter.

Brenden smiles. “Pessimist.”

“I’m just calling it how I see it.”

He lifts up my wristwatch to my face. “We’re also ten minutes early. Do you see that too?”

I shove his side, playfully enough that my lips start to rise with his. “You’re annoying.”

“You’re more annoying,” he teases and then nods towards the array of high-top tables.

I spot a very familiar person in the nearly-empty bar.

Zhen Li places little card holders on each table. The note reads: infinite loophole. I’m not surprised that Zhen, my brother’s aerial straps partner, created the private Facebook group. Besides it being a very Zhen thing to do, I was there when it happened.

After two bottles of wine and wild theories about who our co-workers might be, Zhen whipped out his phone and concocted the bizarre plan.

And I like bizarre things.

So of course, I helped where I could. I spread the news about the Facebook group to two artists who we were sure would be shifted to Infini, and hopefully they told others about the secret party.

Zhen notices us and flashes a dazzling smile. He was born and raised in Beijing and started touring with Aerial Ethereal at fourteen. Now twenty-six, he has a lean build and dreamy, picturesque features that melt most of the females in AE. Sunglasses are perched on his head and push back his thick black hair.