Infini (Aerial Ethereal #2)(30)

Black spandex pants and a lime-green tank suction the slight curves of her body. Four thick but tight braids swoop down her head and are tied into a bun at her warm brown neck. Pretty and sporty. I remember she always used to wear this hairstyle for practices.

She tries to rub her damp forehead with her shoulder. Looking fatigued but still upright, she uses the short break to take it easy.

She’s okay.

She’s not hurt from being run-hard by the choreographer. I relax some, and as she leans into the stretch, her eyes slowly close in rest.

My lips begin to lift.

Baylee is confident and reserved. Quiet and passionate. I see all of what I remember.

She has an oval face that I loved holding between my hands. Rosewood-pink lips that I loved kissing. Thin yet strong arms that I used to intertwine with my brawn—and wide, curved hips that used to be beneath my straight.

She’s undeniably beautiful. The kind of beauty that chokes me up, and I don’t know how the whole world doesn’t see what I see—how I’m not fighting every fucking person on the planet for the chance to even speak to her.

Way back when, I’d hold her tight in bed and tuck her firmly against my chest—she’d fall asleep in my clutch. And I’d stare out the window, right into the New York City landscape, and I thought this is what I want forever.

I want this and her.

Dreams.

They’re fucking cruel.

Zhen reaches for his right leg. We all follow.

I keep staring. More than I would ever dare—all because of the email. Granting me extra room to move in a prison cell without windows. Without a door.

I notice Brenden sitting protectively next to Baylee, and just as he changes stretching positions, he catches me ogling his sister.

I absorb the threat in his eyes. He keeps glaring. Waiting for me to look away. But detaching is harder than I thought.

We all press our legs together, touching our toes, and Baylee turns her head a fraction. Enough to spy her brother’s contempt. She follows the path of his piercing glare.

To me.

Her collarbones jut out in a strained breath, and she shakes her head at me like, what are you doing?

She hasn’t read the email.

Or maybe she really doesn’t want to risk anything concerning me. Maybe she’s in agreement with Nik. My chest caves—no.

No, I’m not ready to accept it. I clutch tightly to what may be lost already, but I’ve always been unable to release my grip. Marc Duval made me believe that a future with Bay was hopeless, but he could never convince me that she didn’t love me. That she didn’t hurt just as badly when we were torn apart.

Brenden cranes his neck towards Zhen, giving me a moment to speak to Baylee. I mouth, email.

Her face scrunches, confused.

I lick my lips and mouth better, email.

Realization washes over her features, and she begins to stand, to retrieve her phone probably, but then a new voice pulls our gazes to the left.

“Infini artists.”

(Fuck my life.)

Baylee sits back down, and my muscles constrict as the ash-blond goatee guy steps into the middle of the circle. The guy that I literally ran into. The one that chastised me.

The one that clearly disliked me.

I figure out who he has to be before he even introduces himself.

“Four of you have just met me, but to the rest,” he tells us, clipboard tucked beneath his armpit, “I’m Geoffrey Lesage. Your new choreographer. For the entire season, you will listen to me. You will respect me. All without question or backtalk. No exceptions.”

He purposefully hones in on me.

The cast definitely notices, some people whispering to each other. I bet Brenden is telling Baylee, see, don’t associate yourself with that.

I screwed up in the hallway, but at this point, I don’t really care. If Geoffrey has the power to demote me, then so be it. He demotes me. I’ve been there. I’ve done that. I live for the art and my family, and I doubt he has the authority to take either away from me.

I’m nonchalant. Calm. I drape my arm over my bent knee and everyone else pauses their stretches while Geoffrey appraises the whole cast.

My eyes flit to Bay. She keeps glancing in the direction of the locker room. Like she really wants to grab her phone to check her email.

She cares. I smile again.

She cares.

I nod to myself.

And then Geoffrey steals my attention. “There’s no time for hugs and hand-shakes. I’m not your friend. I’m here to push you to be your very best, and it’s your job to give it to an audience. Every time.”

Some artists nod, but most of us stay still and just listen.

“To start, I’ll read off the completed act list, and then we’ll briefly discuss the narrative of Infini.” He grips the clipboard, licks his finger, and flips a page. “Act list is as follows, including the participants. Listen closely for your name. Act one.”

I stare off and absorb Infini’s program:



Act 1: Dance & Floor Acrobatics (opening)

Act 2: Contortion

Act 3: Aerial Hoops

Act 4: Juggling

Act 5: Wheel of Death

(intermission)

Act 6: High-Risk Trampoline

Act 7: Clown Trio

Act 8: Aerial Straps Duo

Act 9: Hand-to-Hand Balancing

Act 10: Russian Swing (finale)