Infini (Aerial Ethereal #2)(35)

That means falling, but this is the fun part. I jump down, and all eight guys kill my momentum with their weight. I can’t even figure out how, but they just did it.

Focused eyes on me, Geoffrey asks, “You expressed grief over which trick?” He can’t remember because I didn’t actually vocalize my concerns yet.

“The eight-ball, seven-up pirouette. Six-ball, six-up is more manageable to start.” Just saying.

“We’ll see. For now it’s eight and seven.” Geoffrey fingers his goatee before pointing at…no. “Sergei, lift her on your shoulders. You’ll assist…”

I partially tune out the choreographer’s instruction, my eyes narrowed on Luka’s oldest brother. Sergei raises his squared head, shoulders pulled back. His whole authoritarian demeanor puts a weird taste in my mouth. He looks ready to order me around, as though I’m a prop to his act. In actuality, he’s assisting my discipline just as much as I’m assisting his.

I don’t have the heart to glance at Luka.

Those not participating position themselves on the metal frame and the platforms. I stand in the middle while Sergei approaches.

I expect him to say, tell me when I should rotate. Or call out to me with commands.

Instead, Sergei says, “I’ll lift you and begin jumping. I’ll spin after three counts.”

“That’s not how it works,” I say. “Three seconds isn’t enough time for seven balls to be airborne.”

If he hears my opinion at all, he doesn’t say.

Sergei just clasps me by the hips and hoists me on his shoulders. My body is completely rigid. Uncomfortable, for one. My legs drape down his chest, and he grips my calves and begins jumping without even the slightest pause or call-out.

I feel like I’m on a theme park ride that I didn’t ask to be a part of, and it’s made of a Russian man and hard muscle.

At least thirty-feet high, all eight balls still in my palms—I internally freak out. I don’t trust Sergei with my life, and if he drops me, I could bounce and go flying at the back wall or the metal frame of the trampoline. Which is hard enough to crack a skull.

“Any day now.” Geoffrey pressures me.

And it works. I concentrate on juggling.

Rather than simply tossing, I push the first two balls into the air so I don’t fall backwards. I work in pairs, the balls soaring in a clean arc, and then Sergei rotates just as I launch the fifth and sixth balls.

Juggling is about timing. It’s practically math, and when the timing is off, this happens.

The balls fall.

On the trampoline.

And they fling every direction thereafter.

It’s less embarrassing than it is aggravating. I want to succeed badly, but I’ve never relied this heavily on someone else. This is going to take a while.

I must wear the dejection because Geoffrey snaps, “What’s wrong?”

Catching my breath, I say, “I don’t think this partnership is going to work out.”

Sergei is not my favorite person ever, and he technically owes me a grand that he’ll never pay—but I’m not unearthing my personal life at work.

“Fine, we’ll try Dimitri.”

Sergei switches out with Dimitri, and in another breath, I’m on Dimitri’s shoulders and he tells me, “Throw my balls, Baybay.”

Ignore.

I’m not in the mood for his jokes, and ignoring them is the easiest tactic here, especially in front of a choreographer.

As soon as Dimitri jumps, I have trouble concentrating on the trick. I’m thirty-feet up again, but I keep thinking about Dimitri losing his footing and then me falling and face-planting into a mound of hard muscle or metal.

I realize fast that the problem wasn’t just Sergei.

It’s me.

During the rotation, all the balls drop. I shake my head at Geoffrey. I try the trick with Erik and Robby to only meet the same failed result.

Off Robby’s shoulders and firmly planted on the trampoline, I walk towards the metal frame, lungs ablaze. Because I know what I’m about to do.

Please let this work.





Act Eleven Baylee Wright



I ask Geoffrey, “Can I try this with Luka?” I don’t believe the outcome will change with anyone else.

Whether Marc Duval informed the choreographer about my history with Luka, I can’t tell—but Geoffrey nods. He approves.

I don’t question whether Luka will be upset at my proposal. He was the one that helped me earlier, so he should be okay with close contact at work.

I walk to the center of the trampoline, and Luka abandons his spot by the back-left pole to join me. Instantly, we lock eyes.

My lungs inflate, a thousand memories rushing towards me.

Dancing—God, we danced for long drawn-out hours. Drum beats thumped and rumbled the ground beneath our feet, and club lights swept our limbs that tangled. That touched.

We blistered in rhythm.

My head lolled back, and his strong hands found my hips. Sweat built between us, and our bodies—we fit just right.

I try to bury this image with one large breath. I have to concentrate on my job. Not the past.

Not us.

Because there is no more us. There can never be an us. Just separate lonely entities.

What am I even thinking? I didn’t keep tabs on Luka. He may not even be lonely. He may have a significant other. Like a friends-with-benefits or an actual girlfriend. I try desperately to block out these agonizing thoughts.