Infini (Aerial Ethereal #2)(69)

We search in the depths of the twisted sheets and covers, and I finally find my phone the same time as him.

Email notification.

We both read silently.



Date: February 28th Subject: MANDATORY PRACTICE TOMORROW

From: GeoffreyLesage, Choreographer Bcc: Baylee Wright, and other undisclosed recipients

Infini Artists:

I was not impressed by your clear lack of motivation today. No more lunch breaks. You don’t have tomorrow off. In fact, there are no free days from here on out. Be on Infini’s stage at 5 a.m. sharp tomorrow.

No exceptions.



Geoffrey Lesage

Infini Choreographer [email protected]

Holy shit.

It’s already 3 a.m.

We have practice in two hours.

“Fuck,” Luka curses. Fuck feels like an understatement. I’m drunk. I ate heavy food, and chances are, more than half of Infini’s cast is completely and totally wasted.





Act Twenty-Four Baylee Wright

46 Days to Infini’s Premiere

“What the hell was that shit-show?” Geoffrey nearly yells, shutting off the opening score to Infini before it plays through.

Dripping in sweat, 47 hung-over artists—including me—are scattered across the stage of a beautiful globe auditorium dedicated to Infini.

We’ve performed the opening dance and acrobatic sequence fifteen times already. I also have to juggle eight clubs, so I’m desperately trying not to drop one. My head pounds like a jackhammer lives inside my eardrums. I breathe deeply through my nose, and sweat continuously slides down my temples.

Everyone looks just as awful.

Most of the Kotovas are crouched with hands on their heads to keep from puking. Across the stage from me, Luka kneels and concentrates on one spot of the floor.

Beside me, Brenden shuts his eyes from the glaring lights and sways close to Zhen, who wears dark Ray Ban sunglasses for the same reason my brother won’t open his eyes.

I already told Brenden that I was drinking whiskey alone in my room, which spiked his worry, but at least he didn’t think I was with Luka.

Geoffrey scrutinizes us from the midnight-blue velveteen seats down below. This auditorium is identical to the one Amour and Viva share except for the color of the chairs (theirs are red) and the max occupancy.

Their auditorium is intimate and small.

Infini’s is grandiose and way too big. We have double the amount of seats that we need to fill. Which means double the pressure.

Brenden opens one eye to look at the trio of women sitting comfortably in the front row. He sways towards me and whispers, “I wish I were a clown.”

They’re exempt from Geoffrey’s commands because they’re not on stage during the opening number.

I whisper back, “You’re not funny enough to be a clown.”

Zhen laughs beneath his breath.

Brenden nudges me, his lips rising. I nudge back. He forgave me for being standoffish about an hour into practice. Nothing mends tiny spats faster than shared misery.

“Again,” Geoffrey emphasizes. “This time try to look less dead in the eyes.” I’m surprised he hasn’t found a whistle yet.

We all sluggishly move in the wings, hidden from view while Milla, the little Ukrainian girl, remains center-stage. She’s the first person the audience sees, and as my mom’s score starts playing, I inhale deeply and nod my head, listening for my cue.

I’m next.

The second person on stage is me. I walk and juggle all eight clubs around Milla.

“Look alive!” Geoffrey shouts.

I try to emote, but nausea brews viciously. I perform various tricks, catching and tossing clubs high and fast. It’s more subconscious. Like typing on a computer or driving. So I don’t have to think a lot, but I’m leaning backwards more than I like.

Honestly, as soon as Luka, Robby, and Abram do full twisting triple layouts in sync onto the stage, followed by so many Kotovas—it’s all a blur around me. Ordered chaos. Handstands on top of another person’s shoulders. Acrobatic floor work. Dancing to the rhythmic drum beat.

Everyone claps twice.

I spin three-sixty. My stomach hates me. I catch a club. Toss. Catch.

Clap. Clap.

I spin again and join the dance sequence while juggling. Brenden slips on the sweaty stage but catches himself.

Clap. Clap.

I’m going to throw up.

Anton bumps into Sergei on accident, and the music screeches to a halt. We all skid to a stop too, and I lose control of a club. It clatters on the stage, the noise echoing and basically broadcasting my failure. Thank you for that.

I feel too many eyes on me.

“Bucket!” Dimitri shouts from stage right. Grabbing a tin pail, he slides it across the stage. It reaches his little brother, Anton, who immediately vomits into it.

Collective, nauseated groans ring out. I have to squat and set down my clubs. My hand is on my mouth. Don’t gag.

Don’t gag.

I risk a glance at Luka, the length of the stage separating us again. He watches me, breathing as heavily as all the Kotovas, mostly from their athletic performance.

Don’t gag.

Erik joins Anton, retching in a second bucket.

I gag.

Luka’s eyes grow in concern.

Swallow. I swallow puke in my throat, and my brother crouches beside me, a hand on my shoulder.