Amour Amour (37 page)

“Luka,” I hiss, squinting my eyes. Nikolai is still descending towards the stage, a commanding, quiet intro.

“I had to capture love,” he refutes.

Uh…

Security leans over our row, just one man in an Amour T-shirt, plastic badge tethered on a lanyard. “No pictures.”

Luka whispers back, “Sorry, dude.” He makes a gesture like he’s putting his phone away, but when security disappears, he leaves it on his thigh with a bigger, satisfied smile. What a rebel.

I redirect my attention, just as Nikolai’s soles hit the bottom of the stage, cloaked by fog. In the very center, he breathes deeply, like he’s witnessing what
we
just saw. Like he’s the one being overcome.

The hairs rise on my arms.

He scans the audience, pulling us all in individually. It’s what he does at The Red Death—it’s how he captivates and turns one head from the next.

His purple and silver paint across his eyes darken the romantic look of his red pants. It’s here—as he steps forward, alone—that I begin to realize the importance of Nikolai Kotova to Amour. He’s going to guide the audience through each act.

The storyteller.

The person that bridges every type of love together.

As his eyes flit around the audience, he says, “Do you know love?” The pain in his gaze palpitates my heart, and somehow, he finds me in the crowd.

He fixes his line of sight in my direction. Whether or not he can see me clearly, I can’t know for certain. But this one look from him, while he’s working, on stage—it solidifies me to the chair.

“I believe there are
many
, many kinds of love.” His eyes seem to smile at me. Knowing I’m unraveling at this intimacy. “And I have seen them all.”

I find myself touching my lips, feeling the force of his on mine, from memory.

And then he steps back, once and twice, the fog thinning around him. He wraps a single hand in the silk. “Tonight,” he says lowly, “you will know love. Just as I do.” And he rises in the air, the apparatus lifted by riggers, giving the illusion that he’s cast away.

When he vanishes, acrobats suddenly scale rafters,
smooth
and nimble. Other dancers perform sensual choreography as a transition between the major acts. Everyone is dressed in modern attire: pants, shirts, and…lingerie. Not as risqué as Phantom, more like delicate babydoll tops with spandex shorts.

As the show continues, I replay Nikolai’s intro in my head. Even when he appears on stage again, assisting trapeze, I still hear his deep voice. I still see him staring straight into me. With that soul-bearing gaze.

After many minutes pass, Luka leans into my shoulder. “This is where the aerial silk act goes.” It’s supposed to be the halfway-point, the highlight before intermission.

We’ve already seen trapeze (teasing) and hand-to-hand (gentle). I flip through the program, trying to see what’s left if aerial silk (passion) is out. Next up: Chinese poles (destructive), teeterboard (obsessive), and the conclusion is the Russian swing (friendship).

As we move onto the poles, it feels like the swelter of the story is missing. But maybe that’s just me, knowing this act should’ve been here.

When we reach Timo’s act, I realize that he’s the climax of Amour.

Obsessive love.

The metal cube structure encompasses the entire stage, teeterboard beneath. My nerves escalate again. The danger is all in this act.

I swear.

Artificial snow flutters from the ceiling, “
Carol of the Bells
” playing, crazed and fast-paced. A girl in a white nightgown sits idly on a bar, swinging her legs.

Then Timo takes a running start from the side stage, seemingly coming out of nowhere, and he uses a hidden trampoline to propel his body through the air.

Everyone gasps.

He lands right on the highest rung of the apparatus. His hair slicked back, in black leather pants. He’s not the sprightly young kid.

He’s dark. Sinister, black paint across his eyes. The girl startles, standing. And he proceeds to chase after her, through the cube, using rungs like monkey bars, accompanied with flips, tucks, somersaults, and things I’ve honestly never seen performed before.

The girl stops a few times, letting him catch up to her, and she’s in a whole other class too. A pit wedges in my ribs.
You’re not ready for this, Thora.
Not even close. She drapes her back along the rung, fluid like silk. And he cages her with his body. She rolls out of the position, dropping…into the arms of Dimitri.

More people flood the stage.

What happens next is the most intricate choreography I’ve ever witnessed, bodies moving swiftly, in unison through the bars. About five run in a
handstand
position, on the highest beam, chasing a new group of acrobats. Others concentrate on the teeterboard below, shooting straight up, landing straight back down. My eyes dart to so many places, wanting to see everything at once.

I want to do that,
I think as I see a beautiful triple layout.

I can’t do that,
is my thought for three-fourths of this act. It’s insane.

What I do notice: the looks every Kotova give each other, the slight head nod. The way they all spot Timo when he soars higher through the metal cube. Timo is clearly the best flyer, with a greater level of difficulty in each rotation.

And it shows.

The audience claps enthusiastically when he lands with ease.

My phone buzzes. I hesitate to answer, but it could be my parents…not that I’m dying to talk to them. I just keep hoping my dad will have a change of heart.

With my hand cupped over the screen, I open the text.

We have a client wanting you, right now. Get your ass here in five minutes or we’ll give the gig to Lana.
– Roger

My stomach overturns. Another buzz.

And slut up your costume.
– Roger

I worry. About everything. As my bank account depletes, with no job alternatives in view, I wonder if this is my last shot. If I reject this, Roger will never offer me anything else. Nausea barrels, sickness rising in my throat, and I can’t tell if it’s from having to choose between staying here and leaving or what I may be walking into.

Luka nudges my arm and whispers, “You okay?”

“I have to leave,” my gut tells me to say. “Work stuff. I’m sorry.”

“Are you sure?” Even in the dark, I spot his deep frown. Luka has no idea that my job description has changed at Phantom. If he did, I have a feeling he’d run after me. It’s a red flag—what I’m about to do.
You can’t lose this job, Thora.

“I can’t lose this job,” I whisper to him.

He nods in understanding. I set the popcorn at my feet and stand in a crouch, careful not to block anyone as I slip out.

It’s only dancing.
I may be fooling myself. But this one thought is the only way I can proceed without falter.

And take this risk.

Act Forty

Roger ushers me along a dark corridor. Another girl in lingerie shuts a door and walks back up the hall. I cover my chest with my arms, hiding my mesh, push-up bra, the white fabric see-through. Barbells and nipples unfortunately visible. I would’ve never chosen this outfit, but I had nothing else. I was lucky enough that they had an extra costume, Roger told me.

The bra is a half-size too small, and the cups squeeze my boobs uncomfortably together. I refuse to look down at the panties, also mesh, also white, and only covering half of my ass. If I do look, I may chicken out. 

“Same deal as if you’re on stage,” Roger tells me quickly. “You’ll have a purple light flash at the one minute mark, and then you descend, bow or whatever the fuck you do. Leave out the back, alright?”

I nod. The neon sign at the end of the hallway says:
yes yes ohh yes

We stop by a closed door, and he puts a hand on my shoulder. “Hey, look fucking sexy, not like you’re going to hurl on the clients.”

I swallow more nausea. “Sorry.”

He shakes his head at me like
come on, girl.
And then he grabs my wrists so that I’m no longer in a shell, my boobs exposed. “You’re lucky that you even have a gig. Other girls would kill for this.” Roger has expressed this sentiment about six times in the past five minutes.

You’re lucky, Thora James. Be excited.

My body is anything but. I try to exhale my reservations. Maybe when I see the hoop, all the nerves will float away. It’ll feel normal and natural again.

There you go.

You can do this.

“Don’t hurl,” Roger demands again. And then he turns the knob, letting me inside the mysterious room. With each step, I concentrate on all the pros to this decision and willfully ignore the cons. It buries more of my anxiety.

I see the low metal hoop and the black leather couch it faces. Two men, in suits. Waiting for me. I quickly look away, avoiding eye contact. As soon as I near the hoop, I realize I’m close enough to outstretch my arm and touch the men. 

They’re middle-aged, I guess. Businessmen, according to their clean-shaven faces, their well-groomed hair.

The music kicks on.
Thank you.
The sultry tune puts me in motion, and I begin to dance around the hoop, to the best of my ability. I’m nearly naked.
Don’t fixate on it.
My body is stiffer than usual, even with these last-ditch encouragements.

It’s so hard to be lithe and beautiful and graceful when my raucous pulse has decided to be even more erratic. Inside I’m tribal drums and metal bands. Outside, I’m hopefully classical portraits and poetry.

“Do you see her piercings?” I hear one of them whisper, his voice too eager.

“She’s—”
Ignore.

I’m sure it looks like I’m painting by numbers, my joints tense and needing oiled. I can’t help it though. My mind and body are in another heated disagreement.

I make a quick decision and cut the dancing short. I jump to grab the bottom rung of the hoop. Unlike the main stage, this hoop is stationary and won’t rise any higher than it is.

I swing my leg over the bottom rung and begin to spin, creating large circles before I hook my ankles and drop upside-down. And this—this is worse than dancing.

I stare right at them, so close that I distinguish their eye colors. Blue and hazel. Blue Eyes leans into his friend next to him, his gaze still pinned to me, sizing me up. Sweeping me over. Undressing the last of my clothes.

The sickness returns.
Swallow it
. I try. I always try.

But it’s like he’s marking every bit of me in his memory. Every freckle. Every eyelash. Like I belong to him tonight.
How is this different than Nikolai being on stage? He was the object of your gaze, moments ago, Thora.
My conscience is working hard to sway me. But it is different. For starters, Nikolai is far away from the audience. He’s not physically this close.

And I’m not an awe-inspiring aerialist like him. People pay to watch his talent. I’m just a woman these two men bought for the night, to ogle and fantasize.

My nerves fire off, vibrating my concentration. And in one second, my grip loosens, and I fall. Hard, on my shoulder, my tendons shrieking in pain.

“Jesus, are you okay?” Hazel Eyes jumps to his feet, and he hovers over me.

“I’m fine,” I say softly. “Sorry about…” I trail off as his hand rests on my elbow and my hip, helping me to a stance. His touch coils the rest of my muscles. In the small space between the hoop and the couch, my legs have knocked into his. I inhale, and the strong musk of his cologne churns my stomach.

I can’t.

I can’t.

“I’m sorry,” I say, backing up abruptly, and my head collides with the metal hoop. Fuck.
That really hurt.
White spots dance in my vision.

“Careful,” Hazel Eyes tells me, but I push away from him before he steadies me again. I press my hand to my forehead, shuffling back in my stiletto heels.

“I can’t. I’m sorry.” I recognize how much I don’t want to do this. And the sad thing is that I wish I could suck it up and finish the act. I wish I could be that fearless, no-holds-barred girl. Who can separate work and emotions—who can bask in the paycheck afterwards.

But I found my personal limitation. I can’t do whatever it takes to be here. I want to be okay with that, I do. I should be.
You tried, Thora.

“What do you mean?” Blue Eyes asks.

I shake my pounding head in a daze. “I’m sorry.” And I rush out of the room before anyone stops me. I beeline down the dark corridor, walking as fast as my heart hammers. Once in the dressing room, I catch sight of myself in a vanity mirror, my skin ashen and a stream of blood trickling down my forehead.

“Fantastic,” I mutter, my throat swollen. I snatch a tissue and blot the skin that’s split open. I pass a couple giggling dancers to reach my locker. Which is…empty.

What? I turn to one of the dancers in confusion.

“Lana was pissed you took her gig,” the go-go dancer says.

I didn’t even realize it was hers. “So she stole my clothes?”

“I think she threw them in the trash out back.”

My eyes burn. Right. I inhale, pressure bearing on my chest.

“Virgin Mary.”

My blood runs cold at Roger’s voice. Maybe this is all karma. But if I didn’t try tonight…I would’ve always questioned if I did everything I could. I know I’m justifying a mistake so that I’ll feel better, but it’s easier than living with bigger regret.

The moment I feel it, I’ll start crying. And I don’t want to cry right now. I just want to go fall asleep and pretend that everything turned out in my favor. That I’m lucky, just like Roger said.

I shield my boobs with my arm and face him.

His anger flushes his skin. “What are you fucking doing?”

“I can’t…” I feel blood trickle down my forehead sliding over my brow. I try to dab it up with the tissue.

Roger notices. “Because you bumped your head? Wipe it off and get your ass back there. You’ve committed tonight. They
paid
for you.”