Amour Amour

by Krista Ritchie

  To rectify this, I drop quickly to all fours, and their argument ceases like I chopped through it with my movement. I tilt my chin up. A cat in heat. I channel the most lustful look I can muster, my mouth partially open as a heady breath escapes. And I slowly crawl on my hands and knees, slinking around his shins.

  I circle languidly, licking the side of my palm. And then I rub my hip against his calf, all the while a swelter boils in my body. But I do it again. And again, my arm brushing up against his skin.

  His quads tighten in response. I tense just as much, and I catch a peek of his features, which haven’t changed since the beginning.

  “Purr,” he tells me.

  I freeze at the new command. Purr? How does one even purr? I’m going to try to attempt it. I have to. As soon as I open my mouth, the sound that leaves is nothing short of a moan, one that happens in private—not during an audition. A job interview. That’s what this is. With directors in sight.

  The other gymnasts are most likely crossing me off their lists. One competitor down.

  Nikolai appraises me but makes no statement whether I’m succeeding or failing at being a horny cat. “Stop,” he says.

  A pit wedges in my ribcage, and I slowly stand to my feet, hot all over. I brush my hair into a tight ponytail. I can feel him scrutinizing my actions, and what’s worse—he won’t fill the empty air with talk. Not until I snap the band and plant my hands on my hips.

  He has to stare down at me as he speaks. “I’m a marble statue,” he declares. “You’re obsessed with it. You dream about it, erotic fantasies that make you come at night. You see this statue, what do you do?”

  Holy.

  Shit.

  He said all of that without balking.

  I open my mouth, about to play into this pretend, weird scenario. The girl would probably grind against the statue. Right?

  He cuts me off, “Show me.”

  I hesitate for one second.

  And then the other man yells again in Russian, spitting as gruff words pour from his mouth. Nikolai shakes his head at him, and he shouts back, making another hostile hand gesture that I read as: wait a minute.

  I inhale, about to go into girl-obsessed-with-statute mode, but the moment I near Nikolai, the Russian man charges onto the mat and physically separates us. He wedges his short, stalky body between me and him, and he spews Russian words straight to my face. Like I understand.

  I don’t.

  Not one word.

  “I don’t know what you’re saying,” I tell him softly, my stomach practically convulsing with nausea. I have no idea what’s going on. Maybe he’s upset with Nikolai for putting me through a strange audition. By the snarl on his wrinkled face, he clearly hates me.

  And if my hunch is correct, he’s the choreographer for the aerial silk act.

  He gestures to me and then to the mat with all the other girls. Nikolai tries to talk above him, but this only sparks another verbal shouting match.

  Helen struts to the mats, approaching from a safe distance. “Thora, that’s it for you,” she says. “You can take a seat and wait for the other girls to audition. We’re making the first round of cuts at the end of the day.”

  Her words knock me backwards a bit. She might as well have said: you failed so much that we only gave you five minutes instead of fifteen. My legs feel heavy as I trudge over to the girls. They shift nervously and none make snide comments or laugh and jeer about my cat-in-heat routine.

  I plop down beside Kaitlin, who remains quiet. And I watch Nikolai and the choreographer come to a somewhat peace, their hands raised like let’s end this and move on.

  When they separate, Nikolai rubs his jaw and takes a few extra paces behind Helen. The older man stays on the sidelines of the blue mats. And it’s Helen who calls the next girl forward.

  “Number 1,” she says.

  Elena, the bleach-blonde, gracefully rises to her feet, nearly gliding to a halt in front of Helen. In her green leotard, her limbs seem thinner and her chest flatter.

  I don’t even want to watch, my insides stretching to their limits. I fiddle with my fingers, pushing down my cuticles while I cross my legs.

  “You’re a flower in a meadow,” Helen says. What?

  My heart stops.

  “The winds are strong,” Helen continues, and Elena begins to sway back and forth, like she’s performing a lyrical dance.

  This whole time, he wasn’t messing with me? Nikolai observes Elena with a stiff, rigid posture. While the young gymnast pretends to be blown over, I try to make sense of my audition.

  He was really trying to help me.

  From the beginning, maybe.

  Trust me.

  He said that last night. Trust. I was supposed to do as he said, without question, because he’s supposed to be my partner. If I get this role. It’s looking grim now.

  “Purr,” Helen instructs. She might as well have kicked me in the gut.

  And apparently humans can purr. The sound that Elena produces is like a vibration off her tongue.

  Fuck my life.

  I tuck my legs to my chest, and I plaster my gaze right on Nikolai, hoping he’ll feel the heat off my stare. I’m not looking for reassurance. I think, mostly, I want to apologize. I should’ve stepped out of my box today. He was trying to pull me out of it, and I fought back. I resisted.

  He concentrates solely on Elena.

  “You’re madly in love with the blue mat,” Helen tells her.

  And that’s when Nikolai has enough of my penetrating gaze. He finally turns his head and gives me a look like I’m working, Thora before I can offer an apologetic one.

  I mouth, I’m sorry.

  I wish I could have a redo. I’m not sure I’d be a better horny cat or a more vicious dog, but I wouldn’t have faltered so much.

  I would’ve barreled forward, no matter how awkward I felt.

  He shakes his head at me like it’s over now. But his eyes seem to soften a fraction before he returns them to Elena.

  I can’t believe this is how it’s all ending.

  Act Four

  After each girl auditions, the directors go into deliberation and Helen says that we can look around the gym while we wait for first cuts.

  I end up in the locker rooms, scanning the names on the blue metaled doors. I don’t think I was the worst one at acting. One girl was asked to be fire and water, and she ended up doing the worm. But I definitely didn’t possess Elena’s grace or Kaitlin’s head-first, no-holds-barred gusto.

  Honestly, I think I faded into the background.

  I skim my fingers over a worn name scribbled on the locker label: Dimitri

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I jump at the deep voice behind me. Nikolai leans his shoulder on a blue locker, arms crossed, his dark hair spilling over his red bandana. His intensity doesn’t diminish.

  “You never asked me anything,” I whisper, even though it’s already quiet here.

  He blinks a few times and lets out an exasperated laugh before shaking his head like he can’t believe this happened. I can’t either. “At The Red Death,” he begins, “did you even know what I was going to do?”

  “I told you it was my first time in Vegas.”

  He rubs his lips, upset it seems. “I assumed you heard about what happens from a friend.”

  “No,” I say. “I knew nothing.”

  His face turns grave, and he stares at the concrete floor, processing what this means.

  “You never asked,” I reiterate this.

  “Because I thought you were no one!” he shouts at me, frustration lining his forehead. “I don’t ask anyone at The Red Death anything, Thora. I don’t want to hear about their lives while they’re in Vegas for the weekend. There’s no point. It’s exhausting and I’d rather assume…” he trails off, realizing he assumed wrong this time.

  “I should’ve said something then,” I tell him. “You’re right.” I can’t even recall why I stayed quiet. Maybe because I was
ticked off by his lack of questions. Maybe because I was overwhelmed. Mentally, emotionally—last night is far off compared to today.

  I find myself sitting on the wooden bench between the lockers. Silence stretches between us. I expect him to leave, but he stays in the same place.

  “It doesn’t matter anyway,” I say softly, my eyes threatening to well with defeated tears. “You won’t see me around anymore.”

  He lets out an exasperated noise and walks deeper into the locker room, nearing me. He stops a few feet away. “Look at me, myshka,” he says lowly.

  I lift my gaze to his.

  “Don’t count your losses before you see the scoreboard.” While encouraging, he still looks agitated. “It’ll plague you with insecurities that aren’t worth your energy or emotions.”

  He just passed me an ounce of hope. Maybe out of pity. I’ll take it though. “Thanks for helping me, before,” I suddenly tell him. “I didn’t realize what you were doing…”

  “The choreographers usually judge easier on the first person who auditions. They know you’re blindfolded for it unlike the others.” He drops his gaze again, something he rarely does, I’ve noticed. “I’m not going to lie. I was angry when I first saw you, and I still am.”

  “Yeah, I can tell,” I whisper.

  He nods a couple times. “But I wanted to give you a better shot because I felt like I put you at a disadvantage, and that wasn’t fair to you.”

  I frown. “What do you mean?”

  His eyes rise to mine again. “Our relationship,” he says, “is unprofessional.”

  I sway back a little. “I wasn’t aware we had a relationship.”

  He still towers above me. “Whatever you want to call it—it’s not right. I don’t shit where I eat. I pierce and tattoo people looking to have fun in Vegas. I give them an experience. You were here for a job.” He shakes his head. “I regret what I did. More than you can possibly know.”

  “Don’t,” I tell him. “It’s just a piercing. And I said it was okay.”

  “We may work together,” he says. “It’s not just a piercing to me.” He gestures to my small frame. “And how old are you?” He grimaces some. “Please tell me that you’re not eighteen.” Maybe because he supplied me shots all night. Or because he fondled my boob, and that’d mean we’d have a significant age gap than the one that already exists. I’m going with the latter.

  “Twenty-one.”

  Relief floods his face, and he exhales deeply.

  “What about you?” I ask.

  “Twenty-six.” He scans my body for a second, as though he’s reading the language of my movements. “Despite the control I had at the auditions today, I have almost no weight in the final choice. They can pick any one of you, even if I say otherwise.”

  The tiny hope he’d given me might have been false after all. “The choreographer dislikes me,” I recognize. He was introduced at the end of the auditions, so I’m certain he’s the man who’ll arrange the aerial silk routine.

  Nikolai relaxes his shoulder on the locker again. “Ivan doesn’t dislike you.”

  My chest inflates with more positivity.

  “He actually hates you,” he says flatly.

  It pops just like that.

  “Amour won’t last the year if we don’t find a replacement,” he explains. “The Masquerade is threatening to shut down the show, and it needs the aerial silk act to complete the story. So Ivan is under a lot of pressure, as am I, and as will be my partner.”

  I want to believe that I can handle the pressure. I can say it every day, all day, but actions speak louder. I haven’t ever been tested to this degree. Nothing this grand has weighed on my shoulders. I can barely even imagine what he’s going through.

  “And it doesn’t help that you’re not Russian.” He checks the clock on the wall and heads to the exit.

  I frown, his words ringing in my ears. “What does that mean exactly?”

  He glances back. “It’s aggravating when you can’t communicate with someone. He tried to cut your audition short because of it.” With this, he curves around the corner, disappearing out of sight. I hear the heavy door open and then click closed.

  I stand up, more uneasy but a little more prepared than before. I pocket the false hope like a gem, refusing to believe it’s fake for now. I need it. He gave it to me because I needed it. I won’t let it go that easily.

  Act Five

  I made the first cut.

  I send the group text to my parents and my brother and then another text to Shay. I walk down the long carpeted corridor of the casino floor in sweat pants (over my leotard)¸ still in a daze about the verdict. An hour ago, Helen called my audition number along with Elena, Kaitlin, and another girl’s. I almost couldn’t believe it.

  Nikolai even made a point to nod at me when she announced that I made it through to day two of auditions. Maybe it was a pity nod, but it fuels me for the final round tomorrow.

  At first, I planned to decompress in Camila’s apartment, maybe finish Bite in the Dark, a vampire romance that I’m three-fourths through. But I think couch-surfer protocol forbids me from loitering. I sleep and go. And sleep again.

  So I decided to take advantage of Vegas and soak up the atmosphere while I’m here. If I don’t land the role, then I may never have the opportunity to return to this city again.

  The slot machines ping and glow—a group of thirty-somethings clustered at a roulette table. They simultaneously cheer, raising their beers and cocktails. Everyone here seems to be on a high, skiing up it or sliding down.

  The energy is new, and I feel a smile pull at my cheeks. Life is slow in Ohio. Not a bad slow. Just different. Vegas begins to take hold of my senses, drawing me deeper into the casino’s sins.

  Evening hasn’t set in yet, so the crowds aren’t as thick as they could be. I mosey around the tables and slots, watching people gamble from afar. I understand the enticement of throwing dice, playing cards, and pressing a button.

  It’s the dream, right?

  To be granted money without any real work or effort. It doesn’t matter who you are, what you look like, where you come from—we all have the same odds.

  Vegas may be a genie, willing to grant wishes, but it’s also a devil in disguise, here to slay our dreams just as quickly.

  While I observe a really confusing game—craps, I think—my cell pings.

  Duh, you made the first cut. Booking my plane ticket already. – Tanner.

  I smile and try not to think about my realistic parents, who’ve probably made plans to pick me up from the airport.

  Before I pocket my phone, it pings again.

  Natalie and Jordan miss you. They keep asking when you’ll be back. – Shay

  He’s lying. For one, Natalie and Jordan didn’t even notice when I had bronchitis our freshman year and missed three practices. If we didn’t share a single commonality—the girl’s gymnastics team—I doubt we’d even be Facebook friends. I text quickly: I’ve been gone for a day and a half.

  This is reason enough that no one probably misses me. I wouldn’t even miss myself for that long.

  I think I’d need a solid month. Then I’d start missing myself. Maybe.

  He replies back with a devil emoji. I send him an angel one.

  Right as I return to the craps game, I spot someone familiar dealing cards at a blackjack table. My feet lead me there before my head does.

  “Oh no,” John says as I approach. “This table is reserved for non-AE artists.”

  “I’m not an artist yet,” I tell him, resting my hand on an open stool. “I’m just a gymnast.” If I’m really unwanted, I can go wander aimlessly somewhere else. Maybe I’ll find a good reading bench.

  John looks surly, so I begin to back away.

  “Wait, wait,” he says slowly and motions for me to return. “It’s been a quiet afternoon, and I’m predicting an onslaught of loud, obnoxious fraternity guys. It always happens. It’s an easy day and then fucking tobacco-chewing, sungl
ass-wearing douche bags roll in, pretending they’re professional poker players, leaving two-dollar tips and bottles of brown spit.” He shuffles his cards. “But if you sit here, you’ll most likely detract them from my table. You’ll be my asshole repellent.”

  I hesitate to ask. “Why will I repel them?” I settle into the open seat, taking the invitation regardless. I mean, I don’t have many options. Or friends here. So yeah, I’m left with moody John Ruiz. It’s not bad, all things considered.

  His eyes flicker to my black leotard and loose pony, flyaway pieces of dirty-blonde hair around my oval face. “They go for the empty tables or the ones with models. You’re neither invisible nor a model. No offense.”

  “None taken.” I’m glad he doesn’t ask about my auditions. Not dwelling has alleviated some stress. I watch him shuffle another deck. John wears a tux with a gold bowtie, the dealer’s uniform, and he scowls so much that his forehead wrinkles.

  “You have RBF?” I blurt out. I internally grimace. Why did I ask that? Maybe I can relate to someone else who suffers from Resting Bitch Face. I’ve bonded with a girl on the gymnastics team that way. We unite together. But it’s not like that term is common or even a “thing” with lots of people.

  His face scrunches more and he gives me a weird look. Then he says, “No, I’m just a bitch.” He smiles dryly.

  I can’t help but smile back. And the corner of his mouth even rises in a more genuine one.

  “What’s your bet?” he asks me.

  “Can I just watch?” I didn’t bring any money to the casino, and this is a pretty expensive table.

  “Elbows off the table,” he suddenly tells me.

  Okay, that must be a rule. I don’t even know proper poker etiquette. I quickly take them off. And then he passes me a glass bowl of Chex mix. “I’m usually not this nice. But you look like you need a friend, and I’m never that friend. Never.” He shakes his head like this is cemented in truth. “This is only because you’re working for me today. Incentive to stay when I become surly at two-thirty. Happens every afternoon. Prepare yourself for it.”