Fly with Fire
By Frances Randon
Fly With Fire
Copyright 2012 by Frances Randon
Published by Heidi Hill
All rights reserved including print, electronic, digital and all means whether or not existence upon publication of this e-book.
Cover Art: Southern Belle Studios, Columbia, SC
No portion of this book whether printed electronically or otherwise may be reproduced or copied in any way without the expressed permission of the author in writing except for brief passages for review purposes only.
All characters in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Any resemblance to any place, location or business is purely coincidental.
To my daughters Marcelle and Genna. Thanks for the encouragement.
One
Mo drew in a long, slow breath as she concentrated. Misha pushed the trapeze toward her. She caught it and leapt from the platform. She swung toward him then back. He timed his leap onto the second trapeze to meet her on her return. Her deceptively slender arms pulled her up and over into a handstand on the bar. Then she dropped. Her legs were long and strong. She suddenly hung by her knees. All this in a second’s time and she was holding Misha’s full weight as they swung through the air. The lights were a blur in her peripheral vision. Her focus was on the other trapeze as they were propelled toward it by a smooth jerk of Misha’s body. Hands on each other’s wrists, they flew in unison. Suddenly Misha somersaults to the oncoming swing and drops. He plummet’s downward to the deafening shout in Mo’s ears.
“No! No! How can you miss that? Do you never do this before? Your first day in the air perhaps? You are lazy today, Misha! He is no good, does not belong in air!” Rodrigo continues his tirade shouting down toward Misha who is still bouncing on the net. Mo catches the bar with her hands and swings onto the platform beside the irate Italian. “You’re timing is off. Do I need splat on the stage in front of thousands of people? People don’t come see La Cirque du Celestial to see splat! You try to help Misha, I know. He never be understudy. Too lazy.” He fumes while she pouts with a humorous twist to her mouth.
“We were off a sec, Roddy, calm down.” Mo smoothed her long black braid looking around the coliseum. It was a fantastic setting, huge swirls of silk and draped stages and props creating a mythical, mystical world. The lights are hot. Yet they are just the practice lights, not the incredible numerous colored lights of the show. She adjusted her leotard with an amused look as Rodrigo shouted insults down at a contrite looking Misha.
“You threw her off! You let go too soon. You didn’t put strength into it.” He flexed his bicep while shaking his arm at the sheepish young man. “Lazy boy will never be as good as Claude. “And you! You would think you never flew before. What would your grandmother say?”
“Leave Gram out of it,” Mo stared levelly at the manager. “Don’t be so hard on Misha. It hurts his feelings. Maybe YOU should work with him.
“Oh, time of month. Too bad we not schedule performance around it. We call it ‘La Cirque du Sang.’” He gesticulated grandly as Mo swung out.
“Come on, Roddy, stop grousing and show us how it’s done. IF you’ve still got it.” She swung out and did two quick loops around the bar. “Roddy, don’t you want to show Misha why you were called the Sky Warrior?” She wheeled around the bar again then landed deftly on the other platform. Roddy looked down to see the performers below interrupt their practice to watch. He twirled an end of his long old fashioned mustache glaring at Mo. She tilted her head then blew him a kiss. She grabbed a bar and swung toward him. “What do we have for dinner, maestro?” She mimicked his accent. “Chicken cacciatore? Chicken can you catch me?” she taunts him. With a huff he grabs the other trapeze.
“I show you who is chicken.” He propels himself then turns himself into a lock. Upside down his comb over hangs long from one side of his head. His short compact body is surprisingly agile. He moves with absolute grace. “Prepare for battle, senorina.” Mo summersaults through the air and is grasped by bony hands of amazing strength. They swing back toward the platform. Roddy launches her to the other trapeze then reverses to meet her again. Mo hangs by her knees then twirls herself into a sitting position. Then she stands and with a fluid thrust of her body flies toward the manager doing a double somersault. With her long braid flying behind her she dives toward him. On the upswing he catches her, but not without a little grunt. They both laugh.
“My beautiful one, such a shame.”
“What?”
He let her go.
She fell toward the net laughing. At the last fraction of a second she kicked out and landed on the net rump first. “You Italian maniac! Come down here and see what’s in store for you.” She shook her fist at him as he sailed back and forth. Rodrigo landed on the platform and maneuvered himself down the rope landing as she flipped herself off the net. The performers clapped as he smoothed his hair into place with an air of dignity, holding it as he bowed.
“Enough perfection for one day. Now you all only try to achieve greatness!” Mo rolled her eyes at the preening manager and winked at Misha who looked down at his feet with embarrassment.
“Cirque du Sang. Cirque du Morte is what we’ll call it and it’s going to be a one man show,” she said dryly. The crowd of performers laughed. Rodrigo gave her the evil eye. “And I can be a bitch off my period as well as on so I’d watch the sexist references if I were you.”
“Who sexist? You call me sexist? Everyone know you punch out the sexist man. I never prejudice against a beautiful woman!” Roddy winked all around then stepped back in time to avert a punch to his upper arm. “Back to work, pretenders,” he said with a hand perfecting the tips of his mustache. “You, Misha, get back up there. Don’t worry boy, you not idiot, just lazy and slow. Where is Claude? How can my fire catcher practice without her partner?”
“Misha, it’s just a little net rash.” She gave the tall blond flyer a smile and looked at Roddy. “I’m sure he’ll be here.” Mo stretched her body with her hands raised high and clasped before bending backwards until her lean upper body was parallel to the lower. She listened as Rodrigo barked criticism and yelled praise with equal fervor. She shook her head with a smile when he did a muscle man pose and crossed his eyes at her.
“Arianne, excellent, excellent! Ling, you good teacher,” he shouted at a small Asian woman in the midst of crossing her ankles around her neck, from behind. “Henri, you look like you’re tangled in your silk. Relax. Body rigid, mind relaxed. You better to work on the core muscle, Ooonree.” Roddy drew out the French pronunciation then whispered under his breath “He getting fat.” Anything less than physical perfection was anathema to Roddy when it came to his performers. He curled his hands into fists and pressed them against his waist. “Where the hell is Claude?”
Lincoln cart wheeled over and landed on his large hands. “Just saw him goin’ toward his dressing room.” He leapt to his feet then tumbled away, bundled dreadlocks bouncing. Mo wondered how he kept them so neatly contained as he flipped and tumbled.
“He has no respect for time. No one else’s time. He will respect my time or I find another flyer out of all the ones knocking over my door.” Rodrigo snorted and began castigating a juggler. Mo straightened with a sigh and headed for the dressing rooms leaving Misha waiting. She went down the corridor past racks of costumes being unwrapped for the dress rehearsal.
“Mo, I gotta get this fitting in this afternoon.” An odd looking woman held up a sheer costume. Her wig was on crooked. She hadn’t shaved.
“Give me ‘til two, would you, Irv?”
“It’s Sally now, Mo,” she said with quiet exasperation.
Mo spun and hiked her s
houlders, holding her hands out palms up. “Sorry, Sally. Still getting used to it.” She turned a corner ready to knock on Claude’s dressing room door. She froze. Claude was engrossed in a necking session with a woman who had just been hired as a masseuse. Mo hadn’t thought much of it when she hadn’t shown up. Guessed she just decided she didn’t want the job after all. He had the woman against the doorjamb, his body pressing hard into hers. “Sorry to interrupt,” Mo said abruptly. Claude, with his head against the woman’s ample chest, turned his head and looked at Mo.
“Ma Cherie!” He straightened but did not seem the least embarrassed. “I am just giving Creestal… Creestal? I am giving Chreestal a tour of this lovely coliseum. I told her do not be afraid, she has strong heart she says, so I… I am just checking!”
“Mo Whitman, you must be Crystal.” She didn’t extend her hand.
“I’m Crystal. Crystal McCleary.” She smoothed her clothes. Her hair was big and bleached almost white. Mo observed the long red nails. The long tanning bed legs.
“You were supposed to be here at noon.” Mo stood with her hands on her hips realizing she sounded as if she were bristling over Claude but couldn’t help herself.
“She got lost. Who wouldn’t get lost here? It’s ridiculous around here, eh? The traffic! Who wouldn’t get lost?” Claude made eyes at the masseuse’s chest.
“Shut up, Claude. You’re whats ridiculous around here. ” She looked at Crystal. “The nails have to go.” She spun around and walked away as the woman gaped after her. She heard Claude laugh and say, “She’s just jealous. I broke up with her last week…”
She went back to the floor mentally flagellating herself for ever dating the buffoon. Back on the platform she tried to clear her mind. She hadn’t been in love with him. She hadn’t slept with him. But she had hoped for…something. That’s what I get for letting myself be taken in by looks and charm, she thought. That’s what I get for letting my guard down. Then she laughed. What had she been thinking? Crystal McCleary? Figures. “Misha light the torches.”
Ethereal music wafted backstage as Mo slapped Irv/Sally’s hand away. “I don’t mind the buns but if it’s up my ass any tighter it’s going to split.”
“Don’t worry, it’ll stretch. I told you I needed an earlier fitting. Do you have any idea how many costumes I’m responsible for? Home office refuses to send me any more people. What’s the point of having a dozen seamstresses a thousand miles away? Stop pulling at it!” Sally’s long, red wig was disheveled. She checked her work through thick glasses.
“Lucky I got that wax. I’ve got to let Karen at me.” Mo turned and saw Roddy and his wife come into the chaotic dressing room.
“Perfecto! Darling!” Rodrigo was in his tux, as he always was for opening night. His wife, Luciana, decked out in sequins, waved and smiled at the various performers before turning a cooler smile on Mo. “Monica, what a lovely costume.”
“Lu, how are you? Got some parties lined up?” Mo smiled and read resentment in Lu’s appraisal.
“The Whitney’s are hosting the after show. At Mr. Whitney’s restaurant.” Luciana ran her eyes the length of Mo’s body. Her smile tightened. She unconsciously ran a hand down the side of her own voluptuous body, her smile became smug.
“The Whitneys! I love the Whitneys. They make everything go, how to say, smooth as silk!” Rodrigo took his wife’s arm. “Let’s get this show over the road!”
As he laughed, Luciana nodded coolly at Mo then smiled at Sally “Kisses, Sal! It’s ‘on the road’, Roddy.”
Sally raised an eyebrow as they walked away. “She’s put on at least ten pounds since I last saw her.”
“That’s pretty catty, Sally. Think it’s just ten?” They both laughed. “Seriously, I worry about Roddy. He’s so in love. Does she really love him? He’s made a lot of money. And now he’s a partner. Is it bad to think she married him for money?”
“She has expensive tastes. Lu never did save her money. I have to say I thought it was to try to get her job back. Watch your back, Mo. She’s not your biggest fan.” Sally made a last inspection. “You look hot, appropriately enough. Go get ‘em!” She clacked off in her spike high heels to inspect other performers.
“I should give Roddy more credit,” she said to herself thinking fondly of the manager and trainer. He was like a father to her and in her opinion the most lovable man she knew. She wasn’t the least worried about her job.
“Ma Cherie! Why pouting, beautiful? You are not angry at Claude! You ruin your face frowning like that.” Claude wore a leotard that matched hers, with flame like stripes made of sparkling red sequins. Unlike hers it was not sheer between the strategically placed stripes. He wore the top half of his hair in a short pony tail. The bottom half of his thick, dark, brown hair hung loose to his shoulders, pushed behind his ears. He raised a finger to her cheek and looked into her large, slightly slanted eyes.
She turned her head away. “How many times have you been told not to come in here? Somehow I missed being broken up with last week. Not that we had a relationship, or that I wanted one. With you.”
“What’s to say? I wanted something you did not. I told you I don’t chase after you. You want me, here I am. No? Then we go our own ways. Why have hurt feeling?” He looked at her with an innocent expression that usually made women melt. And he was…cute. Beyond cute. Claude’s looks were model perfection. He had survived modeling until he’d gotten his break with the show. His blue eyes were playful. A little daring. He’d been manipulating woman a very long time.
“You know? No reason at all. It’s not a big deal and not worth regretting. Your absolutely right, Claude.” She turned on her heel and went over to makeup.
“Momo, wait! No regrets, eh? You didn’t let me give you anything to regret. And it’s a very big deal. If you knew how big, you would have regrets!” He followed her shouting until she turned and put a hand on his chest and pushed him backward while he yammered out the dressing room door. She restrained herself from slamming it in his face, closing it lightly. A woman in a zebra costume breezed in leaving it open again but Claude was gone. Mo turned to reface the pre show chaos. The dressing room was a buzz of talking, shouting, laughing and griping. All the women in various stages of makeup and costume dress.
“Roddy told me you looked tight. Let me do your shoulders while Karen does your face.”
Crystal McCleary. Oh boy. Mo went to the makeup chair. Karen pounced on her with a plastic cover. “I showed Roddy the drawing, he’s good with the stripes down the sides of your face. We talked a little glitter to bring it out. I’m going to exaggerate the shape of your eyes. And give your brows a higher arch.”
“Hi, Karen.” Karen cleaned Mo’s skin in preparation for the heavy makeup. Mo admired Karen sophisticated makeup and short sleek hair. She felt Crystal’s fingers on her shoulders with a start. She gave in and relaxed. She was tight, she had to admit. “I thought the makeup plan was firmed up at the production meeting. You’re not going to shave my brows?
“No. Makeup. Be still. They don’t always grow back, you know.” Karen worked at a furious pace. “It was decided your face was obliterated by the flames. We want our Queen of Hell to be seen.” Karen was always rushed and brooked no refusal to cooperate. She turned Mo’s head this way and that.
“Sorry ‘bout all that. I didn’t know he was taken. Just flirting. You know how it is.” Crystal was surprisingly skilled in her trade, despite the nails. If she would just not talk. “Anyway, we girls have to stick together. Know what I mean?”
“Sure. A little higher on my neck, right there.” Mo would have liked to close her eyes but didn’t risk a verbal cuff from the makeup artist. Karen ran heavy liner around her eyes and feathered in a frosty white shadow. Kind of a facial massage, she always thought. At least when Karen didn’t have her chin gripped in a vise.
“What’s this shit, Karen?” A short red and black faced clown with orange hair waddled into the dressing room on big clown feet with a small jar.
He held it as if it were a dead mouse. “Somebody slipped another brand into my kit. Am I really supposed to use this? You know I don’t like this Halloween makeup from China. It’s got lead and shit in it. You look great, Mo.”
“You look like a clown, Trollie.” Mo laughed peeking out as Karen firmly jerked her chin up. “Hey!”
“Some women are hot for clowns you know. It’s a thing. You shouldn’t judge a man by his costume.” Trollie rifled for an approved make up. “You should judge him by the size of his shoes.”
“Go hassle someone else, Troll. You don’t let anyone else do your make up so tough luck.” Karen eyed her work.
“No one’s ever seen you without make up, Trollie. Who could judge? Besides, shoes like yours would be way too scary if that’s what we had to judge by. What do you do, just keep layering make up on?” Mo spit glitter out of her mouth.
“Nice,” says Karen, dabbing pencil at Mo’s brows. “Get the fuck out, bigshoes.”
“I’ve heard it’s a myth, the shoe thing,” Mo continued. “Wishful thinking probably. But really Trollie, why don’t you ever show us your face? Is it to create a mystique?” Mo enjoyed the back and forth with the other performers. But some members of the company weren’t back and forth types.
“Would you back off?” Karen barks at Crystal. She does a final brush of glitter and nods. “Betty! Virgin gown!” Another woman rushes over with a flimsy costume.
“Trade secret.” Trollie gave Mo a look, or rather an appraisal, as she stood up. “I better go warm ‘em up,” he said, giving her a last long glance. His bright red pantaloons billowed as he walked out the door heels always hitting the floor first as if he were wearing flippers.
“Break one, Mo,” Abby, a dancer shouted zipping out the door painted like a giraffe with little giraffe horns on her head.
Fly With Fire Page 1