Amour Amour

by Krista Ritchie

  He squeezes my ass, and then his fingers dive back between my legs, pressing against my swollen clit from a new angle. I tighten around him, pulsating. “Nik.” I can’t see straight. I can’t even form another word. I am in his care, his possession. For the rest of the night.

  “Anything is possible.”

  And I think, only with my devil.

  Act Thirty-Two

  Four months at Phantom and I finally have a better routine for the aerial hoop. My training with Nikolai is thanks for that. My strength has improved, no more hoop burns. Top that with more sensual tricks, and I usually earn a warm applause at the end.

  I even changed the music, no more emotional Broadway ballads. I go straight for mixes with sultry undertones. “My Song 5” by Haim blares through the amps and propels me forward. After weeks of Roger underpaying me for my “average performances” I caved—and it wasn’t soul-crushing.

  I’m still me.

  Focusing on my routine, I do the splits, not just any though. I grasp the lower rung of the hoop, my legs outstretched, and then I channel my strength, lifting my body upside-down. I blow out breaths through my nose, making it look as effortless as possible.

  Blood rushes to my head, but I keep my legs extended. This is the part where I have to ignore all the whistling and hollers.

  Concentrate on the music, Thora. And I do.

  I breathe out, and I point my legs straight, releasing a hand and supporting my weight with one single grip. As the music escalates, I lower onto the hoop, straddling the metal. I move more often than I hold shapes.

  They enjoy watching me spin and twist and basically gyrate along the apparatus. Gyrate. Not my favorite word when I describe my profession.

  No worries.

  I exhale strongly.

  January. I have to wait for January and then I’ll be auditioning for Aerial Ethereal. You can do this. When my act finally ends, I receive that warm applause, and the hoop descends to the stage.

  “Show us your tits next time!” Someone yells out.

  My stomach lurches. That’s a new one. My feet hit the stage, and I swallow the rising lump in my throat. They’ll always want more, won’t they? The fact is hard to digest.

  On my way backstage, a man at a high-top table slaps my ass and then grabs it in a firm clutch. Fuck. The force is so hard that I wince, stinging, and the sound of the whack rings in my ears.

  I spin around to shove him off. My heart races and pumps with adrenaline, but security already slips between me and him, separating his grip on my ass. Let it go, Thora.

  My eyes burn.

  Stop burning.

  I lift my shoulders. You’re still you. And I redirect my course. Away from the man, heading backstage. I avoid eye contact with everyone.

  Safely in the employee’s only area, I open my locker. Not far away, Roger is in a serious discussion with one of the veteran girls. She nods, her brown curls bobbing with her head. I step into sweat pants over my rouge lingerie and then tug on a baggy maroon shirt.

  When I untie my hair from the loose braid, I notice faint bruises on my forearm from training with Nikolai. I’m not even sure how I acquired it—a mystery bruise. And not the first one. Nor the last. As long as I stick with it.

  I close my locker and jump, my heart rocketing. Roger is two feet from me.

  “Virgin Mary,” he says. What? My face tightens. All week he’s been calling me Thora. I even celebrated at The Red Death with an extra shot. “I need to talk to you.”

  I nod for him to continue.

  “We’re cutting your act.”

  “What?” My voice is a whisper. “Why?” I thought I’ve been doing better. I even did the splits. My rent, the bills, the food, clothes—I need this job. It’s the only thing keeping me financially afloat.

  “You’re not great, but you’ve improved, sure. The cleavage helps.” He gestures to my breasts, thankful they’re covered in the shirt.

  “There has to be something else…I can do, anything.” Anything. It just came out, but I struggle to take it back. I am so, so desperate. I’m about to be a stray cat in the rain, wandering a freeway. And I have to bank on Roger, of all people.

  “It’s not about your routine,” he says, grimacing like he hates pleading.

  But I’d grovel, I think. I wonder if I’d shamefully drop to my knees. No. Yes. I don’t know. My eyes burn again.

  I’m about to lose my job.

  He scratches at his thick red hair. “The owner wants to reduce the number of aerial acts in favor of go-go dancers.” I open my mouth to offer, but he raises his hands, silencing me before I release a word. “You’re not dancing for us. For starters, the other girls would look like giants next to you. And we’re here to make them look fuckable, not like they popped out of Jack and the Beanstalk.”

  “So there’s nothing else?” I’d do anything. That’s what I’m telling him.

  He scans me, from head to toe. Am I selling my soul right now? What the fuck are you doing, Thora? Surviving. On my own.

  “There is something,” he says. “We have these private shows for top clients. Just you and a low hanging hoop and a room. Maybe one or two men. No sex. Too many lawsuits there, but it has to be way sluttier than that shit you do up there.” He checks his cell as my mind seesaws between my morals and my boyfriend and my independence. “That’s all I have. You’ll make twice what you make now.”

  “How much?”

  “A grand.”

  “In a week?”

  “A night.”

  A night. My heart stops. That’s not just twice what I make now. That’s so, so much more. Tempting—this part of Vegas is very tempting. Say no.

  Say yes.

  “I need to know by tomorrow. I have to start filling the calendar.” He leaves me with my indecision. I can spend tonight and tomorrow searching for jobs, and if there’s nothing—then I can proceed from there.

  All I know is that I can’t be broke.

  If I’m broke, I go home.

  I leave Vegas.

  Return to a life that I have left behind. Start back at the beginning. Try to forget about the person who clutches my heart. Without money, I fail.

  It’s simple.

  I’ll figure it out. I have plans set for today and tomorrow. It’ll be okay. Motivational boosts in check, I walk through the club, hoping to grab a drink from the bar on the way out.

  I make it five feet, and I stop dead.

  No.

  Standing by the stage, right behind a bald bouncer that blocks drunken men from slipping into the dressing rooms—I see them.

  My parents.

  At Phantom.

  Act Thirty-Three

  I bring my mom and dad to an Elvis-themed diner in The Masquerade, somewhere quieter where we can talk. They sit across from me in the red vinyl booth, music playing softly from a retro jukebox, frequently interjected by an “order-up” call from cooks.

  The only thing they’ve told me is why they showed up at Phantom. A place I never told them I worked.

  It was Shay.

  He called them, out of worry for me, they said. And he confessed all of my sins, all the lies I’ve been telling for months. The betrayal sinks beneath an overpowering sentiment: guilt. Horrible, gut-wrenching guilt. A knife twists in my stomach, barely able to meet their eyes.

  A phone call was too impersonal, my mom said.

  They wanted to see for themselves. So they purchased plane tickets and saw my act tonight. They heard some guy scream at me to “show your tits” and watched another smack my ass.

  I don’t think this is what my parents hoped for me. It’s not what anyone would want for their child.

  When I raise my head, I see it in their eyes.

  Disappointment in me. Hurt in them.

  I drop my head again, my finger running over a sugar packet after we all order drinks.

  “I don’t even know where to begin,” my mother says, her voice cracking. Her blonde hair splays on her thin should
ers, her makeup soft, with understated colors. Nothing like the bright red that stains my lips.

  “This isn’t how I wanted you to find out,” I whisper. My eyes continue to burn, but I don’t cry. Not in a semi-crowded diner, people sipping on milkshakes.

  My dad remains silent, his fingers to his lips. His wispy hair has grayed almost completely. He’s twelve years older than my mom, a fact that never seemed to be an issue for them. Not even when they accidentally became pregnant with Tanner—my dad already fifty-one at the time.

  I know love when I see them.

  Unfailingly together, their hands cupped beneath the table, as though prepared to confront this problem, me, with unity. I never even dreamed of finding love. It’s been low on my list of pursuits. I thought I’d tackle that later. Maybe in ten years. I’d fall in love for the first time then.

  I wish someone would’ve told me that you can’t search for love. That one day, it will find you.

  An unexpected thing.

  “Where are you staying?” my dad asks. It’s the first time he’s spoken.

  “I have an apartment.” I let that hammer drop. My mom’s eyes shift to the table. I add, “In a good location. Safe.” These facts are important to them. Vital. Necessary things. And even as I say it, I know they won’t believe me. They’ll go back to their hotel room, Google search my address and research crime rates in the area, snoop on forums to see what real life people have to say.

  “Why wouldn’t you tell us, Thora?” My mom practically cries. No, she is crying. This opens the floodgates on my emotions, my heart palpitating as tears drip off her lashes. “If this is what you wanted…you know we would’ve supported you.”

  Don’t cry, Thora. I’m trying not to. “Would you?” My voice quivers. “Because I didn’t get the job, Mom. I wasn’t good enough.” A rock in my throat, I add, “I didn’t have a place to stay. I didn’t have a job at the time. You would’ve told me to get my ass home. Please don’t say differently. I know you both too well.”

  “We would’ve helped.” She dabs her eyes with a thin paper napkin. “You could have flown home and we would’ve started job hunting—”

  “If I flew home, I would’ve stayed in Ohio.” She would have broken down and cried, convincing me to stay. My father would’ve pointed at my mother and said you’re making her sick over this. And the fear of leaving would’ve poached all my resilience that I mustered to come here in the first place.

  “Stop it,” my father cuts in, his voice like nails, full of angry disappointment. “Stop talking, Thora.” His gaze shifts to the seat beside him, my mom burying her face in her hands, tears streaming full-force.

  I look away.

  And that’s when I catch someone watching us. A girl at the bar. Long legs and arms and pale skin. Katya’s round, globe eyes fix right on me. This is her favorite diner, so of course she’s here.

  Concern reflects in her gray irises, empathy for me.

  Tears sting, clouding my vision. Once upon a time, I saw a broken girl sitting in a booth. That’s how I met Katya. And now here she sees me. Fracturing in a booth, splitting apart. Life is a rollercoaster with no volunteers. We’re all forced to take a seat and ride it out.

  She mouths, are you okay?

  Hot tears roll down my cheeks, but I nod. She shouldn’t worry over my problems. Last month, I confessed to her that I’d been lying to my parents, after she asked what they thought of me being in Vegas. Wrong confession. To the wrong people. Always.

  I turn my attention to my parents, both silent in thought. “I’m sorry,” I say what I should’ve started with. I choke out the rest. “I didn’t…I didn’t know how to tell you.”

  “You lost your scholarship,” my dad says, his face reddening in ire. “You had a year left of school. That’s it. Was your college education not worth it to you?” For my father, this is a rhetorical question.

  It has to be worth it to me. It’s what’ll pay my bills without headache, he believes.

  I answer it anyway. “This was worth more.”

  I want them to see how much it took out of me to stay here. To be alone in a city with no familiar face. But their viewpoint is Shay’s. To them, this is nothing more than foolish. A dumb move in the game of life. I went off the board, left the right path. And decided to take one that never existed in the first place.

  When my father looks at me, it’s as if he’s laying eyes on a stranger. “So you’re dancing at that club?” The disgust in his voice caves my chest. My mom still cries. Unable to produce words, she fists a crumpled tissue.

  “I’m an aerialist at Phantom,” I choke out, tears falling as I blink. I don’t mention the turn of events after tonight. It’s not the right time to bring it up—and I may…I may find a way out of it. Then I’ll tell them. “And I’m…training with someone from Aerial Ethereal. I’m going to audition in January. I don’t know if Shay told you about that.”

  “Your boyfriend is training you,” my dad snaps. “That older Russian man.” The way he says man, it sounds vile.

  “He’s twenty-six,” I mutter, feeling sick all of a sudden. Nausea churning.

  “That’s okay, honey,” my mom sniffs loudly. She shoots a look at my dad. She’s defending me? I rub my watery eyes, my hand slick with tears. Why does her support hurt too? I don’t understand…a larger pain just bears on my chest.

  My dad shifts in his seat.

  “We’re not here to discuss your relationship,” she says softly. “That’s your business. You’re old enough to make those choices. We just wished we were informed about the other part…” She sniffs harder, a croak in her voice. “After all we’ve…” Her lips vibrate now.

  “I’m sorry,” I cry out, reaching across the table for her hand. She lets me hold it. “I’m really sorry, Mom.”

  “I am too,” she replies. “For making you feel like we would’ve swayed your decisions…” She shakes her head. “You’re an adult, Thora. You can do whatever you want. We just want you to be safe and to help you choose right.”

  To help me choose right. But what happens if their choices don’t align with mine? Moving against them is worse than moving against the grain. It’s like trying to stop a wave from breaking.

  My brick-walled father is not as eager to forgive and forget. “You’re still working at this club?”

  “I can’t go home—”

  “Yes you can,” he says. “Stop this.”

  I shake my head.

  “If you go back now, you’ll only be a semester behind.”

  “No, I have auditions…” I trail off as his jaw hardens, his eyes shooting caustic bullets into me.

  “Paul,” my mom says in defense. “She’s twenty-one—”

  “She’s still our daughter. This is so…” stupid, he’s going to say. I’m being stupid. For being here. Taking this risk.

  My gaze falls off them, agony coursing through again. This isn’t going to have a good end. No bygones be bygones. The realization slashes my insides, cutting me to pieces. I look to the bar, but Katya isn’t alone anymore.

  Luka sits beside her, taking furtive glances in my direction. I check the Elvis clock hung beneath a neon sign. It’s too early for Amour to be finished. Nikolai is still at work.

  “Thora,” my dad says, drawing my attention. “We’ll compromise. You come back to Ohio with us, reenroll in college, and when auditions come around, we’ll pay for your ticket to Vegas.”

  It’s safe. Smart, even. “I…” I freeze.

  He adds, “You shouldn’t be working at that club either.”

  “It’s…temporary.” My swollen throat can barely release the words.

  “And what were you planning on doing if the auditions didn’t work in your favor?” he asks. “How temporary would it be then?”

  He’s slicing me at the knees.

  My mom says, “We’ll give you the night to think about it. Our flight leaves at noon tomorrow.”

  My dad can’t just leave it there. He’s silently f
uming, fixated on what he saw tonight. He leans forward. “I don’t care if your mom wants to talk to you, but as long as you have that job, I don’t want to hear from you, Thora.” He stands up like he banged a gavel on a podium, throwing an ultimatum at my face.

  I can’t move. I can’t even blink, haunted by his voice.

  My mom pats my hand, my dad hurried to leave. He waits for her to scoot from the booth, and when they depart, everything slams into me. Doubts. Worries. So many fears.

  I rest my elbows on the table, crying into my palms. How can this be worth it anymore? What if their offer is the right path and I’m being stupid by staying here? In Vegas.

  A sob rips my chest open. And that’s when I feel the seat undulate, someone scooting next to me. I lower one hand and see Katya, her cheeks splotched red like she’s been crying.

  I turn my head, and I see Luka across from me, his gaze just as bloodshot. But he smiles weakly, as though reminding me that I have people who care about me in this city—who are here for me. I struggle to return the smile, realizing I can’t form one. An avalanche of tears forces me to shield my eyes again.

  Katya hugs me around the waist. “You can’t leave,” she whispers, her voice so soft.

  My second hand returns to my face, a mess of emotion. You can’t leave. But I’m not sure if I should stay either. I try to set aside my feelings for Nikolai. I try so hard not to see him in the equation, and my achievements seem so small, so miniscule and pitiful.

  My body shudders with each sob, the noise muffled in my palms. I never wanted this chapter in my life to be the biggest mistake, the biggest regret. I wanted it to mean something.

  I wanted to be something more.

  And yet, I sit here, pained, tired, sore, a wreck—and I just hear what everyone has been telling me all along. You’re not one in a million, Thora James.

  You will never amount to more than what you are.

  Accept that.

  I think I’m starting to.

  For a long time, Katya and Luka remain quiet. Just here for me. Whether they know it or not—it conflicts me more. It makes it as hard to leave as it is to stay.

  And then Luka tells me, “At least wait to talk to our brother before you make a decision. Please.”