“That vile substance could take the paint off a car. Two counts as ten by that measure.” Simon walked up to her, standing close to her back. His hands settled on her shoulders. “Maybe if you’re a bit loosened up, this’ll be easier.”
“I’m not drunk.” She shrugged his hands off her. Or tried, anyway. His grip only tightened. “Simon. Let go.”
“I’m glad that I am going to be here to see you on your stage for the first time.” He lowered his head to hers, and she felt his warm breath wash across her temple. When she felt his lips brush against her ear, she shivered.
He whispered, “Go. Take what belongs to you.”
Anticipation swirled in her, knotted her stomach up into a tangled mess, and left her unsure of what to do. This felt like a powerful moment, even if she didn’t quite understand why. “I don’t know how.” She wanted to lean back against him. She wanted to slap him. She wanted both.
His voice was still low. “Don’t be scared. This is who you are now. Go on. I’m right here with you.” He slid his hands to her back and gently urged her forward.
With a wavering breath, she stepped up onto the stage. First the lower tier, then the top. Putting one foot in front of the other, she made her way to the center of the spiral. She looked up at the empty stands and imagined them full of people. Imagined performing for them. Imagined their gasps, their applause.
She shuddered again and chewed her lip. She turned to look at Simon and found him gazing up at her in…awe. There was no other word for it that she dared to imagine. He had taken his glasses off. His freakish, black-red-white eyes were far less horrifying than they used to be. Slowly, bit by bit, their unusual nature had stopped scaring her.
His shadow stretched high up onto the wall, as if it were sitting in the stands, and was smiling at her, swirled eyes wide. For once, the expressions of Simon and his shadow almost matched.
Simon visibly shook himself free of whatever had come over him. He coughed and walked over to the stands. He picked up two objects from the first level of seating. They were long metal rods with a wooden block on each end; the wood was about two inches thick and maybe four inches square. He walked up onto the stage and slipped the end of each metal rod into two of the holes in the stage. They slid down six inches and stopped.
“Go big or go home, isn’t that the saying?” He smiled at her. “These are hand-balance canes. You’ll use them frequently in your routine.”
“I…uh…” The blocks were about waist high on her now, and she looked at them with her brow furrowed in confusion. “I don’t get it.”
“You place a hand on each block, then lift yourself up into a handstand or other hand-balance position. Really, you are quite slow, aren’t you, cupcake?” He poked her in the forehead.
She batted his hand away. “I can’t do that.” She chewed her lip again.
“Yes, you can. And you’re going to. And I’ll be here to catch you if you fall.” He moved to stand to her side. “You have the strength. You have the flexibility. You just have to do it, Cora. You must let this happen. Let yourself change into what you are meant to become.”
She shut her eyes and let out a long breath. Opening her eyes again, she tried to steel her resolve. She put one hand on each block, griping them with her fingers over the edges. But they were too high. Weren’t they?
“Shift your weight onto your arms. Then hop up, engage your core”—he poked her in the abs and grinned as she glared at him—“and lift yourself up.”
It wasn’t going to work. It wasn’t. But she’d prove it to him. Maybe it was the alcohol that was giving her the bravery to try and fail. Maybe it was something else. She put her weight on her hands, lining up her shoulders over her wrists.
She hopped and her feet left the floor. To her shock, she didn’t collapse back down.
“Yes, Cora,” Simon urged. “That’s it.”
She kept going until she was upside down, her legs up over her in a straight line. It didn’t feel easy, but it didn’t feel as hard as she’d expected, either. It felt… natural.
Like this was how she should be. Like this was what she was meant to do.
“Good…” Simon placed a hand on her lower back. She wavered a little at his touch, but didn’t lose her balance. “Now. I want you to bend your legs behind you from the hip. Keep them straight. You’ll need to shift your weight out to keep your balance. I want you to do it nice and slow.”
What else was she supposed to do but listen? She began to tilt her legs “back,” which was strange since she was upside down. As she did, she let her chest lean in the other direction. Simon’s hand slid from her back to the front of her hip. It gave her a sense of balance, having his touch there to stabilize her.
It was around then that she realized she had neglected to tuck in her shirt, and her tank top had ridden up to the underside of her bra. She wasn’t flashing him, but his fingers were resting on the bare skin of her abdomen.
Now his touch was doing something other than helping balance.
Focus!
Stupid booze.
I shouldn’t have had that second drink.
“Keep going, Cora dear. Keep going.” He placed his other hand on her thigh and was gently urging her to drop her legs. “Lift your head. Look up.”
She did.
“No, dear. That’s down. Not your up, my up. Toward the sky.”
She picked up her head, and found it helped her balance. But how did he expect her to keep going? She didn’t know where she was supposed to go! She was already almost bent in half. What did he expect her to—
He pushed her thigh a little harder, and her reaction time was a little too slow to stop him.
And then she really was bent in half. She snickered.
“What?”
“I’m fucking sitting on my own head.” She couldn’t help but laugh. She was, sure enough, sitting on her own damn head. She couldn’t laugh too hard, as her ribcage was curled in a way that certainly wasn’t what nature intended.
Simon muttered something, but she missed it. He pulled his hands away from her, his fingers sliding across the bare skin of her torso before finally he stepped back. “By the gods in hell, Cora…you are exquisite.” His voice was a dusky rumble and dripping in sin.
Her face was warm. Either from the blood rushing to it or from the darkness in his voice. At this point, it was hard to tell. “Simon…” She didn’t know what she was trying to say, so she stopped.
“I want you to balance on one hand. You need to let instinct rule you. Move. Explore your freedom. This is who you are now.” His tone hadn’t changed, sensual and strained with need. But his words were commands, and they were far more effective than his strings.
She didn’t dare look at him. If she saw the look on his face, she would lose her resolve. And probably do something she would regret.
Instinct. She almost always ignored her impulses. She always favored rationality and reason over emotion and “intuition.” The only time she let instinct rule her was when she was behind the lens of her camera. She tried to channel what she felt when she was framing a shot. Maybe this wasn’t that different. She let her body move and let her thoughts take a back seat for a change.