She rappels on a nearly translucent silky cloth hanging down from the darkness. Every time I think she’ll get her feet on the ground, she halts her momentum, ties herself into some impossible knot in the cloth, and lets go, held in place by her own strength. She spins as slowly as the hour hand all afternoon, time dragging in anticipation for this night.
Her toes hit the ground, which has been covered in some black sheet, and the music swells. Spotlights target her, making the black unitard glisten like obsidian. The new crashing sounds take her body away, pumping her legs in graceful strides from one end of the arena to the other. She leaps onto a sheet-covered hay bale to my section’s left, dancing as if the crowd simply does not exist. It’s like we’re witnessing the movement of a fabledcreature that occupies another realm, as if we’ve been gifted a looking glass for one night.
Along the narrow path of hay bales she moves, tip-toeing, leaping, walking effortlessly on her hands while her perfect legs point toward the tent’s ceiling, working clockwise with no hurry. For each section, she halts her progress and performs a glimpse of her splendor that seems to last a lifetime. The contortions she puts herself in fill my mind with thoughts not suitable for a family show…
It feels as if I’ve been waiting my entire life when she finally arrives at the last section, my section. From my seat, she’s only a few steps away, towering over me, still moving like nothing exists except the music and her flowing limbs.
I feel the cowboy tense next to me. Does this idiot actually think she’s going to acknowledge him? I was invited by her, spent the afternoon laughing and whispering with her, and even I’m not so arrogant as to think that she’d take focus away from her performance to throw me a wink or a wave.
The Valkyrie steps off the hay and melts toward me with movements so divine that I nearly pinch myself. I must be dreaming…
The crowd murmurs.She didn’t get so close to the other sections. What’s she doing?
She points her legs like deadly blades with each step. Closer and closer until I can smell lilacs. I’m so tempted to reach out and touch her that I white-knuckle the bleacher to stop myself. It’s so clear that I’ve been singled out by the Valkyrie that even the drunken fool next to me scoots to the side.
She twirls with momentum that could carry her into the sky, spinning on her toes, ponytail whipping faster and faster until she starts to slow, agonizingly slow until she freezes in a pose with one leg contorted above her head.
Here in this big tent, in the middle of hundreds of people, her green eyes find me and she smiles. The Valkyrie acknowledges my existence.
My section of the crowd practically faints.
A few women swoon.
Through her character, I see Sam hiding in there. That tough, sarcastic, slightly annoyed girl who struggled through ten chilis and held my arm like it was the only thing in the world keeping her steady. She’s there, grinning at me in our shared secret.
I smile back.
From her contortion, her glistening sleeveless arm snakes out as if it has a mind of its own. Sam’s fingers dance, moving like water until her other hand flashes before my eyes, revealing a blood-red rose clutched between her fingers.
The Valkyrie nods—much to the joy of the crowd—and I pluck the rose from her.
The tent can no longer contain its applause.
Sam flips backward, slinking over the hay bale and making her way to center stage. She doesn’t quite match the music, and that lets me know that singling me out wasn’t planned.
The man next to me leaves, but I barely notice him go.
I smell the rose, taking in her lingering scent on the plastic petals.
For the rest of her performance, I can’t keep this stupid grin off my face.
CHAPTER 3
SAM
Adrenaline carries me as I head back to the staging area. The crowd is still losing it; I’ve never heard applause so loud, not for me.
I brace myself for Charles’s wrath. Going off script is perhaps his biggest pet peeve. It’shisshow. He constantly reminds us that we’re just the talent borrowing his stage. He always has the final say.
Everyone else greets me with claps on the back and high praise. Our resident magician, The Mystic Luther—or Kyle, according to his driver’s license—winks at me.
“Not bad,” he says. “Though, I could see the rose before you pulled it out.”
“Magician’s eyes. I think the crowd bought it.”
“And so did your man.”
I roll my eyes, barely able to contain my smile. He did, didn’t he? Thor never took his eyes off me…
