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“No thanks. I have a question though. Are there any circus traditions, I mean, peculiarities in the way they deal with the death of performers?”
“You’re looking at it.” He raised his glass. “Remember the fallen and get rip-roaring drunk.”
“I guess what I’m asking is, why isn’t her partner here?”
“Theo? Your little crush?”
His careless jibe hurt, but she tried not to show it. “He’s not my crush. But he should be here, shouldn’t he?”
“Would you want to be here if you were him?”
“I don’t know. Why not? It’s not like it was his fault.”
Jason’s lips turned down in a grimace. “He probably thinks it was. He had her and he dropped her.”
“But it was an accident. He wasn’t responsible for it happening.”
Jason shrugged and took another sip of his drink. “In the end, Kels, it doesn’t matter what you think. It matters what he thinks. He’s done anyway.”
The offhand finality of Jason’s statement hit her full force in the chest. “What do you mean, he’s done?”
Jason leaned closer to her, pinning her with his gaze. “Let me ask you this. Would you go up there with him?”
She bristled at the implication in his tone. “Of course I would. What happened was an accident. Theo didn’t do it on purpose. It’s not like he flung her down there.”
“Even so, he dropped her. After that happens, they’re never the same. They have what we in the circus call ‘bad hands.’”
“Bad hands? That’s bullshit.”
“A lot of circus stuff is bullshit. It is what it is. Theo Zamora has bad hands now. The people in Tsilaosa know it, the people in Splendide and Diamonte and Idée know it, and the cast of every other Cirque du Monde show in the world knows it. And guess what, their friends in other circuses know it, and their friends know it, and every fucking trapezist from here to Timbuktu knows that Theo dropped Minya from eight stories up. Circus people are a superstitious bunch. Bad hands are bad hands, and once you have them, you’re through.”
Kelsey turned away, unreasonably angry. A lifetime of work, gone in a moment. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Circus people are stupid,” she said.
“You’re one of them now. Are you calling yourself stupid?”
Oh, she was stupid all right. She left the memorial service-turned-party a few moments later and headed past the theater, past the dorms and through the side streets of Paris until she was staring at the door of the squat gray-teal house on Rue des Jours. She looked at her watch. It was after midnight. Was she crazy? Why are you doing this? Out of concern? Bullshit. Don’t lie to yourself this time.
She lifted a hand to knock, and dropped it again, making a fist. Then she knocked again. Then she pounded. “Theo! Theo--”
The door fell away from the flat of her palm and she stumbled into him with his name still on her lips. He caught her before she fell, and released her just as quickly, like it burned to touch her.
“You again,” he said with disgust.
Kelsey forged ahead before he shoved her out and slammed the door on her. “Where were you?” she demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Why are you here? Do you know what time it is?”
“I’m here about her. Minya. Remember her? The memorial service was today. Why weren’t you there?”
He stood tall, shoulders back, bare-chested, sweatpants riding far too low on his hips. He was as imposing as ever and not a bit ashamed. “I didn’t want to come.”
“Why not?”
“She wasn’t my family. Not even a friend. Just a partner.” He stared somewhere over her shoulder. “A slut for sex, when I wanted it. She was nothing to me.”
“You’re a liar.”
“Believe what you want to believe.”
“So you didn’t care about her at all? And yet you’re holed up here, drunk and miserable, rolling around in your own filth?”
“I showered a few hours ago!”
Kelsey threw a look around his ransacked living room. “So you always live like this?”
He sauntered over to his end table to pick up a cigarette. He slid her a look as he lit it behind a cupped hand, and then turned and blew the smoke in her direction.
“Nice,” she hissed, waving the offending cloud away. “Smoking’s bad for you.”
“So is trapeze,” he said drily. “If all you wanted to do was come over and yell because I didn’t come to Minya’s service tonight, okay. You’ve done this. You can go now. Go.” He made shooing motions at her. When she didn’t move, he dragged in another deep pull on his cigarette and regarded her through half-lowered lids. “Or maybe you’re here for some other reason. You’re horny? You like rough sex? I’m in the market for a new toy to play with.” His gaze traveled over her from head to toe. Kelsey hated that his heartless words and assessing look made desire flare in her chest, and between her legs.
“You’re repulsive,” she said, before her expression could betray the way she really felt.
“You didn’t think so that day. You don’t think so now.” Theo stepped closer and she stepped back. They were still standing in his foyer. Kelsey was a scant second from retreat, from tearing open the door and running as far from Theo Zamora as her legs could take her. He was so close she could smell him, smoke and maleness and cologne. His hair was glossy black in the dim light. She watched his fingers as he turned the cigarette in his hand, then inhaled deeply.
She’d come here to have him. She’d known it all along, but she only just admitted it to herself now. And he knew. That was clear.
Since she’d first seen him, she’d wanted him. The scene she witnessed between him and Minya had only intensified her longing. Now she was here, and a cloud of smoke was the only thing between her and his magnetic sexuality. A cloud of smoke and a thin, quickly waning inkling of self-respect.
“You want?” he asked. He stood an arm’s length from her, virile and motionless, just waiting. She wanted to cry from how much she wanted him, and how scared and conflicted she was. Kelsey Martin didn’t do stuff like this. She wasn’t daring or reckless, or slutty, for that matter.
“I didn’t come here for sex.” Kelsey cast around for something distancing. For excuses. “I was just annoyed that you didn’t come tonight. I wanted to know why.”
Theo shrugged, accepting her feint. “I do what I like.” He turned and snatched up a bottle from beside the sofa. It was less than half full. He raised it in her direction. “Want some?”
She shook her head and clenched her fists. “Will you ever come back to the Cirque?” She sounded angry. She felt angry. She wanted to grab that cigarette from his lips and smash the bottle over his head. “Will you ever come back and try again, or will you just lie around this messy house feeling sorry for yourself?”
“Is that any of your business?”
She hated him this way. Drinking and smoking, his fine muscles slumped and his olive-gold skin obscured in shadows.
