“Alright, kid. Next time, stay calm, keep breathing, and you won’t be stuck. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it. Hey, why do you smell like oranges?”
“It’s my—”vape, I almost say. The cover story for my natural omega scent is second-nature by this point. But perhaps not the most appropriate for a kid. “My… cologne.”
“Oh.” The kid looks behind me, already disinterested in my answer. “That lady’s coming around now.”
Shit.“Wanna see a cool vault?” I don’t wait for an answer, but hear the boy whoop behind me as I take off up the closest vault runway, bare feet pounding along the strip of red carpet.
The sound and feeling of my feet on the springboard are embedded as deep in my muscle memory as walking, and I spring off the vault horse with my hands, twisting fully to land in the same direction as my run.
A little showy, and Ishouldbe avoiding giving Dance Mom more reasons to chase me, but leave it to my vain streak to act up now.
I nail the landing, raising my arms and flashing a smile at the gym manager, Svetlana, who gives me a tolerant look. She’s a petite, middle-aged woman who looks more in her early thirties thanks to genetics and judicious cosmetic surgery. She still moves like a woman half her age, but she doesn’t move likeshemoved when she was half her age, and I know it grates on her. It’s not my first time covering for Grace, and we have some rapport.
I jog over with a light step, and she greets me with a thin Russian accent. “If I’m not mistaken, you have a job to be doing right now.”
“Listen, I’ve got a cougar hot on my tail.” I tip my chin back over my shoulder to where Dance Mom tries to disguise how she’s moving my way.
Svetlana chuckles. “Occupational hazard. Deal with it.”
“There’s five minutes left of floor time and I haven’t taken my five-minute break yet. Cover for me?”
“Ya ya, fine,” Svetlana says dismissively, waving a hand. “Take your break.”
I duck into the men’s locker room, grabbing my bag and heading for the showers. I twist the valve, and the rush of hot water drowns out the chaos of the gym.
Blessed peace.
As I strip and step under the warm flow, I sigh. I should have kept my mouth shut and taken the tutoring gig. Birthday Girl is an okay kid. Dance Mom is annoying but hardly the greatest indignity I’ve suffered for my line of work. The job would be flexible and lucrative: the best any unemployed stunt performer can hope for.
I never have been good at keeping my mouth shut.
Usually, that’s a death sentence in Hollywood. But when it comes to stunt work, honesty is an asset. Kissing up to directors and performing stunts you have a bad feeling about is a fast way to die in this business. If not for that, I would’ve left this city of phonies long ago.
As the number in my bank account goes down and the one on my credit card balance goes up, I might have to leave anyway.
This is the longest I’ve gone without booking a job. I remind myself it’s not personal. It happens. Just shit luck. Casting directors skip you over for all kinds of random reasons. You’re an inch too tall. An inch too short. A little too muscular. Not muscular enough. That actor you’re a perfect fit for already has a go-to stunt performer baked into their contract.
Still, after this long… it’s hard to shake the nagging feeling that it’s me. Maybe I’m not as good as I used to be and updating my demo reel was a mistake—or maybe everyone else got better faster than me and my reel isn’t updated enough.
My numbers on social media are down. Is it because trends moved on? Some random change in the algorithm? Too much parkour and not enough ballet? Or the opposite?
I lean my forehead against the cold tile. It’s fucking impossible to tell, and it’s maddening.
I feel the same damn way about my love life. That dry spell is even longer. I used to have no trouble landing dates with men and women alike. (Sometimes at the same time. That’s always fun.) Keeping the chemistry going is the problem. I’m great at staying friends with my exes, but the older I get, the more I seem to send people straight to the friend zone.
Getting better at knowing what I like, or losing my appeal?
Who fucking knows.
Now that I’ve scrubbed off all the chalk dust and foam residue, I cut the water and throw a towel over my neck. I tousle my chin-length hair, leaving it to hang damp around my shoulders as I step into sweats. Leaving now will take me past the party—and Dance Mom—so I opt to stay in the locker room killing time on my phone.
I browse listings for upcoming stunt classes, looking for any chance to diversify my skill set. Right now I’ve got fights, acrobatics, fire work, wire work, and every way there is to fall. I could stand to brush up on judo. Maybe I could take a page out of Birthday Girl’s book and get into horses. I worked with a guy a few gigs back; I should have his number somewhere in my contacts…
But at that point, why not motorcycles? Or trick driving? Or boat work? Or, I don’t fucking know, skydiving? Base jumping? Bull riding? There are too many fucking options.
When I finally wander out of the locker room, the party is long gone. I stop by Svetlana’s office to get my pay for the day.
