Wall Street Titan (Wall Street Titan #1) - Anna Zaires Page 0,96
you’ll be able to guess my method tonight. Before the main event, I’m going to perform that same effect for Kacie.”
“You sneaky minx.” His green eyes fill with mirth. “So you’re not going to tell me?”
“A magician must always be at least one step ahead of her audience.” I give him the aloof smile I’ve perfected over the years. “Do we have a deal or not?”
“Fine. You win.” He gracefully sits on the swivel chair where I went through my eyebrow torture. “Now, tell me, why did you look so spooked when I first came in?”
I hesitate, then decide it will do no harm to admit the truth. “It’s because of that.” I point at the screen where the live feed from the show is still rolling. At that precise moment, the camera pans to the large studio audience, all clapping at some nonsense the hostess said.
Darian looks amused. “Kacie? I didn’t think that Muppet could frighten anyone.”
“Not her.” I wipe my damp palms on my leather jacket and learn that it’s not the most absorbent of surfaces. “I’m afraid of speaking in front of people.”
“You are? But you said you want to be a TV magician, and you perform at the restaurant all the time.”
“The biggest audience at the restaurant is three or four people at a dinner table,” I say. “In that studio over there, it’s about a hundred. The fear kicks in after the numbers get into the teens.”
Darian’s amusement seems to deepen. “What about the millions of people who’ll be watching you at home? Are you not worried about them?”
“I’m more worried about the studio audience, and yes, I understand the irony.” I do my best not to get defensive. “For my own TV show, I’d do street magic with a small camera crew—that wouldn’t trigger my fear too much.”
Fear is actually an understatement. My attitude toward public speaking confirms the many studies showing that this particular phobia tends to be more pervasive than the fear of death. Certainly, I’d rather be eaten by a shark than have to appear in front of a big crowd.
After Darian called me about this opportunity, I learned how big the show’s studio audience is, and I couldn’t sleep for three days straight—which is why I feel like a Guantanamo Bay detainee on her way to enhanced interrogation. It’s even worse than when I pulled a string of all-nighters for my stupid day job, and at the time, I thought it was the most stressful event of my life.
My roommate Ariel didn’t give me her Valium lightly; it took a ton of persuasion on my part, and she only gave in when she could no longer bear to look at my miserable face.
Darian distracts me from my thoughts by fiddling with his phone again.
“This should inspire you,” he says as soothing piano chords ring out of the tinny phone speaker. “It’s a song about a man in a similar situation to yours.”
It takes me a few moments to recognize the tune. Given that I last heard it when I was little, I up my estimate of Darian’s age by an extra few years. The song is “Lose Yourself,” from the 8 Mile movie, where Eminem’s character gets a chance to be a rapper. I guess my situation is similar enough, this being my big shot at what I want the most.
Unexpectedly, Darian begins to rap along with Eminem, and I fight an undignified giggle as some of the tension leaves my body. Do all British rappers sound as proper as the Queen?
“Now there’s that smile,” Darian says, unaware or uncaring that my grin is at his expense. “Keep it up.”
He grabs the remote and turns up the volume on the TV in time for me to hear Kacie say, “Our hearts go out to the victims of the earthquake in Mexico. To donate to the Red Cross, please call the number at the bottom of the screen. And now, a quick commercial—”
“Sasha?” A man pops his head into the dressing room. “We need you on stage.”
“Break a leg,” Darian says and blows me an air kiss.
“In these shoes, I just might.” I mime catching the kiss, throwing it on the floor, and stabbing it with my stiletto.
Darian’s laugh grows distant as my guide and I leave the room, heading down a dark corridor. As we approach our destination, our steps seem to get louder, echoing in tune with my accelerating heartbeat. Finally, I see a light and hear the roar of the crowd.
This is how people going to face a firing squad must feel. If I weren’t medicated, I’d probably bolt, my dreams be damned. As is, the guide has to grab my arm and drag me toward the light.
Apparently, the commercial break will soon be over.
“Go take a seat on the couch next to Kacie,” someone whispers loudly into my ear. “And breathe.”
My legs seem to grow heavier, each step a monumental effort of will. Hyperventilating, I step onto the platform where the couch is located and take tiny steps, trying to ignore the studio audience.
My dread is so extreme that time flows strangely; one moment I’m still walking, the next I’m standing by the couch.
I’m glad Kacie has her nose in a tablet. I’m not ready to exchange pleasantries when I have to do something as difficult as sitting down.
Knees shaking, I lower myself onto the couch like a fakir onto a bed of nails (which is not a feat of supernatural pain resistance, by the way, but the application of scientific principles of pressure).
Time distortion must’ve happened again, because the music signifying the commercial break comes to an abrupt close, and Kacie looks up from her tablet, her overly full lips stretching into a smile.
The pounding of my pulse is so loud in my ears I can’t hear her greeting.