Page 8 of Rebooting Conor Flynn

“You’ll be fine.” Ashley turned, already repositioning herself. “Places, everyone!”

“Wait—no, I won’t—” I looked around wildly for support. Nobody noticed. A few other dancers helped the injured woman to the side of the stage, her face twisted in agony. The stagehand I’d sent to get ice pressed a pack against the dancer’s ankle.

Jacques clapped. “We’re burning daylight. Get in there, sub.”

The other dancers got back to work, hustling me into place. Somehow, my place was center stage with a giant fan in my hand next to the throne.

“Okay,” Jacques said, softer now, like he was trying not to scare a nervous animal. “You’re just hitting marks. Follow Sasha here. Mirror the counts. Easy.”

Easy? Did Jacques realize I flubbed our class modern dance performance in high school? That I’d failed to make freshman cheerleader? That people avoided me at the club for fear of getting taken out?

The fan trembled in my hand as I nodded. I was head of PR here. The show must go on. We had deadlines to make. Stars to coddle.

The music started again. For three miraculous seconds I thought I might survive this.

Step. Step. Turn. Hip thrust. Bootie shake. Okay. Okay, I had this.

Ashley spun toward me on her way to the throne, sharp and precise. I panicked. I tried to follow Sasha, but she was on the other side of the throne, and her steps mirrored mine, which made me move in the wrong direction—into the throne.

My heel caught on something—maybe a cable, maybe a snake. A snake? As I careened into the throne, I started windmilling my arms in a desperate attempt to stay upright. It didn’t work.

My flailing arm hit a golden panel. It wobbled. Paused. And then as if in slow motion, it pitched forward.

Someone gasped. Was that me?

The panel went down. Into another. Which knocked into a lighting rig. Which jerked a suspended frame just enough that it swung, clipping the corner of the throne.

The entire set seemed to shudder, and I froze in horror as the world I was professionally responsible for maintaining...collapsed like a very expensive row of dominoes.

“Cut!” Jacques shouted, but it was too late.

Something metallic groaned above me, and my head snapped up to see a section of the rigging come loose. I was gonna die on stage as a backup dancer, holding a fan.

Chapter 3

CONOR

I eyed the rigging creaking above Noelle, who seemed rooted to the stage. The rest of the dancers scattered like ants.

I yelled, “Noelle!” about the same time my feet started moving toward her. When I reached the spot, I wrapped my arms around her, pushing her backward, and we stumbled and fell just as a section of the rigging gave way, crashing down where she’d been standing seconds before. I landed on top of her with a soft oof.

The impact boomed through the stage like a 4.2 on the Richter Scale.

Noelle shifted beneath me and placed a hand on my chest.

“Are you alright, Nollaig?” The nickname came naturally—too naturally.

She squeaked in response, and I shifted off her body to the side. Our eyes locked as if the past eleven years never happened.

I brushed the hair from her face with my fingertips. “That was close. You’re shaking. Are you hurt?”

“I just destroyed a set worth tens of thousands of dollars.” She licked a drop of blood from her bottom lip. “I feel like shaking is a reasonable reaction.”

One corner of my mouth twitched despite everything. She must be okay. “Still deflecting, and I doubt that tacky shite was worth much more than two hundred quid.”

“You tackled me. I’m not sure I was going to fall.”

“Yeah.” My gaze flicked to the wreckage. “If I hadn’t taken you down, that giant piece of metal would’ve done the job. So, you’re welcome.”