Slave to the Rhythm (The Rhythm #1)

  I met my mom and sisters for cocktails at a bar that was stumbling distance to the theater, even in the fierce freeze that clawed the city.

  A decent crowd gathered at the theater, and I was hoping that Ash was wrong about it being a disaster. He was probably just being too hard on himself.

  Unwrapping my coat, scarf, hat and gloves, I settled into my seat—really good ones in the third row—between Mom and Bernice. Dad had planned to come but pulled a sudden shift, or so he said. But I was glad it was just a small part of my family.

  I drummed my fingers restlessly until Mom took my hand in hers and gave my fingers a reassuring squeeze.

  “Thank you for coming, Mom,” I whispered.

  “I wouldn’t have missed it,” she smiled.

  I wondered how Ash was feeling backstage, waiting in the wings. And I sent up a quick prayer that it would go well.

  When the lights dimmed and the pre-recorded music started, my hopes were high. I felt a rush of adrenaline, and I realized that was just a faint reflection of how Ash would be feeling. But despite everything, it was exciting—I was going to see my husband on stage, performing for the first time since Las Vegas. It had to be special.

  I was squirming with anticipation and nerves as the dancers ran and leapt onto the stage, but drop by drop, my happiness drained away.

  I didn’t want to believe it, but Ash was right. Broadway Revisited was awful. It was a trite mishmash with no coherent theme or storyline. I felt bad for the cast—they’d all worked so hard. The director and producer still seemed to believe that they’d pulled off the show of the century, but they were the only ones. The reviews were going to be brutal.

  Muted applause greeted the dancers as they took their bows. There was no encore request, and the half full theater emptied quickly. We were supposed to go for drinks ‘to celebrate’. I wasn’t sure anyone would feel like it.

  “Ash was good though,” Bernice said kindly. “And that blonde girl he danced with.”

  “That’s Sarah,” I sighed. “She’s really nice.”

  “Yeah, they look good together .They should have let them do more than that one tango. That was hot.”

  Yes, that was my husband—a man who looked hot when he was dancing. Or standing, or sitting. And very hot laying in my bed.

  A warm glow of possession made me smile. Bernice caught my expression and raised her eyebrows in amusement. I didn’t care.

  We headed out to the nearest pub, but it was twenty minutes before I saw Ash making his way toward us, freshly showered, his fake tan orange under the unsympathetic lighting.

  A hot blast of jealousy shot through me when I saw that he had his arm around Sarah, his head down, talking to her. But it dissipated quickly when I saw that she’d been crying, her pretty blue eyes bloodshot and puffy.

  I moved across the booth to make room for her and she plopped down next to me.

  Ash gave me a thin smile, nodded at my family while Sarah got acquainted with them, then headed to the bar, soon returning with a bottle Hennessy’s whiskey and six shot glasses.

  We clinked them together and downed them in one.

  “God, I needed that,” muttered Sarah. “I swear, Laney, if it wasn’t for your fella, I’d have gone off the deep end long ago. He’s always so friggin’ calm. I don’t know how he does it.”

  Neither did I. My enduring opinion of Ash was that he was a hothead. It was intriguing hearing this about him, and another flutter of jealousy stung me.

  We stayed for a few drinks and some of the other dancers joined us, but no one was in the mood to party and we left soon after.

  It was a relief to tumble into our apartment and regain feeling in my fingers and toes. Ash was flexing his right hand and wincing. The fingers that had been broken often ached, but it was worse in the cold.

  I was going to suggest making some hot chocolate, but Ash surprised me by pulling me into his arms and kissing me hungrily. He tasted of whiskey and cigarettes, but I was too turned on to take issue with that right now.

  He shoved both hands into my jeans and squeezed my ass.

  “Aaagh! Your hands are freezing! There’ll be payback, mister!”

  He laughed against my lips and I tugged at his belt as we reeled across the apartment, shedding clothes and sharing whispers—all the hot and dirty things we were going to do to each other.

  I shuddered slightly as Ash pulled me under the chilly sheets, but then shuddered with pleasure as he warmed me in a wonderfully old fashioned way.

  Ash was awake early the next day, throwing on his jeans and coat to run out and buy the early editions of the newspapers.

  We’d expected bad news, but hoped for good.

  Ash paced up and down the room as I found the entertainment section and scanned through the reviews.

  I winced when I read the headline.

  This Christmas turkey is one to avoid.

  Ouch.

  “Read it to me,” Ash asked quietly.

  ‘Broadway Revisited’ is the type of show that should have stayed a bad idea and never reached the stage. Mark Rumans made his career as a dancer in ‘Forty Second Street’ on Broadway but doesn’t seem to have had an original idea since. Rumor has it of backstage fights with respected choreographer Rosa Hart, who left the production a month ago.

  The only bright spot is newcomers Sarah Lintort and Ash Novak. Their Argentine tango from ‘Evita’ was a masterclass in sexual tension, musicality and suppressed longing, as the toothsome twosome dueled their way through the only interesting moment of a long, dreary evening.

  One star for Lintort and Novak, but otherwise one to avoid.

  “He liked your tango,” I said lamely.

  Ash nodded and walked into the kitchen.

  He was leaning by the sink, staring out into the gray, overcast morning. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I rested my head on his back. I felt his warm hands cover mine and heard his heavy sigh.

  “I’ll be out of a job by Christmas. I’m sorry.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for—you were wonderful—even that reviewer thought so. You’ll find another job, I know you will.”

  He didn’t reply.

  When he left for the theater that evening, my heart ached for him. It had been a difficult day and he hadn’t spoken much. I could see how hard it was to have to do it all over again, knowing that it wasn’t good, despite the small ray of sunshine the reviewer had shined on him.

  Given our unusual circumstances and our original agreement that we’d divorce after two years, despite our ongoing sexual shenanigans, I had an odd sense of wanting to stand by my husband.

  “Oh God! Don’t stop, Ash! Don’t stop!”

  He thrust harder, less than a minute from his climax, although mine was much closer.

  At first I thought the knocking was the headboard slamming against the wall. Ash had moved it away twice, but somehow the bed always crept back, and now there was a dent in the dry walling that Ash had promised to fix.

  The day had started so well and my orgasm was beginning to fizz, hot tingles shooting up and down my pelvis. Then I heard it again.

  “Ash!”

  “Yes, my love!” he gasped, his teeth gritted, hips pistoning against me.

  His thumb pressed down on my clit, and despite my distraction, an explosion rushed through me, urgent and relentless, lights exploding behind my eyes as my lids tightly squeezed shut.

  Then I heard it for a third time.

  Ash was fast approaching loss of control, his movements wilder, sloppier, that perfect rhythm more desperate.

  “There’s someone . . . at the door!” I gasped.

  Ash growled something that was probably very rude, but as it was in Slovenian, I couldn’t be sure.

  KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

  “Mr. Novak! Mrs. Novak! This is Ralph Phillips with the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Service. Please open the door.”

  “Oh, my God! Ash! Stop! We have to . . . have to . . .”

&n
bsp; With another curse, Ash put his head down and headed for the home straight. It was good ole fucking, hard.

  “This is Ralph Phillips with the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Service. I must insist that you open the door.”

  Ash swore and pulled out suddenly, stomping toward the front door, his face stormy.

  I watched his retreating back and delicious butt stalking away, stopping only to scoop up a towel—a small piece of material that did nothing to hide the fact that he was still hard.

  I pulled on a robe and peeped into the living room. Ash’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, his face flushed as he flung open the door to the apartment.

  A tall, thin man with round spectacles took a step back, as 170 pounds of angry Slovenian glowered at him.

  “Ah, Mr. Aljaž Novak?”

  “What?”

  “I wonder if we might talk to you and Mrs. Novak. I am Ralph Phillips with the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Service and this is my colleague Moira Walsh.”

  “We’re busy!” Ash snarled.

  I saw the man glance down at Ash’s towel and his face turned red.

  “Even so,” he said, obviously flustered, “I must insist.”

  I thought Ash was about to slam the door in their faces, so I hurried out.

  “Sorry,” I said, smoothing down my hair. “We, um, I was just about to shower.”

  “I do apologize. Mrs. Novak, I’m assuming.”

  “Of course,” I said snippily.

  He looked a little abashed, and withholding a grimace, I let him in.

  Ash was still irritated, and his dick was in danger of trying to shake hands with our visitors. I sent him to shower while I made coffee, and Lord knows, I needed some, too. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the kitchen window, horrified by the red patches on my cheeks, chin, neck and chest—and wild, wild sex hair.

  My heart was thumping, and not just from the last half an hour. The Immigration Service only made impromptu house calls when they suspected a sham marriage. I wondered who had reported us. Would Collin have been so vindictive? Even though things had ended badly between us, I didn’t want to believe that.

  The man, Phillips, eyed me suspiciously, but his colleague seemed more sympathetic. Maybe it was a version of good cop/bad cop, or maybe her mood had been improved by seeing a mostly naked Ash first thing in the morning—it always worked for me. But I wished that Ash and I had thought to discuss what to say if this happened. I’d been such a fool.

  I served up the coffee, taking several gulps of the steaming brew, then turned to head for the shower, but Moira, as she asked me to call her, was admiring some artwork in the living room. Too late, I realized that she’d delayed me just long enough that Ash was already dressed and out, giving us no time to confer. She smiled benignly as he passed.

  I sighed, taking myself off to shower and dress, quickly returning to the living room where Ash sat looking surly and on edge.

  “And we’ll want to interview you separately,” concluded Mr. Phillips, after explaining the process.

  Ash shot me a quick look, but what could I say?

  Ms. Walsh accompanied me into the bedroom, and Ash was left with Phillips.

  “Oh, what a pretty room,” she exclaimed as I hurried to straighten the sheets and smooth out the quilt. “You do have some lovely views.”

  “Yes, thank you. It’s why I chose this apartment.”

  “And you didn’t know Ash then?”

  “No.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Six years.”

  “And how long have you known your husband?”

  “Three months.” Nearly.

  She tapped her pen against her notepad. “That was a short engagement.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “What does your family think?”

  I was cautious, wondering how much to say.

  “They like Ash, but they would have preferred a big, family wedding.”

  “But you didn’t do that?”

  “No.”

  “May I ask why not?”

  “I have three older sisters. For each of their weddings, my Mom went completely over the top. That’s not me. Or Ash.”

  “And how did you meet?”

  I took a deep breath and launched in. By the time I finished, Ms. Walsh’s eyebrows had disappeared beneath her bangs.

  “Extraordinary!” she muttered. “Just extraordinary.”

  She was right about that.

  I thought maybe the questions were at an end, but I was wrong.

  “Does he have a pet name for you?”

  I blinked, surprised.

  “Well, yes. It sounds like ‘moy suncheck’ but I don’t know what it means. He won’t tell me.”

  She frowned at that, but wrote it down anyway.

  The interview gradually became more personal: what color toothbrush did Ash use; what side of the bed did he sleep on; did he like the light on or off during sex; what position did he prefer.

  Anger at the intrusive nature of the questions began to build inside me. And it felt like punishment. My government really wanted to know this?

  “Mrs. Novak, if you could answer, please?” Ms. Walsh asked gently but firmly.

  “He sleeps on the left,” I said tightly. “Sometimes we keep the light on, sometimes we don’t. And we enjoy a variety of positions.”

  My cheeks were scarlet. I felt violated and dirty as she noted down every word.

  Ash

  The questions were weird. He wanted to know who took out the trash and who bought the groceries, who cleaned the apartment, who did the vacuuming. He started to get annoyed when I answered almost everything, “We both do,” but it was true.

  “Do you have lamps in the bedroom?”

  “Laney has one on the bedside table.”

  “But you don’t.”

  “No.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I don’t read much.” And reading English was hard work.

  He gave a dry laugh. “You don’t read much, although she writes for a living; and she doesn’t dance, although that’s your profession. Exactly what do you and your wife have in common, Mr. Novak?”

  I didn’t know how to answer that. On paper, we had nothing in common. But we never ran out of things to say to each other. There were no uncomfortable silences with Laney—just silence, and that was peaceful.

  “She likes listening to music, too,” I said weakly.

  “Hmm. And which side of the bed does your wife sleep on?”

  What the fuck? I took a deep breath. “The right.”

  He wrote something on his form.

  “When you are intimate with your wife, does she like to have the light on or off?”

  I folded my arms across my chest.

  “None of your business!”

  He peered over his glasses at me.

  “You do realize, Mr. Novak, that we have every reason to believe that your marriage to Miss Hennessey was to obtain U.S. citizenship? The odd circumstances that you yourself have described, the haste with which you married: these questions are valid. If you cannot answer them, we will be forced to draw our own conclusions. It is in your best interests—and hers—to answer plainly.”

  I stared up at the ceiling, furious and impotent. He was just like Sergei, but without the psychopathic violent streak. And he wore glasses.

  “Lights off.”

  Laney didn’t like her body. She thought she was too thin, too shapeless. But she was all woman to me.

  “And what position does she prefer?”

  I clenched my teeth and refused to answer.

  He sighed. “This is my last question, Mr. Novak.”

  “All of them!” I grit out.

  I stood up and walked into the kitchen. I couldn’t stare at his smug face for a second longer without wanting to punch it.

  At that moment, Laney walked out of the bedroom, looking pale and upset. I wrapped my arms around her in silence as her s
mall hands gripped my t-shirt tightly and she rested her head against my chest.

  “We’ll be in touch,” said Phillips as they left.

  I swore loudly and Laney turned away to fall onto the couch, her hands covering her eyes.

  For the next few days, we were both on edge, expecting a phone call, letter, or another personal visit from the Immigration goons (my new favorite word that I learned after watching re-runs of ‘Breaking Bad’). And each evening I had to go to the theater and do my best to entertain an audience that seemed to be shrinking fast.

  We were all waiting for the axe to fall, so when Dalano and Mark asked everyone to come in ten minutes early, I had a good idea what they were going to say.

  We gathered in a circle on the empty stage, Sarah leaning against my shoulder while Dalano hushed everyone then cleared his throat.

  “Thank you all for coming in early. I have some bad news. Ticket sales have not been going great. Those asshat reviewers don’t know class when they see it. Mark has done an amazing job of choreographing you,” and he turned to smile sadly at his boyfriend, “but launching just before Christmas—which was the theater’s choice—has worked against us. We’re going to have to take a break, so our final show for now will be Christmas Eve. I know this will be a shock to all of you, and we hate having to say it, but I promise you all from the bottom of my heart that this is not the end of Broadway Revisited and we will rise like a phoenix from the ashes.”

  He took a deep breath while we all stared at him stonily.

  “I feel so much love in this room tonight, and I’d like to thank you for all for being a part of this amazing vision. We’re ahead of our time,” and he gave a small laugh. “I’m expecting you all to dance your asses off and prove the critics wrong. Break a leg.”

  Nobody clapped, but Dalano and Mark didn’t seem to notice as they stared into each other’s eyes.

  We all headed for the dressing room and after I’d shaved, I sat next to Sarah while we started on makeup. I could do mine in three minutes: gel eye liner, foundation, bronzer topped with powder, finish with mascara and lip gloss. It wasn’t my favorite part of being a dancer, but I’d been doing it for years and it didn’t bother me. Although if you’d asked me when I was 14, you’d have gotten a different answer.