I glanced across at Luka who was watching Ash carefully, his lips pursed in confusion.
“He’s different, Aljaž, I mean. He was always such a kid. Not immature exactly, just . . . playful, always joking around, pulling pranks. But now . . .” he shook his head. “He’s so serious.”
My heart fractured for the loss of that Ash—playful, happy, carefree Ash.
“You’re good for him,” Luka said quietly. “I couldn’t imagine him being with someone who isn’t a dancer, but it works, doesn’t it?”
I nodded stiffly, thrown off by his backhanded compliment.
“I think so.”
At that moment, Yveta stood up and walked away, Luka’s eyes following her.
“She doesn’t like me.”
Luka shrugged.
“She doesn’t hate you. She’ll get over it. Probably when she meets someone else.”
I arched an eyebrow at him. “Are you talking about yourself by any chance?”
He shook his head, and for a second I saw flicker of some strong emotion, but then he grinned at me.
“I’m no one’s dream.”
Ash
I loved having Laney watching the auditions, loved having her see what I could really do.
By the end of the day, we had our full cast. It was scary, but exciting. The scary part was knowing that I’d be paying them a salary from Laney’s loan soon. I was still kind of mad about the way she did that, but I’d also accepted that there was no going back—for any of us.
Laney walked across and gave me a much needed hug.
“Ugh,” she said, as her arms tightened around me. “You’re all sweaty.”
“Want to get sweaty with me?” I asked, kissing down her neck.
“Yes, but not here,” she laughed. “I loved that movement you got them to do with their arms. It somehow made the sequence of steps. I couldn’t believe how that one small thing made such a difference. How did you come up with that?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I just heard the accent in the music.”
“Accent?”
“An emphasis, something louder or more dramatic, but it can be subtle.”
“What goes through your mind when you’re performing?”
That was easier to explain.
“The music—I’m always lost in the moment.” And I leaned in closer so only Laney could hear. “That’s why I made a very bad gigolo. When I danced with my partners, I would be lost in the music and forget I was supposed to seduce them. Bad for business.”
Her face went red and she glanced around.
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she hissed nervously.
“Laney,” I said seriously, “it’s part of my story.”
She sucked in her cheeks, and I could tell she was thinking it over. She took a step away from me and folded her arms over her chest.
“Show me that thing with the arms again. I want to understand why it made a difference.”
I studied her, my head cocked to one side. If she needed time to think about what I’d said, about what I wasn’t saying, I’d give her that.
I demonstrated the sequence of steps that she’d asked about, watching her eyes the whole time.
“Accents like that are good staging and they help draw the audience in. But they need to be rehearsed, because if the person you’re dancing with did them for real, impromptu, they’d surprise me, distract me. It’s all pretend, Laney. Except when I dance with you.”
I grabbed her and pulled her to my chest.
“I can’t dance,” she laughed.
“Yes, you can. I’ll teach you.” And I moved her hips against mine, then stepped back. “See, I invite you into my embrace, and I do that by leaving space. Now you follow me.”
She stumbled after me for a few steps, nearly kneeing me in the balls as she trod on my feet. Maybe she was right—my wife really couldn’t dance.
“Anyway,” she laughed, “there’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“Sounds serious?”
“It kind of is, but in a good way. And I really enjoyed watching the auditions today. You were different.”
I picked up my towel and draped it around my neck.
“Yeah? How?”
“You were the boss out there. I hadn’t seen that before.”
I threw her a shocked look. “I’m the boss in the bedroom always.”
She flicked my stomach.
“I’m being serious! It’s like . . . two different people.”
I felt like that sometimes, like two different people. I got flashes of before-Ash, but mostly I was now-Ash. But I knew what she meant.
“I have two sides,” I explained simply. “The public side, being the choreographer out there, or pleasing the audience—whichever is needed.”
“And the other?”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
Was I lying? I didn’t know anymore. But I didn’t want to talk about the dark side, not to my sunshine.
“What’s this thing you wanted to talk about?”
She looked at me as if she knew I was changing the subject—she just didn’t know why, but she let me off the hook.
“Selma has come up with an interesting offer . . .”
Two days later, our first rehearsal with Gary, Luka and Oliver had been amazing. It was a bit freaky showing Oliver how to ‘be’ Sergei, but he was a nice guy, so I’d have to get over it, although my body was having a hard time understanding the difference.
And I was right about Sarah—she was going to be extraordinary. My mind exploded with the possibilities. Gary seemed equally excited.
“Oh my God!” he shrieked. “You are so right about her. Can the theater do wire work? We should use the harness to have her flying across the stage.”
Sarah must have heard the comment, because she walked over, her eyes wide.
“Oh no fucking way! I’m not doing wire work, Mr. Tinsel Toes!”
Gary’s eyes narrowed, and they were soon slugging it out. It was odds-even who’d win. At first, I thought they hated each other, but after a full day of rehearsals, it was just kind of how they were with each other. Whatever, it seemed to work for them, and they had a lot of amazing ideas sparking off each other.
It was the hardest I’d worked in my life, and because I was the lead and in every scene except one, my body took the brunt of it: strained muscles, bruises, taped up shoulders, ice baths and emergency stretching. All for the dizzying intoxication of hoping and praying for the standing ovation, the desperate need to avoid more scorn from the reviewers, the sucker punch of bad comments.
I felt broken, emotionally and physically, and everything hurt. Even after an ice bath and a deep tissue massage, I’d spend the rest of the evening walking like an old man. But the adrenaline, the rush—when I stood on that stage in front of Laney—that would be the second proudest moment of my life.
At least I didn’t suffer the lacerated feet of the female dancers. Sure, blisters and sore feet were an occupational hazard, but I couldn’t imagine what it was like dancing in high heels for hours a day. They all put white spirit on their feet to harden the skin.
It wasn’t glamorous, but if we got it right, it was going to be amazing.
I hoped.
Laney
It was after 11PM when I arrived at the dance studio. The janitor raised his eyes and tapped his watch, telling me that Ash had ten minutes to get the hell out.
I could hear music playing, something with a tango beat. Ash was standing in the middle of the empty studio, his hair black with sweat.
I pushed open the door and his head jerked up. I think he tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace.
“Hi. It’s late. Are you ready to come home yet?”
“Soon,” he muttered, bending down to give me a quick kiss.
“Actually, now. The janitor is waiting to lock up. Anyway, you look like you’re hurting.”
He gave me a thin smile.
“I d
ance through the pain, that’s what I do.”
“Are you being dramatic, or do you mean that?”
“Both,” he smiled, but I could see how tired he was. Then he sighed. “I’ve been lifting all day.”
I was confused. “Weights?”
His eyes were closed but he smiled at that. “No, girls—dancers.”
A burn of jealousy heated my blood to boiling point. Such a stupid, wasteful emotion—and so potent.
Then he held out his hand and kissed my wrist slowly.
“Let’s go home, my love. Tomorrow is the first day where I’ll have everyone together.”
I tapped his forehead lightly.
“Then try and turn off that busy brain of yours.”
His eyes darkened. “I can think of one thing that would do that.”
Ash
The first day with all the dancers was hard. I couldn’t tell if it was good. I needed it to be amazing, or Laney would be bankrupted.
I rubbed my forehead, feeling the pressure building again.
Then Gary walked up, an odd expression on his face. Without speaking, he pulled me into a tight hug. I was surprised to feel his body shudder. He was crying.
“Thank you,” he gasped out.
That was all. The man whose mouth never stopped was silent. There were no words left.
And I understood, because I felt it too—it wasn’t revenge for what had been done to us; it was a reckoning.
“Gary! You are such a tart!” yelled Sarah, breaking the moment. “Poor Ash—you’re always trying to cop a feel. Have some dignity, why don’t you?”
“Oh, look what the cat dragged in,” snarked Gary. “Talk about a bitch in heat.”
Sarah poked out her tongue, then pulled him into a tight hug, and I saw her wipe away his tears with her thumbs.
And then I felt Yveta’s hand in mine and she met my surprised gaze. She never looked anyone in the eye anymore, but right now, that’s exactly what she was doing.
“Luka is right,” she said softly. “It is amazing. We will be amazing. Thank you.”
Laney
I SAT IN my specially designated disabled seat at the end of the front row, Mom gripping my hand tightly, me holding my breath. Dad sat next to her, then my sisters and their husbands, along with most of the cousins and second cousins. The Hennessey clan was out in force, my enormous firefighter cousins wedged into the small flip-up seats looking uncomfortable among the red velvet, rococo plasterwork and gilt chandeliers of the quaint theater. But they’d come—to support me, to support Ash.
Gary’s parents were here too, silent and stoic in their Sunday best. Angie was with Phil as her date, and his reviewer friend from the Tribune had also showed up. We’d given out 35 press tickets and it seemed as though most of them had come, which was unheard of, apparently. Vanessa and Jo had both flown in for the first night and were sitting directly behind me with several friends from work.
We also had a considerable police presence, bearing in mind what had happened last time Ash was on stage—that, and the fact that the Mayor and Police Commissioner were here with their wives.
With all the publicity that Ash’s hard work had drummed up, the two weeks were almost sold out, and if the reviews were good, there were several theaters who’d expressed an interest in taking the show. I really hoped that was the case because Ash and I had put ourselves into debt to make up the funding gap. I cringed every time I thought of it.
I so desperately wanted tonight to be good, to be great. Since I’d been barred from rehearsals, I’d lost any sense of how things were going. I’d gratefully handed over the production duties to Selma, but now I felt even more adrift.
Ash had been coming home exhausted and largely silent. The only people he really talked to, and then only on his phone and in hushed tones, were the other dancers. Or to Luka, of course, in Slovenian. I was jealous of all of them—it seemed as if they were stealing Ash away from me.
But now, after all the heartache, after all the work—the blood, sweat and tears—we were here.
Mom gripped my hand as the house lights dimmed, and I saw her cross herself with her other hand. Soft rustlings died away as the audience waited, hushed and expectant. The theater itself seemed to tremble with anticipation and whispers slid into silence.
When the eerie sounds of a harpsichord rang from the orchestra pit, surprising me—as well as half the audience, if I could go by the mutters—the curtains opened to total darkness. Suddenly, the stage flashed, lights swirled and dipped in neon colors, bright searchlights crisscrossing the stage as Bad Romance boomed out.
The ugly beauty of Las Vegas . . .
The backdrop was of a half-finished skyscraper in some unfamiliar European city that I guessed was Ljubljana, as a construction gang of six men strode onto the stage. In the lead was Ash, wearing boots, overalls, tool belt and hardhat—and looking super macho, his back arching, his arms whipping into the strong, masculine shapes of the Paso Doble, banderillas stamps and the exaggerated Flamenco taps with his feet, disdainful promenade and counter promenade.
Although the bib overalls covered his chest, his arms were bare, the spotlights catching the play of his toned biceps when he moved.
A tarpaulin became a matador’s cape, as the men lunged and fought their way across the stage in a series of striking and scripted poses.
I doubt anyone had ever seen ballroom dancing that was so aggressive, so red blooded and muscular. And definitely not with hardhats.
“Oh my!” said Mom, her mouth dropping open.
And then I saw Luka slink onto the stage, shaggy hair and yellow contact lenses that gave him a feral intensity to match his wolfish prowl. This was Volkov, all his cruelty on display, and when he smiled, his lips pulled back in a sneer, his teeth appeared to be sharp and pointed.
I drew in a deep breath. I knew this was Luka, I knew he was acting, but it was chilling to watch him stalk Ash across the stage from the shadows.
Then the music switched, and I smiled to see Ash channeling his inner Elvis as his hips rolled to Bossa Nova Baby, integrated into a fast-paced jive as the other construction workers joined him then peeled off one by one.
We had a brief glimpse of an airplane against a backdrop of rolling clouds before the scene changed to Las Vegas in all its nighttime glory.
Ash tossed away his hardhat and tools, and dropped the bib from his overalls leaving him bare chested, his prominent abs on display. He had a huge, surprised grin on his face as eight Las Vegas showgirls strutted onto the stage to Hanky Panky, all towering headdresses and wide smiles, led by Yveta, thick makeup hiding her scar, but only as long as she kept smiling. The moment she stopped, the ridged scarring was obvious. How bitterly ironic.
Gary sashayed onto the floor, doing the gayest jive I’d ever seen, and the audience started to laugh. Ash and Gary danced side-by-side, sharp kicks and flicks, moving so rapidly I was out of breath just watching. Then Ash leap-frogged over Gary, achieving the full splits mid-air and landing perfectly in time. Gary did a slide through Ash’s open legs, winking at the audience.
Two of the showgirls danced forward and the jive became increasingly athletic as the girls threw themselves at Ash and Gary in a series of stunning Lindy Hop inspired jumps and lifts. The audience clapped and cheered their appreciation.
I noticed that the wolf character was still in the background, watching silently as he prowled the edges of the stage, an ominous presence, occasionally licking his lips. Creepy.
Mom squeezed my hand and I leaned my head toward her.
“Ash is amazing! This is fantastic!”
I threw her a wide grin.
“Told you so!” I whispered.
The jive continued with increasing craziness as Ash exited the stage for his first costume change.
Moments later, the backdrop became an opulent hotel room with two women dressed in a hooker’s version of Catholic schoolgirls, perched on a couch. I hoped there weren’t any real schoolgirls in the audi
ence.
Then Oliver swept onto the stage. Even though I knew he wasn’t the real Sergei, it gave me chills to see the navy three-piece suit and neatly-combed gray wig. Volkov spun him around and they crossed the stage together in a slow foxtrot to the strains of Sam the Sham’s Little Red Riding Hood.
Yveta and Ash edged onto the stage looking lost and scared, hand in hand. Yveta wore a fifties-style prom dress in soft pink, and Ash had a scarlet silk shirt that clung to his chest and arms, disappearing into tight black pants that showcased his trim waist, narrow hips and beautifully toned butt.
The music was chilling, telling the story of these two innocents, babes in the wood, dancing with wolves.
A tasty treat for a big bad wolf . . .
The sinister music rose and fell as the creepiest American smooth that I’d ever seen flowed across the stage. Ash danced with Yveta and then was whisked away by Sergei. I choked as Oliver stroked Ash’s chest and ass suggestively. I wondered how much this bothered Ash, how many bad memories it brought back. I was shocked when Oliver/Sergei cupped Ash’s genitals and smiled. A horrified gasp undercut the sensual music as the audience grasped the changing tone of the story.
The two Catholic schoolgirls danced together, their movements so sexual that I broke out into a sweat and saw Dad shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Never had ballroom dancing been so beautiful and so disturbing.
I nearly retched when Sergei pulled out a knife and drew it across one of the girls’ throats, filled a wineglass with the ‘blood’ and then drank it as she slumped to the floor, her eyes lifeless.
It was so shocking, so unexpected, and a brilliant metaphor for everything that had happened.
“That’s too much,” Mom muttered, unable to look.
She wasn’t the only one.
“It’s real,” I whispered back.
“Too real,” she said, and I couldn’t disagree as my stomach churned.
The lights dimmed and the music warped and changed again, this time to a nightclub beat. The scenery was familiar . . .