by L. A. Ashton
A NineStar Press Publication
www.ninestarpress.com
Another Dance
ISBN: 978-1-951057-00-8
Copyright © 2019 by L.A. Ashton
Cover Art by Natasha Snow Copyright © 2019
Published in July, 2019 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact NineStar Press at [email protected].
Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content, which may only be suitable for mature readers.
Another Dance
L.A. Ashton
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Chapter One
KAITO ADJUSTED THE cinch of his tie.
The ice shifted in his glass before condensation trembled down the side, pooling atop the polished cherrywood of the table. Throughout his career as a journalist, Kaito had become accustomed to places like these. Hotel restaurants, hotel bars, hotels, hotels, hotels.
And while this hotel restaurant wasn’t unlike the others, the situation was different. That’s what had Kaito adjusting his tie every thirty seconds and fidgeting against the creaking vinyl of his seat. He put his head in his hands. Was he sweating? Had he worn enough deodorant to disguise the smell of fear he was most definitely emitting?
Cristian Alvarez is a man, not a supernatural predator.
Kaito checked his phone for the umpteenth time, then flipped it facedown onto the table.
Even if Cristian wasn’t a predator, Kaito almost always felt like prey.
At least this place was pretty. The hotel was done in soft reds and golds, and the lighting was warm. It was bright enough to feel good to the eyes, but dim enough to render everything in gorgeous softness and shadow. Smooth jazz drifted from unseen speakers, building ambiance around piano keys and sultry notes of brass.
His gaze flittered to the entryway, checking once again to see if the inward swing of the door brought with it a figure skating champion and the subject of Kaito’s adoration for his entire adult life.
It didn’t.
He looked down at the puddle left by his drink and tapped at his distorted reflection. Dark almond eyes hid behind thick-framed glasses and a splay of dark hair. He wasn’t notable—just a nearsighted guy who loved cats and figure skating. How he’d nabbed an interview with his childhood idol, he wasn’t sure. But he couldn’t turn it down, and he couldn’t run away, so at this point he only hoped he didn’t make a fool of himself.
The floor outside the curved wall of Kaito’s booth was wide open and lit with chandeliers. It was probably meant for banquets and gatherings, but the unoccupied space as it stood now looked meant for dancing.
Kaito trapped the straw of his drink with his lips. Kaito’s childhood obsession with ballroom dance was how he’d discovered Cristian in the first place. He’d watched professional dancers all his life, and it felt so natural for that interest to bleed into ice dancing and figure skating. Even if Kaito would never attempt the sorts of stunts they performed on the ice, their passion and interpretation made his heart long to tell its own stories through performance. Cristian, in particular, had inspired him—he moved like his limbs were propelled solely by the music, like he could hold it tangibly in his hands and spin it into a stunning waltz.
Kaito took lesson after lesson of ballroom dance, and eventually taught his two left feet to interact gracefully. He had never been truly outstanding—there was always a threshold of talent he couldn’t quite breach. He could impress a room full of untrained people, and as painful as the resignation was, he realized it had to be enough.
He missed it though. He stared at the open floor and imagined his feet carouseling over one another, turning smoothly to the piano and violin. He hadn’t danced in a long time. It would be nice…
“Are you Kaito Watanabe?”
Kaito rocketed out of his seat so fast he knocked against the table and almost spilled his drink. “Y-Yes,” he answered, compulsively pushing up his glasses. “And you’re”—he extended his hand forward, and even as he stared right at him, the words sounded like a dream—“Cristian Alvarez.”
Cristian’s smile splashed across his face like it was the easiest thing in the world. Dark curls fell over his forehead, forming perfect glossy spirals. He was tall, three or four inches taller than Kaito, with broad shoulders that made Kaito feel small.
You know that already; you know his height and weight like your own phone number.
But it was more mesmerizing in person, to be forced to tilt his chin up toward that face. “Yes,” Cristian answered, taking Kaito’s hand in his. “Thank you for the invitation.”
“Thank you for accepting.” Cristian’s hands were soft. His handshake was firm. Kaito mimicked the pressure, neither meek nor confident enough to do anything else.
“I hope your flight went well,” Kaito said as he withdrew his hand and settled back into his seat. He was a twittering ball of nerves, and he felt the stark contrast between his panicked motions and Cristian’s naturally graceful ones.
Cristian shrugged off his coat before sliding in across from Kaito. “Yes, it was quite pleasant. An easy ride.”
“That’s good.” Kaito became far too flirty and sharp-mouthed when he drank, but he also became less of a stuttering mess. He leaned forward to take a sip of his drink, intent on finding a balance.
“You’re quite the journalist, Kaito Watanabe.”
Kaito almost spit. Instead he coughed, covering his mouth politely. “Excuse me? I mean thank you. But you’re too kind.”
Cristian canted his head to the side. “Hmm, am I? Publishing articles in English and Japanese, procuring a large following from your blog alone, freelancing for many major outlets…” He set his chin in his palm and smiled. “I was impressed.”
Kaito folded his hands in his lap to hide the tremors running through his fingers. “All journalists have to work to make their voices heard, I believe…”
“But you write beautifully,” Cristian said. Thick dark lashes framed the bronze simmer of his eyes. Kaito went absolutely motionless, as if he were on the verge of shock or death. He can’t be saying—
“I read a lot of your pieces,” Cristian said before chuckling. “The ones in English, anyway.”
Oh my god, that’s what he’s saying.
Horror and excitement worked in equal parts to send earthquake-level tremors through Kaito’s limbs. Cristian Alvarez had read his work?
“Wow, I had no idea—” Kaito swallowed. “Whi—” Don’t ask which ones; it’ll seem like you’re asking for proof. He pushed his glasses up on his nose. “What, uh—” Don’t ask what he liked about them; it will look like you’re fishing for compliments. “Why—” Don’t ask why he looked you up; it’s because you were scheduled to interview him!
Kaito cleared his throat and beamed across the table. “I really don’t know what to say.”
Cristian seemed unfazed by Kaito’s sputtering. “You don’t have to say anything. Your writing makes every
entry a pleasure to read.”
In a moment of panic, Kaito almost slapped himself across the face. He needed to wake up from the dream world, because any compliment from Cristian Alvarez was too great, and one of this caliber was in danger of killing him. Kaito bowed his head forward and prayed it hid the warble of his upper lip. “You are truly far, far too kind.”
“I actually came across your work on Twitter,” Cristian said casually.
Horror overtook excitement in one sentence. Twitter—the dreaded word. Kaito had quite a following on Twitter, but some of the things he’d had go viral were…
“You wrote a piece about your time at a youth engagement camp; it was so lovely.”
Kaito’s shoulders relaxed.
“Everyone was retweeting it. Then, months later, I came across a thread—figure skaters as compared to cats.”
Kaito immediately buried his face in his hands and groaned, but Cristian was laughing loud and full of mirth. “I laughed so much it made me ache,” Cristian told him. “The gracelessness of those cats—and of myself.” He laughed harder now, and Kaito wasn’t sure if that made him more or less mortified.
“I was surprised to find out you were the same author of that gorgeous piece. Truly a double threat.”
Kaito tried not to drain his drink. “I don’t think googling unflattering images of cats and figure skaters for a whole afternoon makes me threatening to anyone.”
Cristian’s face was flushed pink with laughter, and Kaito decided he was fine suffering such embarrassment if it earned him that sight.
“But it got me reading more of your articles,” Cristian said.
Kaito pushed his glasses up to rub at where they sat on his nose. “Mission accomplished, I suppose.”
Cristian folded his arms on the table, his face still bright. “Will you be publishing this interview in Japanese as well as English?”
“Yes, I had planned to.”
“That’s wonderful. I didn’t realize people in Japan were much interested in my skating.”
Kaito had to use all his strength not to level him with a deadpan, flat-eyed “Are you serious?” expression. “Your skating has touched people all over the world, Cristian.”
The way you express yourself on the ice made me believe in art.
Cristian gave Kaito a very particular look—a carefully guarded, straight-mouthed, eyes-gone-hard stare. For half a moment, the corners of his lips remained carefully motionless, and then he smiled. “Now you’re being too kind.” But his voice was lower, and that smile didn’t permeate his eyes.
Kaito had been sitting with the man for a single minute, and he already had enough thoughts to fill a book.
“How’s Luna?” Kaito asked, settling back against his seat as he pulled his notebook from his bag and effectively changed the subject. Cristian was known for adoring his cat, a lanky black girl who could star in every Halloween ad known to man. Kaito found it cute; he had his own penchant for the supposedly bad-luck-laden animals—he did a bit of work at his local humane society, and whenever an all-black kitten went a few months without an adoption application, Kaito went home with a new friend.
The question brought all the light back into Cristian’s eyes. “She’s wonderful!” Petulance took over his face just as quickly. “But I didn’t have much of a break before having to fly off again. I wanted to spend more time with her.”
Kaito chuckled. “I understand that…” He swallowed. “I’m sure she’ll welcome you all the more fervently when you get back.”
Cristian nodded. The gold lighting caught at his dark lashes, stars shimmering in the awning of a black sky.
“So,” Kaito began, forcing himself back to concentration. “Could you divulge some details about your newest choreography for me?”
“Sure,” Cristian answered, falling back into his easy smile and casual pose. The light was a bit too taunting for Kaito; it made Cristian’s eyes smolder. “What would you like to know?”
Everything.
“Let’s start with your inspiration,” Kaito said, pen hovering over paper.
Cristian seemed more than willing to offer honesty. His answers were always forward, transparent, and given without hesitation. That didn’t keep some of them from being vague or abstract, though. Kaito wasn’t surprised by this; skaters were artists, of course, and sometimes the things present in the minds of creators could only be given shape with their chosen form of expression.
They both ordered a drink, but Kaito sipped at his cautiously.
“Is this Japanese?” Cristian asked, dropping his hand down to tap at the margin of Kaito’s notes. His long fingers settled centimeters away from Kaito’s own to indicate a cluster of crudely written kanji.
“Yes,” Kaito responded, barely able to rein in his stutter. He thanked the slight tingle of alcohol at his cheeks for the calm response.
Cristian’s smile cut across his face, eyes twinkling. “Is it code? Are you hiding something you’re going to say about me?”
“No no no!” Kaito said, holding up his hands. Most of his notes were penned in sloppy English, but in the margins there were some hastily written kanji that would make his calligraphy instructor pale. “These um…” He tapped his pen against a kanji as his mind formulated words. “Most of them are descriptors. So I can remember properly.”
“Descriptors?” Cristian questioned. All his interest was now turned to Kaito’s notepad.
Kaito cleared his throat. “Like this is the kanji for red,” he said. “And this is the hiragana for cheek.”
“Kanji, hiragana…”
“They’re just writing systems,” Kaito said. What he didn’t say was “The kanji for cheek is a pain in the ass, so I wrote it the lazy way.”
“But why red cheek?” Cristian’s eyes were so open, so bright, so innocent and unstoppably curious that Kaito flushed.
“It’s…” His fingers settled over a quoted line of Cristian’s. “When you said this line here, there was a pretty flush on your cheeks, so I…”
Cristian was staring at him. He slid his finger downward, right next to the cluster of symbols Kaito had been covering with his hand. He didn’t avert his gaze from Kaito’s face. “What about this one?”
Kaito’s eyes shifted to regard the paper. He had been covering that one on purpose.
How quickly can I come up with a lie? “That one, well, it says uh…” Not quickly enough. “Long fingers…bangs…tilt…” He swallowed.
“Oh?” Cristian asked playfully. “And what does that mean to you, exactly?”
The line, the full line Kaito had thought when he’d stared across the table at Cristian was: “Cristian’s long fingers settled against his cheek as he quietly considered the question. He tilted his head, bangs sliding across his forehead to shadow his eyes, and it occurred to me that he always looked like this. He always looked like a statue or a god, and it was all without conscious effort, or perhaps even realization.”
“The things you are…” Kaito started carefully. “The way you move and the things you do are uh…” Why on earth was it always so difficult to express the words he wanted to write out loud? “You emit beauty and perfection in everything you do,” Kaito began again. “And it’s all done without premeditation or calculation. So much so that you may not even realize the weight of your own presence or how it radiates from your hands and smile.”
The change in Cristian’s expression was almost imperceptible. Almost.
“You write interviews like you’re telling a story,” Cristian said. Were his eyes softer, maybe? “That’s why you have such a large and loyal following.”
Kaito wrung his hands under the table, then reached for his drink. “Interviews are telling a story,” he told him. “Without all the small details, readers aren’t being given the full truth.”
The drink was cold over Kaito’s tongue. Cristian was still watching him, ever so quietly. Then he reached across the table and pulled Kaito’s notebook toward himself. Kaito didn’t qu
estion it, only tracked the motion with his eyes. Cristian nonchalantly borrowed Kaito’s pen and read over his own words from earlier in the night, captured in Kaito’s messy handwriting: “‘It’s difficult to express abstract emotions with words.’” Cristian clicked the pen a few times but didn’t look up. “‘But with my new free skate I was able to express reaching toward emotions I have not yet felt and still somehow feel lonely without.’”
Cristian started scribbling below the quote, pen moving in quick strokes. He then held up the paper and smiled at Kaito, pointing at it.
“Can you read this?”
A long line of Spanish was strewn across the page in gorgeous cursive. “No,” Kaito admitted.
“It says,” Cristian started, flipping the page back toward himself and holding it proudly, “that when Kaito heard this answer his face moved in a fond and soft way, as if he understood this concept very deeply.”
The heat of a blush crawled across Kaito’s neck and cheeks. He rubbed under the collar of his shirt before compulsively leaning forward to take a long sip from his drink. He cleared his throat. “Is that so?”
“And where’s the part where I was telling you about choosing my music? Hmm, oh, here.” Cristian started writing again. “This says,” he began after punctuating the sentence, “Kaito was smiling unconsciously, and he looked like a man doing exactly what he wanted to be doing in that exact moment.” Cristian turned his eyes up at Kaito, looking directly into his stare. “And that your eyelashes are so long I wonder how they don’t graze against your glasses.”
Kaito shifted nervously, stomach shaking his insides. “You don’t wear glasses, Cristian?” he asked. Babbled was more apt; he was desperately clawing for any words to hide the bright dawn of embarrassment rising over his face.
“No,” Cristian answered simply, still gazing at him. “Contacts.”
Kaito sent him a dubious look. He knew most skaters had bad vision, thanks to the harsh glare of the ice, but he still found this hard to believe. As embarrassing as it was, Kaito had spent a lot of time staring at Cristian’s face, and not once had he ever noticed the edge of a contact in his eyes. Without thinking, Kaito leaned forward and stared hard at the perimeter of Cristian’s irises.