A Dance too Far

by H L Day

  My mother sighed sadly, patting my hand. "It's been such a long time since..." She stopped before she said his name again. "Well, you know. I just want to see you happy... that's all."

  I leaned forward, putting every iota of sincerity I could manage into my expression. "I know, Mum. But I'm fine. Honestly, I am."

  She sighed again; this one was even longer. "So there's no one?"

  Dark hair, hazel eyes, and perfect lips curled up into a mocking smirk flashed into my head. I pushed the image away and shook my head. "No, not at the moment."

  * * * *

  I paused at the entrance to the pub. I'd figured a pint before bed on my way home wouldn't hurt, but whether it was my mother's voice or a certain Russian one, I found myself wanting to prove them both wrong. It wasn't like I needed alcohol. I could go one night without a drink. Neither of them knew what they were talking about. I turned and walked in the opposite direction, nodding a greeting to a regular who was just on their way in.

  Back at home, I lay on the sofa and closed my eyes. I knew what I'd see. It was the same thing I'd been seeing ever since I'd left his hotel room two days ago. Valentin. It was also the last time I'd caught so much as a glimpse of him. He'd missed rehearsals for the last two days. I'd even considered whether he could be avoiding me, but I doubted that I had made that much of an impact on him, whereas I couldn't seem to get him out of my head. All I could think about was the taste of his skin, the way he'd thrown his head back as he rode my cock, the way he'd looked with his eyes closed when I'd been able to study him without him realizing.

  I was bombarded by images from the moment I woke up to the moment I went to sleep: the curve of his ass, the perfection of the lips I wasn't allowed to kiss, the moment he'd stood naked in front of me at the hotel, the robe at his feet, the pointed chin, the patrician nose, the curve of his neck. It was ridiculous. This didn't happen to me. I'd been happy for years to lurch from one quick fuck to the next, never looking back, never thinking about the man I'd had sex with again. So I didn't understand what was going on. What was so different about Valentin that I couldn't simply accept that he didn't want to see me again? He felt like a burr trapped under my skin, an itch that I couldn't get rid of no matter how hard I tried. Yes, he was hot. Yes, he was like no one I'd ever met before, but there were thousands of attractive and unusual men scattered throughout London. So what made him so special? I had all these feelings I wasn't used to having, and I didn't have a clue what to do about them. Even the desire to pick up other men had gone away. I'd been approached by two men, at different times, the night Valentin had rung, both making it perfectly clear that they'd be up for some no-strings fun. I'd waved both of them away, unable to muster the interest. Yet the moment Valentin had called I'd run halfway across London like a man who was at his beck and call.

  Despite the way he'd treated me—twice, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that given half a chance, I'd go back for more. If Valentin Bychkov was a disease, then I was well and truly infected—with no cure in sight.

  * * * *

  My heart thudded as he took his place center stage. After three days of not seeing him, my eyes devoured him hungrily. He looked just as gorgeous and untouchable as ever. The irony of thinking that, after I'd fucked him twice, wasn't lost on me. He was the only man I'd ever met who could switch from totally unapproachable to naked or half-naked and offering himself up, at the drop of a hat. He was dressed in white today: white ballet tights, the same scraps of material adorning his throat as ever, just in a different color. I couldn't help feeling that black suited him more. He took his opening stance, his arms held out to the side, and I waited for him to start dancing.

  One of the assistants in the sound booth coughed. Fuck! He was waiting for the music. Which wasn't going to happen unless I took my head out of my ass and started it. I fumbled with the controls, noting the theater director's frown as he looked over, no doubt wondering what was taking so long.

  The first few notes filled the auditorium, and I watched Valentin dance. Even though I'd seen the routine numerous times, I never got bored of watching. There was something different about him today though. Not being an expert, I couldn't pinpoint what it was. Was it linked in some way to his absence for the last couple of days? Was he ill? Despite my preoccupation, I avoided any further mistakes, and Valentin had already turned to leave the stage, almost before the last note had faded.

  The rest of the day passed slowly. Even Glenn seemed less flirty than usual. Either it had finally dawned on him that I wasn't interested, or someone had warned him off. The prime candidate for the latter had to be Noel. If so, I'd have to think of some way of thanking him.

  As the last to leave, I killed the lights in the sound booth before heading toward the exit at the end of the auditorium, fighting the urge to visit a certain person's dressing room to see if he was there. When had I turned into such a masochist? When had being belittled and made to feel worthless become an acceptable price for amazing sex? And that was the crux of the matter. It was amazing sex. It wasn't just the fact that Valentin had an amazing body and knew exactly how to use it. Our bodies just seemed attuned to each other. We fitted together as if we were two puzzle pieces made entirely for that reason. He might be a shit afterward, but his body didn't lie. I was pretty sure that he hadn't been faking any of his reactions. Nobody was that good an actor. And he probably thought I hadn't noticed the way he'd responded when I'd wrested control from him back in the hotel room, but I had. He wasn't used to it, but he'd gone along with it. To me that spoke volumes about the fact that there was something else going on behind what he wanted the world to see. It was intriguing, and it made me wonder what else there was to discover about him. I wanted to know the man behind the mystery. And if I was wrong about him, well, maybe then, I'd be able to brush my little obsession under the carpet and return to the way life used to be. But I wasn't there yet.

  Lost in thought, I almost walked into the man barring my way. My head whipped up—and there was a long way to go—given how much taller he was. It was one of Valentin's bodyguards. I didn't know which one. I'd heard their names mentioned in conversation, but I hadn't exactly gone out of my way to be able to tell them apart. I took a quick glance around, relieved to see that the other one wasn't there. One of them was bad enough to have to deal with. "Excuse me."

  When he made no move to step aside, I attempted to go around him. A meaty hand settled on my arm, the fingers squeezing just hard enough to make it clear that I wasn't going anywhere until he allowed it. I gave a covert glance back to the auditorium, hoping there was still someone around who might be able to intervene. There was no one. It was just me and him.

  When he spoke, he spoke slowly. It was clear that his command of English wasn't that strong. "You... need... come with me."

  "To where?" Was he taking me to see Valentin? A surge of happiness filled my veins at the thought of Valentin sending his bodyguard to collect me. I'd known deep down that despite the things he'd said and done that he did want to see me again. It had been written all over his face. But I'd expected him to hold out for longer than three days. My cock tingled at the thought of getting up close and personal again, and it was hard to keep the smile from my face. I guessed that explained the absence of the other bodyguard: one of them had needed to stay with Valentin.

  "Dmitry has... asked for... how do you say... audience with you."

  And just like that my bubble was well and truly burst, the throb of desire metamorphosizing into something akin to fear. Dmitry was the man Noel had warned me about. The one who supposedly had links to Bratva. I'd never seen him, but I'd certainly noted a tension in the theater after his arrival that hadn't been there previously, and his name had been whispered in numerous corners, all with that strange mixture of reverence and caution. I'd put it down to his financial investment, meaning that he had a great deal of sway over what happened on a day-to-day basis. But what if the rumors were true? What if, ridiculous as it might sound, he was
a member, or even worse, a leader in the Russian mob? If so, then a summons from him couldn't be anything good. And why would he want to see me of all people? Did he know I'd had sex with Valentin? The bodyguards had been there so it was entirely possible. Was he going to warn me off? Tell me to stay away from him? Or something worse? I swallowed, trying to force saliva back into a suddenly dry throat. "And if I say no?"

  The fingers still wrapped around my arm tightened further, and the man smiled. At least I think it was meant to be a smile, but the scar running from his temple, through one eye, and extending down as far as his lip, turned it into something much more sinister. "Not option."

  He tugged on my arm, and I was forced to follow him down the corridor. "You can let go, you know." To my surprise he did. "Where are we going?"

  "Dmitry's office."

  He had an office? What was a Russian doing with an office in the Royal Opera House? "What does he want to see me about?" No response. I tried again. "Is Valentin there?"

  Realizing he wasn't going to answer, I fell silent, concentrating on keeping up with the man's massive stride. I didn't recognize the part of the building where we were now, my heart rate increasing steadily with each and every closed door we'd passed through that now lay between me and the exit. I should have run back into the auditorium. Now, I doubted I'd be able to find the way out on my own, even if I tried. A sick dread settled in my stomach.

  Then there was a door in front of us—plain, with no placard—and bodyguard number one was raising his hand to knock. A muffled voice gave an instruction to enter, and I was shepherded through the door, a firm hand in the center of my back giving no choice but to continue walking forward.

  I quickly took stock of my surroundings, my shirt damp with nervous sweat. Whatever I'd expected to see, it wasn't the scene that greeted me. The room was empty save for two men. The other bodyguard was standing over by the window, his massive bulk blocking out most of the light that should have been streaming into the room. Another man, who looked to be somewhere in his early fifties, lounged in a leather chair behind a huge wooden desk, a glass of whiskey in one hand and a lit cigar in the other. This had to be the fearsome Dmitry Gruzdev. Except right now, with the smile on his face and his casual demeanor, he looked more like a kind uncle. He gestured to the chair on the other side of the desk. "Take a seat, my friend. And don't look so worried. We are here to have a chat. Nothing more."

  Although his English was practically perfect, he had a much heavier accent than Valentin did. I sat in the chair he'd indicated, still too nervous to return his smile. He waved a hand at an expensive-looking crystal decanter. "Mikhail, pour the man a drink. He looks like he needs one." His eyes fastened on me, smiling blue eyes with laughter lines at the corner. "Do you drink whiskey, my friend?" I nodded, and the bodyguard who'd escorted me there poured a good measure and pushed the glass across the desk toward me. I wrapped my fingers around it. Dmitry gestured toward it impatiently. "Try it. It is very good. Single malt and twenty years old. I highly recommend it."

  I obediently lifted it to my mouth and took a sip, pulling a face of appreciation that would have been the same even if I'd discovered it tasted like shit. It didn't. It was by far the best whiskey I'd ever tasted. Probably the most expensive as well. "It's very good."

  Dmitry's smile grew as if he was pleased by the compliment. "I hope Mikhail was polite to you in extending my invitation?"

  I rubbed at my arm, still able to feel where the man's fingers had dug in, my face obviously giving away some of what I was feeling.

  Dmitry tutted, his eyes darting over to where Mikhail had joined the other bodyguard, the two men bracketing the window like bookends. "I apologize. Sometimes, they have no finesse. Unless I give them explicit instructions, they start having these"—he twirled a finger by his temple—"crazy ideas. They make me look bad."

  I nodded and managed a small smile as I sought to process the fact that Dmitry was being polite and apologizing for Mikhail's actions. Did it mean that he was nowhere near as bad as people said? Or that I had to be careful about trusting what was on the surface? To say I was conflicted was an understatement. I took another sip of the whiskey, enjoying the smoothness as it slipped down my throat. "That's okay. No harm done. I'm not sure though why you need to speak to me?" Dmitry took a long drag of his cigar before answering, the room rapidly filling with the thick, acrid smoke.

  "Valentin, of course. I hear you have taken quite an interest in my... charge?"

  Nerves kicked in again. What if all this friendliness was nothing but an act to lull me into a false sense of security? "What do you mean?"

  The hand holding the cigar waved in the direction of the bodyguards, leaving a trail of smoke behind in the air. "It is their job to share security concerns. They, of course, informed me that you were alone with Valentin in his dressing room."

  I sat back in the chair, my brain struggling to put all the pieces together and work out what I was supposed to say. He'd only mentioned the dressing room. Did that mean he didn't know about the hotel room?

  While I was still trying to think of something to say, Dmitry leaned forward in his chair. "You like him, yes?"

  "Yeah... I mean, yeah, he's..."

  He stubbed the cigar out into the ashtray on the corner of the desk, his eyebrows rising. "Good. You will accompany us to a party tonight."

  "A party?" I failed miserably at keeping the surprise out of my voice. I'd been expecting the worst, that at the very least I was going to be threatened, and instead I was being invited to a party. "That's very kind, but—"

  "I insist. Any friend of Valentin's is a friend of mine. We will drink more whiskey. We will relax, and we will have a good time. Yes?"

  I couldn't stop myself from asking the question. "Will Valentin be there?"

  Dmitry winked. "Of course. I would not invite you otherwise. I expect he will be pleased to see you."

  I had serious doubts about whether that would be true. But strange as it was to be invited to a party by a man who was supposed to be scary but had been nothing but nice, I did want to see Valentin again. The chance to get close to him again was too good an opportunity to turn down. "I need to go home and get changed. If you let me know the address, then I'll—"

  He waved his hand dismissively. "Pfftt. It is not that formal a party. Mikhail and Igor will take you there."

  The twin mounds of muscle immediately moved forward to flank me on either side. Dmitry said something to them in Russian, and they both nodded. He turned his attention back to me and smiled. "I have boring business phone calls to make, so I will travel in a separate car. I will see you there, my friend." Then I was being led from the room, unable to shake the feeling that despite Dmitry's apparent niceness, I was being led to my execution rather than a party. What had he said to them in Russian? There was no point in asking them. One of them rarely spoke, and the other had already made it clear that he had no time for my questions.

  * * * *

  I'd never been more relieved to arrive at a public place—the venue, a basement nightclub in Camden. The journey to get there had proved excruciatingly awkward, sandwiched as I was between Tweedledee and Tweedledum with neither of them speaking or seemingly willing to offer even the slightest bit of information about where we were going or what I could expect to find when we got there.

  I was made to stand on the pavement and wait while another car drew up and Dmitry got out. At some point, he'd gained a third musclebound guardian, the new addition even bulkier than my own two travel companions. Dmitry strolled past with barely a glance in our direction, talking loudly into a phone in Russian.

  A hard shove in the middle of my back was the first indication that we were meant to follow. We headed down a dark set of stairs, the heavy thud of bass growing gradually louder the further we descended into the club. A bored-looking cashier waved us past without ceremony. It looked like this was a private party. We headed through a door to the main part of the club, and I stopped dead, strug
gling to take in what I was seeing.

  There couldn't have been more than fifty people there. With a club designed to hold hundreds, it looked decidedly empty. The clientele seemed to consist of men in suits, the majority around Dmitry's age, in their late forties to early fifties. The rest were scantily clad dancers; most of them wearing nothing more than a tiny pair of shorts. Some danced on a pole or podium, their bodies moving sinuously to the music while onlookers leered. Another was draped over the lap of one of the suited men, the older man's hands roaming to places I didn't even want to think about. What kind of party is this? At least ninety percent of the dancers were men, but scattered here and there around the room was the occasional topless woman, going largely ignored by the suited men. The women seemed out of place as if they were there for appearance's sake only. Like someone had visited the local strip joint and gathered up a few of the women as some sort of cover story to hide what was really going on.

  Dmitry's path took us straight to the bar where a line of bottles was stacked up, with the intention of people helping themselves. I gawped at the nearest dancer on a pole, his limbs gyrating and pulsing to the music as he effortlessly maneuvered himself around it. It wasn't his dance skills though that made me stare. It was the fact that I recognized him. He was one of the ballet dancers I'd watched rehearse onstage every day. How did he go from ballet dancer during the day to pole dancer at night?

  "I don't understand."

  Dmitry turned, his phone conversation having come to an end, dragging his gaze away from a small, blond twink writhing around a pole. Is he gay? Or was I imagining things? I hadn't seen him so much as glance at any of the large-breasted women yet. He pushed a glass of dark liquid into my hand that I assumed was whiskey. "What don't you understand, my friend?"

  "I recognize some of these dancers. They're from the show." I'd spotted at least two more who looked familiar. "Why are they here?"