A Dance too Far

by H L Day

  Mikhail shook his head, the scar on his face twitching. "No. He did not. Do you have one?"

  I worded my response carefully. "Even if I did, I'd have to be pretty desperate to take that risk, wouldn't I? No escape plan is foolproof."

  "Do you love him?"

  I didn't need to ask who he was talking about. It definitely wasn't Dmitry. The dull ache in my chest that I'd been medicating with excess nicotine for the last few days started up again. "None of your business."

  Mikhail stuffed his meaty hands into his pockets. "Only if you did—"

  "Don't."

  My head swung around at Igor's unexpected interjection, especially given the fact that he'd remained silent up to now. Another wordless exchange passed between the two men. My heart started to race, a puddle of dread materializing somewhere in my lower gut. "Is this about Max?" Igor shook his head wearily, his face settling into an expression of annoyance. Whatever was going on, he was obviously opposed to saying anything. I wasn't going to get anywhere with him. I focused all of my attention back on Mikhail. In my haste to get answers from him, I’d dropped my guard completely, forgetting to hide my real thoughts and actions behind a carefully crafted layer of insouciance. "Is it? Because Max is safe. I went back to Dmitry to keep him safe. I'm going back to Russia so he'll stay safe. That's all I want." There was a note of desperation in my voice.

  Mikhail tilted his head to the side, his craggy face expressing his surprise at my reaction. "You love him. You actually love him?"

  There was no point in denying it after my impassioned speech. "Yes. I do." It was a shame to be telling Mikhail when I'd never admitted it to Max, but there'd never seemed to be a good time. And then it had been too late, my only option being to say it as I walked out of his life for good, which had seemed cruel and unnecessary. It was better he believed that I'd never gotten to that point.

  Mikhail nodded slowly, his head lifting to stare sightlessly across the airport lounge as if he was struggling to come to some sort of decision. "Then you should probably know that Dmitry put out a hit on him last night."

  The world tilted. If I wasn't already seated, I probably would have fallen. Not Max. Anyone but him. Snapshots of our time together flashed through my head, and I felt like I couldn't breathe. "He's dead?"

  Mikhail finally sat, bringing his face onto a level with mine. "He survived. He's badly injured with numerous broken bones and a concussion. Dmitry was not happy. His men were disturbed before they could finish the job, but you know as well as I do that that won't be the end of it." He paused, the intensity back on his face. "So, I'm going to ask you again, if you have any sort of escape plan tucked away in that brain of yours?"

  I forced myself to breathe slowly, processing the information that Max was alive at the moment. But if I got on the plane, he wouldn't stay that way. As soon as the opportunity arose, Dmitry would have someone finish the job and Max would be killed. For being with me. For helping me. For loving me. My eyes flicked back to Mikhail, the realization hitting that he was going out on a limb by providing this information. "Why are you helping me?"

  Mikhail looked troubled. "I loved someone once." His lips turned up in the semblance of a smile. "He was everything to me. I left when I should have stayed... he asked me to stay... and when I eventually went back, it was too late and he was already dead."

  "I'm sorry." And I truly was. I hadn't even known Mikhail was gay. Never mind the fact that he'd ever been capable of loving someone. In my eyes, he'd just been the pain in the ass who followed me everywhere and reported back to Dmitry. I wondered when his attitude toward me had changed. Was it when he'd witnessed my fall from grace on the stage? When he'd seen Dmitry hit me and call me a whore? Or only when he'd realized that there was something more lasting and deep between me and Max?

  Mikhail straightened up, his face returning to its usual stony countenance. "So what will you do, Valentin?"

  Good question. My mind clicked into overdrive, running through a number of scenarios and possible outcomes at a rapid speed. "I'd need time to put a few things into action. Time before Dmitry even knows I'm gone." My gaze searched Mikhail's face, the niggle that this could all still be part of some deliberate subterfuge on Dmitry's part to test me, to find out if I knew things I shouldn't, still refusing to go away completely. For all I knew, he was recording this conversation.

  It seemed an infinite amount of time before he finally responded, each second corresponding with at least three thumps of my heart. He traced his finger along his scar. "Imagine... if we've already got on the plane. Perhaps you have been complaining about some sort of stomach upset all the way to the airport, blaming the prawns you ate last night..."

  My eyebrows shot up at the fact he knew what I'd eaten. I motioned for him to continue.

  "...you say you can't wait to go to the bathroom. We let you go because imagine the scandal if the rising star of ballet has a nasty accident on the plane in front of everyone. You must have somehow convinced security to let you off the plane. Maybe an allegation about being kidnapped or some other farfetched story that they believe. We do not realize until the plane has already taken off and we check the bathroom and realize it is empty that you are no longer on the plane. At that point, I would need to call Dmitry and inform him that you are missing, but of course I cannot do so until the plane has landed. Then we would be in Russia and unable to search for you."

  His story held a certain amount of feasibility. It wasn't perfect, but at a stretch, it would do. "How long?"

  Mikhail checked the boarding times and then his watch. "From now, including the flight time, four and a half hours."

  I nodded, already starting to crunch times in my head. I could definitely work with that. "And how would you convince Dmitry that you were not involved?" They might not be friends of mine, but all three of us knew the price they would pay if Dmitry suspected that the story Mikhail had concocted was not true.

  Mikhail smiled, his scar puckering. "We would tell him that you are a manipulative and cunning little shit."

  It was my turn to smile. "I suspect he might be only too willing to believe that." I glanced Igor's way but addressed my question to Mikhail. "And what about him? Will he go along with it?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?" Mikhail had told me his reasons, but that didn't explain why Igor would be willing to go along with it, and he'd been quick enough to interject in an effort to prevent Mikhail from telling me about Max in the first place.

  He simply shrugged, and I was left with the impression that although he wasn't exactly on board with the idea, he wasn't going to do anything to oppose it. Maybe Mikhail had more influence over him than I'd previously realized. I wanted to ask more questions, but Mikhail was shoving something into my hand. I stared down at it. It was a cheap pay-as-you-go phone still in its packaging, which meant Dmitry couldn't have tampered with it. Therefore it couldn't be tracked. Mikhail held out his other hand, and I dropped my phone into his palm. "I have a friend who I've already given this number to. He's going to send you something that may help."

  I frowned. "What's he going to send?"

  But Mikhail was already shaking his head, the boarding call for their flight being called out across the airport loudspeakers. "You should go." He gestured down at my ankle. "Things are going to take you longer to do due to your lack of mobility."

  He had a point. I nodded, and stood up, suddenly at a loss for what to say. My glance encompassed both men, and I said the only words that came to mind, even though they were wholly inadequate in regards to what I was feeling. "Thank you. Both of you." It was ironic really because in all the time they'd shadowed me, I didn’t think I'd ever said it before. Both men inclined their heads in acknowledgment, and I limped away.

  I made a beeline for the nearest bathroom, fumbling the phone out of its packaging and inserting the SIM card so it was ready to go. I wondered what this so-called friend of Mikhail's was going to send, and how it was supposed to help me. Once inside, I locke
d myself in a cubicle before dialing a number I'd memorized. It seemed to ring for a very long time, my body twitching with nerves as I started to consider possibilities for a plan B if the man didn't answer. The problem was, I couldn't think of one. He was my one and only hope.

  Finally, there was a click as the call was accepted. "Who is this?"

  I exhaled, relief flooding through my veins at the sound of the man's familiar French accent. "Claude, it's Valentin."

  "Valentin... this is a surprise. Is this a social call?"

  "No. I need... the process we talked about..." The sound of my blood pumping in my ears was horrendously loud. "...the one we set up two years ago... it's time. I need the data I sent you, the photos... everything sent to this number as soon as possible and the arrangements made for everything else we talked about."

  There was a long pause before Claude spoke again.

  "Are you sure? I thought you were waiting until you had gotten more evidence. The last time we spoke, you said that what we had wasn't enough."

  I gripped the phone tighter, and I thought about Max. Poor Max, beaten for the second time in a matter of days because of me. Only escaping with his life because a random fluke of luck had dictated someone happened to stumble across them at the right time. I took a deep breath. "It's going to have to be." I massaged my temple. "Something's come up which means I can't wait any longer. I'm going to have to make it work. One way or another. So, yes. Do it." I hung up.

  I unlocked the cubicle door and washed my hands while I stared in the mirror, ignoring the curious glance of someone using the adjacent sink. There was a look of hope in my eyes that I wasn't used to seeing on my face. If I pulled this off, I was free. Forever. And Max would be safe. If I didn't?

  Well, then we were both dead.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Max

  The first thing I became aware of was someone holding my hand tightly. The second was that the bed felt wrong, the sheets too scratchy for it to be my bed and the smell all wrong. I struggled to open my eyes in order to work out where I was. "Valentin?" I finally convinced my eyelids to cooperate, only to close them again when the light was too bright. That wasn't right either. I never forgot to draw the curtains. On my second attempt the blurry but familiar face of my mother swam into view.

  She squeezed my hand, her eyes welling with tears. "Who's Valentin?"

  My gaze traveled slowly around the room, taking in the chest of drawers with a jug of water and two glasses on top of it, the curtain, half drawn around the bed, and the medical equipment next to the bed, the realization finally dawning: I was in the hospital. I'd somehow survived the second attack that was meant to kill me. But they'd try again. I knew they would. What was it they'd called me? A loose end, that was it. I tried to lift my head enough to sit up, a groan escaping from my lips at the subsequent stab of pain.

  My mum placed a hand on my forehead, pushing it gently back onto the pillow. "Shh, darling. Don't try and move. You've got a pretty bad concussion. You've been unconscious for nearly fourteen hours. Do you remember them bringing you here?"

  I tried to sort through the tangled mess of memories that made up my thoughts. The last thing I remembered was the alley. There was nothing after that. If I had regained consciousness at any point after that, it was completely gone. "No." I tried to swallow, but my throat was too dry. "Water?"

  My mum stood, almost knocking her chair over in her haste to grant my request. "Of course. I'm sorry, dear." She half-filled one of the glasses before bringing it to my lips. I lifted my head slowly, some of the water spilling over my chin to soak the sheet, but at least I managed to get some of it to go down my throat; enough to ease the dryness anyway. "You said I had a concussion..." My mind immediately supplied the memory of a heavy boot landing on my head. "What else is wrong with me?"

  She took the glass away, her lip wobbling. She looked tired. She'd obviously sat by my bedside all night. I grabbed her hand. "Hey! I'm okay. I'm not even in any pain apart from my head. I just want to know if there's anything else I should know."

  She tried for a smile. "They've got you on a heavy dose of morphine. You need to let them know when it starts to wear off. You've got three broken ribs, and it was touch-and-go for a while whether they would have to remove your spleen, but they managed to get the swelling down without surgery." Her hand reached out to stroke my cheek. "But they said that a lot of the bruising wasn't new, that it had been there for a few days. I told them that they must be mistaken, but they were adamant. It didn't make any sense."

  I looked away while I tried to come up with a convincing story. I could claim to have been mugged. But twice in one week? There was no way anyone was going to believe that I could be that unlucky. I was temporarily saved from having to come up with an explanation as a nurse arrived at my bedside with a broad smile. "I see you're finally awake." She picked up my wrist, taking a quick pulse reading. "Any pain?"

  "My head."

  She nodded. "That's to be expected, given the concussion. The only reassurance I can give you is that it will wear off in time. Any double vision?"

  "No."

  She offered another smile. "That's a good sign. What about the rest of you?"

  The questions went on for a while, my mum chipping in whenever she felt as if I needed help or was struggling to explain myself clearly. Apparently satisfied, the nurse turned to leave. "Oh, by the way, the police are waiting to interview you. I told them that you might not be up to it until tomorrow, but if you'd rather get it over and done with, I can send them in?"

  I tried to shake my head, the feeling like someone driving a knife through my brain, reminding me why it wasn't a good idea. "Tomorrow." At least by then, I might have thought of something convincing to explain the bruises from the first beating before my so-called mugging.

  She nodded. "Tomorrow it is. It's probably better that you let the doctor take a look at you first anyway. Oh look, you've got a visitor!"

  A visitor. It had to be someone who my mum had called. Only I couldn't think of anyone she'd call who'd rush to the hospital. We had family, but they all lived some distance away, and we weren't really that close. I couldn't imagine any of them being worried enough to make the three-hour drive required to get to London.

  "Max?"

  My concussion must be worse than I'd thought because for a moment there I'd imagined that the speaker spoke with a familiar accent. That beautiful mixture of English and Russian that had made me come so hard when words were whispered in my ear in the heat of passion. But of course that wasn't possible. There was no way he could be at the hospital. A shadow fell across the bed, and I looked up into familiar hazel eyes. Eyes I hadn't seen for days and had thought I'd never get to see again. His lips curled into a smile as I continued to stare at him. "Are you real?"

  He laughed. "Da. I am definitely real."

  I reached out, my hand wrapping around his biceps, the flesh warm and comfortingly solid beneath my grip.

  A strangled sound from the other side of the bed reminded me of my mum's presence, her mouth wide-open in shock as she stared at my hand still resting on Valentin's arm. Her confusion about who'd just waltzed into her son's room was completely understandable. "Mum, this is...Valentin. He's..." I had no idea what explanation to give besides his name.

  As it was, I didn't seem to need to say any more. Her eyes grew even wider, and she stared at Valentin as if he was some sort of exotic creature. "He asked for you. When he woke up, you were the first name that came from his lips."

  Valentin shifted uncomfortably, a faint blush on his neck almost hiding the marks that were still there. They were faint, but still visible, and even in my current state, I ached to make them darker again. "Really? Well, I got here as soon as I could." His face clouded over, and his gaze sought mine. "I need to talk to you, Max. Alone."

  I turned my head to the side. "Mum?"

  She didn't need asking twice, although she was clearly struggling to tear her eyes away from Valentin.
Even as she backed toward the door, her gaze was still fixed on him. "I'll be outside."

  And then it was just the two of us.

  Valentin limped around to the opposite side of the bed, taking the seat my mum had recently vacated. I held my hand out, palm upward. "Hold my hand."

  One eyebrow arched upward, a typical Valentin reaction at receiving such a request. It was absurdly reassuring. "Really, Max?" Despite his words, he took my hand in both of his, holding it tightly, his body hunched over so that our faces were close together.

  I was giddy at seeing him again when I hadn't expected to. "I can't believe you're here. How? Why? What about Dmitry? How did you even know where I was? Did Dmitry tell you?"

  Just like my mum had earlier, he shushed me. "Slow down, and I'll tell you. I can't stay long. There's somewhere I need to be. Something I need to do." He laid a finger on my lips when he could see that I was about to break into another barrage of questions. When I conceded, his fingers trailed from my lips over my bruised cheekbone. For Valentin, it was surprisingly tender, especially coupled with the expression on his face. He looked vulnerable. He looked like he didn't know what to do or say. He looked like a man who was... "You love me?"

  He chuckled quietly, his fingers continuing to trace over my skin, the touch so gentle I could barely feel it. "I thought you already knew that."

  I turned my face into his hand. "I suspected. I didn't know because you never said. They're two very different things."

  He leaned down, kissing my cheek, his lips lingering on the damaged skin. "Well, now you know."

  "But you're still going to leave?" My words were imbued with the sadness I felt at having to say the words aloud. Was that what this was? A last goodbye before he flew back to Russia? But then why admit that he loved me?