Slave to the Rhythm (The Rhythm #1)

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  We arrived a little late, and Gary must have been watching for us, because the second we pulled up, he ran out of the house to meet us wearing ridiculous bunny slippers. He grinned broadly and I tried not to wince as I saw the gap on one side of his mouth where several teeth were missing.

  He yanked open the driver’s door and pulled Ash into a tight hug, whispering something that had Ash smiling at his friend.

  “Welcome to my humble abode, lovely Novaks!” Gary sang. “Come in and meet the ‘rents.” He lowered his voice. “We saw the article in the newspaper.”

  “What did you think?”

  “It was fair. I don’t know if it will make any difference.”

  “How’s Yveta?” asked Ash.

  Gary sighed.

  “Up and down. I think she needs some help, but no one wants to know. The Russian Embassy has offered to fly her home, but she doesn’t have any family or close friends once she’s there. I don’t know how long they’ll let her stay here . . .” He glanced at me. “Maybe I should marry her.”

  Ash punched him in the shoulder and Gary laughed. Then he walked around the car to help me out, sliding his arm through mine as we made our way up the path to the front door.

  It was an older style wooden farmhouse, although there were several other new-builds near it now.

  Gary’s parents, Judith and Henry, were like something out of a Grant Wood painting, very upright, restrained, almost severe in their welcome. How they managed to have a son like Gary who was so flamboyant—that was anyone’s guess. I knew that Ash harbored a lot of resentment because of his father who’d thought dancing was effeminate, and I tried to imagine how it must have been for Gary growing up here.

  But when we walked into the house, it was filled with a wonderful aroma of baking bread, taking me back to a simpler, less complicated time in my life.

  Yveta was curled up in an armchair in the living room, the curtains drawn, the lighting dim.

  “Oh my Go—good grief!” snapped Gary. “This is all too American Gothic. Open the damn—dang drapes!”

  He yanked back the curtains, making us all blink, and I saw Yveta for the first time. My eyes were instantly drawn to the ugly puckered scar on her cheek, making it seem as if she was sneering at the world, and maybe she was.

  She was tall and very thin, with thick blonde hair that hung across her face unstyled.

  Ash simply walked up to her and kissed her on both cheeks, smiling down at her as he held her hands.

  Yveta’s cold eyes turned glassy and she threw herself into his arms, her tears sudden and heart-breaking.

  I watched in awkward silence, not knowing what to do or where to look, until Gary nudged my arm.

  “Coffee?”

  I nodded and followed him out to the kitchen where his parents stoically set the table with cloth napkins and silverware. They seemed to ignore his presence and he did the same.

  “Yveta does that all the time,” he said sadly. “She’s better though, I think. Calmer. But long term . . .” he blew out a breath, then changed tack.

  “So, tell me all about Mrs. Novak. I’m dying to hear about the woman who snapped up the hottest talent in town.”

  “I’m sure Ash has told you how we met.”

  Gary waved a hand. “He’s a guy. I need to hear some girl talk.”

  I smiled. “You’d love my parents’ house—four daughters. Dad is completely outnumbered.”

  “Sounds like heaven. Speaking of which, how have they taken to the exotic delights of your new hubby?”

  “Surprised, but they’re getting used to the idea.” I shrugged. “My Dad is having a bromance with him ever since Ash saved my life.”

  Gary’s face was serious.

  “He must really love you.”

  “It’s mutual.”

  Then we heard the front door slam and two seconds later, Ash and Yveta were disappearing down the driveway, crunching through the snow, their heads bent low, his arm around her slim waist.

  Gary threw me a quick look.

  “They’ve been through a lot together.”

  “We all have,” I said softly.

  Ash

  We walked slowly through the thick snow, our boots crunching and our breath misting around us. My hands hurt, the stump throbbing, the broken fingers aching.

  I was comfortable with silence and despite everything, being out of the city felt good, like I could breathe.

  “This reminds me of home,” Yveta said after a few minutes. “Although it’s warmer here,” and she shot me a quick smile, her hair sliding across her scar. “I grew up in Siberia. Like Galina. I didn’t know her then and we didn’t meet until we both moved to St. Petersburg when we were 14. We didn’t have much, it was hard, you know? Our apartment was an old Soviet concrete block with fifty other families. You found a way out by working hard: ballet, chess, math, gymnastics, dancing. I practiced every day for hours, before and after school. Dancing is all I’ve ever wanted.”

  She snorted in sour amusement.

  “But who wants to see a scarred dancer? No one, I think.”

  I didn’t disagree with her because I knew she was right. My own scars were less obvious.

  “What about plastic surgery?”

  “Maybe,” she sighed. “If I had the money.”

  Then her eyes darted to mine.

  “Do you love her? Or is it for a green card?”

  I’d expected this question.

  “At first. But now, yes, I love her very much.”

  She stared, as if she wasn’t sure I was telling the truth.

  “We should be getting back.”

  “To your wife?” she sneered.

  I ignored her tone and turned around, retracing our steps.

  After a while, she tugged on my sleeve, and I looked up to see her apologetic expression. I sighed and linked our arms together so we were walking side by side.

  “I thought about you all the time we were in that terrible place,” she said, her voice soft. “When those men . . . I shut my mind to it. Instead, I thought about dancing with you—how happy we were when we were allowed to duet: you and me, Gary and Galina. It seems a lifetime ago. It was a lifetime ago. I think I died in that place with Galina. She was my best friend. But Las Vegas was my idea. She’d still be alive if . . . I hate myself. I don’t know who this ugly person is now.”

  “You’re not ugly,” I said sharply.

  She gave a hollow laugh.

  “Don’t lie to me, Aljaž. I’m a monster. No one will want to look at me on a stage. No one will send their child to take lessons with me—they’d be terrified. My life is over.”

  I stopped walking and tugged her around to face me. Carefully, I drew my finger down her scar, then tipped her chin up as she tried to hide her face.

  “You are scarred, but you’re still you and you’re still beautiful, Yveta.”

  Her eyes glossed with tears, but a smile trembled on her lips.

  “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” I said, looking at Gary and Yveta in turn.

  I held Laney’s hand under the table, and she gave it an encouraging squeeze.

  “After I talked to that reporter, I kept thinking that it wasn’t enough. The FBI is breaking up Volkov’s network, for now, at least. But, we can do more. I have to do more.”

  “Don’t tell us you’re joining the Marines,” Gary deadpanned.

  “I want to tell our story. I say we tell our story our way.”

  “And what way is that?” asked Gary skeptically.

  I sat back and stared at him. “Through dance.”

  There was a long silence, then Gary shook his head.

  “Nice idea, showboat, but it would never work.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because people go to the theater to be entertained, not made miserable.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “I don’t remember a lot of laughs in ‘Romeo and Juliet’ or ‘La Traviata’.”

  Gary looked thoughtful, b
ut didn’t answer. I leaned forward, wanting . . . no, needing them to understand.

  “We can do this! We tell our story, everyone’s story: Galina, Marta, the girl. We show what happened to us, and we show that we survived.”

  I could see that even Yveta was intrigued, her eyes alive for the first time since . . .

  Gary shook his head.

  “We’d never get backing. All the money is in tried and tested shows—the freakin’ hills are alive. Nothing like you’re describing has ever been done before.”

  I grinned at him. “Yes and no. People go to the ballet, yes? Well, we’ll take them to the ballroom instead. We just have to get someone interested—a backer. But guess what—we know a journalist who wants to help us.”

  “And what are you going to call this extravaganza of blood, sweat and dance?”

  “Slave—A Love Story.”

  Gary smiled and clapped his hands together.

  “So we make them cry into their popcorn and candy because they get their happy ever after. Hmm, it’s got legs, honey. But what about music? What about performers? Rehearsal space? A theater?”

  “For music, we use a mix of classic ballroom numbers, rock and pop. The audience will know some of them, but not all. We get a group who can do covers . . .”

  “Woah! Woah! Not recorded music?”

  I shook my head.

  “No, we want the ‘wow’ factor. It’s got to be 100% live. I want people to feel the music, feel the dance. I want them to know what it’s like.”

  Gary’s face hardened. “You really want to put all our dirty linen out in public?”

  “No, but I need to. This isn’t just about Sergei or even Volkov. This is about dozens, maybe hundreds of girls like Galina, like Marta; thousands of people like the Unknown Girl. They had no voice, but we have a chance to speak for them—to tell their stories. If we do this, it means the Bratva haven’t won.”

  Gary was silent, glancing at Yveta. But her eyes were fixed on the pitted and scarred kitchen table.

  Laney nodded, her eyes glowing, giving me her silent approval.

  Gary frowned. “You really think you can pull this off?”

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “But I have to try.”

  Gary took a deep breath.

  “I’m in. Yvie?”

  She didn’t look up. “I’m in.”

  Laney

  I WAS SO proud of him. So damn proud. After everything he’d been through, his heart was so big, so full of love.

  He was taking on a huge challenge, but I’d do everything I could to help him.

  Yveta, Gary, Ash . . . me. Could all these broken people make something whole?

  Phil loved the idea. He met us at our favorite coffee shop to listen to Ash’s pitch.

  “It’s a great story,” he said, twirling his pen between his fingers. “I’ll get something in next week. I can mention that you’re looking for backers, and I’ll speak to Chris Jones, our theater reviewer. He might know some people. What do you need?”

  Ash shrugged.

  “Everything: a theater to take the show—maybe one outside the city, as well; dancers, singers and musicians, rehearsal space, costume and makeup, marketing, ticket sales, publicity, graphics, ads, backstage, front of house, lighting, audio, a producer . . .”

  He sighed and glanced across at me, discouraged by the long list of things it would take to get this show on the road.

  Phil was upbeat and took some photographs of Ash that were suitably dramatic, standing in the snow, his hands resting on his hips in a defiant stance, his bandaged hand stark against his dark coat.

  When we made it back to the cozy warmth of the apartment, his energy levels were high, whereas I felt like wrapping myself in a quilt and eating pizza until I passed out.

  I watched him pacing up and down, deep in thought. Then he pulled out the smart phone that I’d bought him for Christmas, and plugged in his earbuds. Lost in music, an intense frown of concentration on his face, I could tell that he was thinking about the new show. Every now and then, he’d make a dramatic sweeping gesture with his arms or suddenly slide into a lunge. Then he’d frown and nod, or frown and shake his head. It was fascinating to see him work, and soon I gave up any pretense of reading, preferring to watch him, so graceful, a dynamic presence.

  Sometimes I could tell the style of the dance because of the very specific moves; other times it was looser, less pure ballroom and more pure Ash.

  The afternoon passed and the sky darkened, the street lamps washing the world in a deceptive glow that promised warmth. But winter days were short and the nights long.

  I must have fallen asleep eventually, because I woke when Ash sat down next to me, passing me a chamomile tea.

  “Luka is in,” he said excitedly.

  “Who?”

  “My friend Luka—he texted me. He’s been on tour in Germany, but he finishes soon, so he’s going to fly out here. Is it okay if he stays with us?”

  I rubbed my forehead.

  “Ash, did you offer him a job?”

  “He’s a great dancer,” he said, defensively deflecting my question.

  “I don’t doubt that. But he doesn’t have a work visa, we have no way of paying him, and we don’t even know when or if the show will happen.”

  Anger flashed in his eyes and he leapt off the couch.

  “You are always saying that we work and try and don’t give up. And now you want to give up before we start.”

  “That’s not what I said! I’m just pointing out . . .”

  “What? That it’s hard? That there are mountains to climb? My friends were raped, two girls were murdered, but this is too hard for you!”

  “You’re not being fair!”

  “Life isn’t fair!” he shouted.

  “Stop yelling at me! I’m on your side!”

  He stood in front of me, his fists clenched, his nostrils flaring.

  “Ash,” I said more calmly, “I’m just saying there’s a lot of work to do before we’re anywhere near offering Luka a job. I’m not an expert in this—I don’t know if I can pull off helping you produce this show. And I don’t want to let you down.”

  He sat heavily, his head thudding against the back of the couch.

  “How much money do we need?” he asked, his eyes closed.

  “Well,” I said, swallowing. “I’m basing it roughly on what you were paid for Broadway Revisited. If we assume 20 dancers, 12 musicians, six lighting, audio and backstage, two admin at $800 a week, say . . . and you want a month of rehearsal?”

  “Minimum.”

  “That’s $128,000—plus a couple of thousand for renting rehearsal space. My best guess, $135,000 for the first four weeks of rehearsals.”

  “Fuck!”

  “And if we assume a theater of 500 seats, $45 per head, 75% capacity—that works out at $16,875 per night. With the theater having 50% of the take and paying salaries for a three-week run . . .” I took a deep breath, wincing as I handed out the news. “We’d have to sell 10,500 tickets to break even.”

  Ash stared at me. He looked sick. “Ten thousand?”

  I nodded.

  He stood up, fisting his hair and pacing the room with long strides.

  “Ten thousand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Pizda!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!”

  Ash grabbed his coat and stormed out of the apartment.

  The truth was, we needed the best part of a quarter of a million dollars to make the show viable.

  Ash

  I strode down the street, the heat of my anger warming me, even though I could feel the wind biting at my cheeks.

  I wasn’t angry with Laney. I saw now why she’d been so worried. I was a fool—an imbecilic naïve fool. How could I not have understood all this? I’d got everyone’s hopes up for nothing.

  And then I thought of Yveta’s face—the flicker of life in her eyes when I’d talked about the show, about
taking control of our lives, taking back what had been stolen.

  Somehow, somehow I had to find the money.

  My footsteps slowed as I squinted up at the sky, but the stars were hidden under heavy clouds that promised more snow, and I could feel the weight of what I was trying to do press down on me.

  Laney

  Ash returned half an hour later, looking frozen, apologetic, and he wasn’t shouting at me anymore. But he was quiet, and I wondered what he was thinking. His face had settled into a sort of grim determination.

  “Laney, does Chicago have a mayor?”

  “Yes, why?”

  He nodded.

  “Good, then we start at the top. Can you make a list of 100 of the most influential people in Chicago: politicians, business, media, Chief of Police—everyone you can think of. We’ll contact them all.”

  I blinked, surprised by what he was suggesting. A slow smile crept across my face.

  “You’re not giving up.”

  He stared grimly. “I can’t.”

  The next two weeks were a whirlwind. The article came out and we milked it for all it was worth. Ash turned out to be a natural at schmoozing when he needed to, and soon we had TV and radio stations asking for interviews. Of course, it helped enormously that he was handsome and charismatic.

  Money was beginning to trickle in. Not from traditional routes—all those grant applications would take months to secure, and that was just filling in the reams of paperwork. No, the public was funding us directly. Our Go Fund Me account already had nearly $13,000. We had a long way to go, but we were getting there. Ash was making it happen.

  One of Angie’s colleagues agreed to donate time to prepare any contracts once we got to that stage, and Dad was setting up a press conference/photo opportunity with the Police Commissioner.

  Best of all, my local gym offered Ash, Yveta and Gary free memberships, and use of the dance studio when it wasn’t being used.

  Ash said he needed to get in shape. Believe me, I’d been checking, and his shape looked darn good to me. But the offer was a godsend and he spent a lot of hours there doing a combination of yoga, swimming and even weight lifting. That surprised me—I didn’t think dancers wanted bulky muscles.