Vanessa tapped me on the shoulder.
“Laney, is that our nightclub?”
She was right. Ash had recreated the club in Las Vegas where we’d met. And he was dancing suggestively with six women, seeming to promise them everything as they tucked dollar bills in the front of his pants.
Jealousy flared hot and deep inside me.
It’s just dancing, I told myself. But it was more than that—it was Ash announcing to the world that he’d whored himself in Las Vegas—and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
I asked him once if he would have tried to get money from me.
His answer was enigmatic.
“When I dance, I lose myself in the music—it isn’t good for business.”
What could I say to that?
One of the women ripped his shirt open and I wanted to break every finger on her manicured hand.
It’s just dancing, I told myself And then the cute, poppy lyrics of Little Mix, but now with an uneasy undercurrent of sex for sale.
I could barely watch, until the artistry and sassiness of the sexy and seductive cha-cha with its Cuban breaks and vividness drew me in. It became a party, almost an orgy, as Ash danced with each of the women and all the backing dancers were on the stage, thrusting and grinding lewdly.
It was men with sleek stomachs, polished like Greek bronzes, tapered waists, strong thighs and tight asses.
It was women as voyeurs, window shopping for beautiful young men. I understood it, recognized it, but it made my blood boil when Ash’s partner looked at him with lust in her beautiful eyes. And God, it looked as though Ash felt the same.
It’s a performance, a beautiful goddamn performance.
But still, Volkov and Sergei lurked in the background, the evil puppeteers, glimpsed between the dancers so that you wondered if you’d really seen them or whether your paranoia was running overtime—and knowing that’s how it had been for Ash.
Slowly the music faded away, leaving just the jagged sound of a heartbeat as two pure white spotlights lit the stage. Sarah sat alone at a table, wearing a simple yellow dress that caught the light, the bodice glittering with tiny crystals.
She looked so vulnerable, so beautiful, and Ash stared at her, mesmerized. Another hot bolt of jealousy made me clench my fists.
A slow pulse of music started, in time with the heartbeat, and I recognized one of Ash’s favorite songs by Adele, but the lyrics were subtly altered as a man’s voice poured out his longing for a lost love.
Ash held his hand out to her, as if asking her to dance, and I gasped. That was me! Sarah was me! He’d recreated the moment that we met. This was how he saw me, how he felt when he thought of me. Tears formed in my eyes and I rubbed them away impatiently.
When the table was rolled away, revealing Sarah sitting in a wheelchair, the audience inhaled sharply.
I saw Ash’s shock. I saw the disbelief. I saw Sarah’s pain. I saw her humiliation and defeat—my humiliation and defeat.
Mom gripped my hand tightly.
But then Ash scooped her from the wheelchair, carrying her in his arms, her bare feet moving in exquisite rumba shapes, although they never touched the ground.
I was awed by the beauty of the dance, amazed at the display of physical strength as Ash carried 110 pounds of dancer in a way that appeared effortless, but I knew wasn’t.
And I finally understood why he had barred me from rehearsals. Because this was his gift to me, the dance we would never have; the first dance as it should have been but could never happen.
And this time I couldn’t hold back the tears. Every step, every look at her, every gesture he made to her, was to me. And he carried her for the entire dance.
And I forgave him for being stubborn and secretive. And I forgave him for being intense and driven. And I forgave him for shouting at me when he was stressed and tired. I forgave every time he’d closed me down or shut me out, because this was him telling me through every step, through every movement of his beautiful body, that I was loved, that I was desired, and that everything that had happened between us was real.
We were real.
When the dance ended, the audience stood on their feet and applauded. Except me, of course, because just like the night we met, I couldn’t stand on my own two feet.
The house lights came on, but the applause didn’t stop for several minutes.
All around me people were smiling and wiping their eyes; Angie’s reporter friend was scribbling furiously in his notebook.
“Oh my God!” Vanessa said, shock and awe in her voice. “That was you! That’s your story. He danced that for you! With you!”
“Yes,” I said, my voice lost and small.
Mom threw me a look of concern, then pushed my wheelchair up the slope to the tiny theater bar.
People pointed and whispered when they saw the chair, and a couple even blatantly took photographs of me. I was surprised and annoyed, but then two reporters came up to me, phones in hand, wanting impromptu interviews.
I steeled myself and smiled, answering their questions as well as I could. I was grateful when Selma arrived to help, agreeing to set up interviews with the principal dancers in the next few days.
“The reviews are going to be good, Laney,” she said once we were alone, her tone serious.
I smiled sadly at her, already knowing where she was going with this.
“There’ll be offers from theaters across the country. I’ll be able to put together a national tour.”
“I know.”
Her expression shifted.
“You’re not going to come, are you?”
I sighed and looked down.
“No. My body has been going through some changes, I know you’ve noticed. I’ve not been well . . . as well as I should be. That happens sometimes with RA. You have months, years even, of being at a plateau, and for no reason that you can think of, the meds don’t seem to hold it back anymore. My doctor wants me to try a higher dose of chemo, maybe even different drugs. And . . . I just feel I’d do better if I stayed in one place. At home.”
She nodded slowly.
“Have you told Ash?”
I shook my head.
“No, not yet. I wanted him to have this . . . tonight.”
“He’ll be devastated.”
“I know. But I’ll never be part of his world like that. It’s not possible for me. And I don’t think he can live without it.”
“Are you sure about this, Laney? Because I think it’s you he can’t live without.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, but I was saved trying to find a reply when the Mayor and his wife came to shake my hand and say how pleased they were that this ‘phenomenal work’ had premiered in Chicago. Then they had their photos taken by the Press as they stood with smiles next to the woman in the wheelchair.
The Police Commissioner came and said a few words to my mom and dad, smiled at me, and disappeared into the crowd.
There was a feverish excitement in the bar, everyone wondering how the rest of the show would play out, despite many of them having read about Ash’s story in the newspapers.
“Did that really happen?” asked Vanessa avidly. “Did that Sergei guy really drink a woman’s blood?”
I shivered at the mention of his name, and Jo elbowed her in the ribs.
“What?” Then she looked at me. “Oh, sorry.”
“I think it’s a metaphor,” I said, my voice tight. At least I hoped it was.
My cousin Paddy strolled across, casting an appreciative eye over my friends.
“Some show,” he said thoughtfully, handing me a glass of whiskey.
“What do you think of it?”
“Totally fucked up,” he grinned, “but the dancing is fuck hot. Nice one, cuz,” and he sauntered away, winking at Vanessa.
“Is he . . . ?”
“Off limits,” I said, as she pouted at me.
Jo laughed.
“Trust me. Paddy has slept with half of Chicago, an
d the other half is in his contacts list. Don’t even think about it.”
I groaned as I saw the light of challenge in Vanessa’s eyes. Oh well, she’d been warned.
As everyone settled into their seats for the second half, my nerves were wearing a permanent groove. I felt the show was good; it seemed people were enjoying it. But my objectivity was long gone, so I couldn’t be sure.
I had to smile when the stage burst to life in a blaze of color and light as the pulsing, happy beats of Viva Las Vegas erupted from the orchestra pit.
Ash swaggered onto the stage, dressed all in black, although sequins on his shirt caught the light and I think someone had dusted his chest with glittery powder. He was doing some sexy shimmy thing, followed by samba rolls, his crotch pressing into Yveta’s ass. I winced, finding it hard to watch my husband getting so up close and personal with another woman, especially since I knew he’d slept with her before we’d met. I saw the way she watched him when she thought no one was looking and she totally ignored me.
Sergei and Volkov were haunting the stage again, and wherever they went, blood red spotlights followed them. There was something macabre about the way they moved, prowling, gliding—the ghosts at the feast.
I gasped when they suddenly descended on Ash, gripping his arms and tearing him out of the chorus lineup. None of the other dancers noticed and I wanted to scream at them to look, even though I knew it wasn’t real.
While the dancers quickstepped in the background to Tu Vuo Fa L’Americano, their smiles transformed to clowns’ grimaces, bathed in a ghoulish green light, Volkov dragged Ash across the floor in a parody of a Paso step.
Two of the backing dancers ran onto the stage, holding Ash’s arms. Then Volkov ripped the shirt from Ash’s back, and Sergei tore the pants, waist to ankle.
Ash stood with his back to the audience, seeming completely naked, although I knew, of course, that he’d be wearing an almost invisible dance belt.
Even so, seeing my husband stripped naked on a stage was horrible to watch. And when Volkov handed Sergei a whip, I couldn’t look. Horrified gasps cut through the horribly upbeat music and I could hear the special effects sound of a whip cracking through the air as Sergei appeared to laugh, his free hand clamped over his own dick.
Behind me, I heard Vanessa swear as Ash collapsed to the floor.
The music died softly, and he was left in a pool of light, alone, beaten and naked—just the way I’d seen him that awful, terrible night. I clamped my hand over my mouth as tears burned my eyes.
For a heartbeat, there was silence, and then a sound like a soft breeze filled the small theater, and from up above, Sarah descended like an angel, still dressed in yellow, the light creating a halo around her.
As she reached the stage, the lights went out and a sudden thunderclap made everyone jump.
Yveta and Gary were dragged center stage while Volkov and Sergei waltzed together, an obscene duet to Seal’s haunting lyrics Kiss from a Rose.
I was his light in the darkness?
I watched between my fingers as they were repeatedly brutalized by a gang of backing dancers dressed as bikers. It was horrific, grotesque, and the moment that Yveta was slashed with a knife was almost unwatchable. And, against that ghastly backdrop, Ash waltzed onto the stage with Sarah in his arms, spinning round and around, a sweet, loving Viennese waltz. Ash was dressed in jeans and a loose white shirt, while Sarah was still in the yellow dress.
I felt a little sick. Was our love really at the cost of his friends? Or maybe that was how Ash felt about it. I didn’t know, but I wanted it to stop.
It didn’t. It went on and on, until Gary and Yveta were dragged away, bloodied and beaten. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who felt a huge sense of relief that I didn’t have to watch their torture any longer, strongly laced with guilt at preferring not to see the truth.
It was too hard to watch.
The strains of a violin filtered softly through the air and I held my breath, wondering what was coming next.
Then I suddenly remembered what Sarah’s costume reminded me of—the yellow sundress that I got married in.
A shiver went through me. And then I recognized the song: With You I’m Born Again.
And it was her softness, his gentlenesss . . .
Ash placed her on a chair, then swept onto the floor alone. Slowly, her legs appearing to tremble, Sarah stood. And then she began to dance, echoing his steps until they were moving together in the most achingly beautiful waltz I had ever seen. I’d never known this side of Ash, never realized just how his dancing was so full of passion, of deep emotion. He said he’d felt numb for so long, but he was wrong. It was all there, a deep well of emotion that only dancing brought out. Dancing and, I hoped, me.
Tears trickled from my eyes, imagining for just a second what it would be like to dance with him like that, to be swept away, to float, to glide, to caress his skin, to move with him through the music, the music that enslaved him. Music was in his heart and in his soul, and in that moment, I knew I had to set him free.
This show was going to be a huge success. I’d hoped for it, wanted it, but I’d been afraid to believe it. But now I felt it, knew it in my bones. The two weeks in this small theater was not the end, but just the beginning. I had no doubt that offers would flood in. And when they did, I had to let him do the tour. Without me.
And I had comforted him through the madness . . .
I’d helped him and held him, and for the briefest of moments we’d held each other, but now, like a wild creature, I needed to let him go. And pray he’d come back to me. And tears trickled down my cheeks, because I was losing him, if he’d ever been mine at all, and it was the right thing to do, even if my heart was breaking.
With you I am reborn . . .
And I cried, because it was true. Ash had made me brave and strong. In his arms, I could face anything—anything except the day he left me.
I was exhausted, emotionally wrung out, but it wasn’t over yet.
Volkov and Sergei prowled onto the stage, hunting the two dancers who were spinning through the light, so in love they were blind to the danger surrounding them.
The music morphed into the harsh chords of El Tango De Roxanne, and the two loathsome beasts performed a breathtaking and disturbing Argentine tango, cheek to cheek. Sergei/Oliver, performing the most extraordinary assisted jumps in Volkov’s/ Luka’s arms. Then the enganche: hooking, coupling, as the men took turns being the ‘follower’ wrapping their leg around the other, the ‘leader’ displacing the feet from inside.
Ash told me once that the Argentine tango had been a dance for men. The gauchos riding off the range, a dance of immigrants from the poor barrios, all needing a way to impress the few women they met. That’s what he said.
“Jealousy!” yelled Volkov, and gripped Ash’s hair, forcing him to his knees.
“Lust!” yelled Sergei, pulling out a gun and pointing it first at Volkov and then at Ash.
As Volkov slowly prowled away, disappearing into the shadows, I saw the gun in Sergei’s hand, almost falling out of my wheelchair as the gunshot echoed across the stage, as he casually shot Sarah.
She collapsed to the ground, in a pool of yellow satin.
Mom’s nails dug into my arm and she whispered something, but I couldn’t reply, my voice strangled into silence.
The fight, the gun battle in a theater not unlike this one, was brutally painful to watch. It was a duet, it was a duel, and when Ash finally seized the gun and pushed into Sergei’s face, his own twisted with hatred, I couldn’t help letting out a hoarse cry.
Someone in the audience screamed, and I cringed. Mom gripped my hand even more tightly.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “You’re safe here.”
Another gunshot cracked out and the music died away in a crash of discordant noise. Then lights and sirens and shouts filled the theater as the backing dancers were transformed into police officers.
Ash picked up Sarah from the
floor, cradling her to his chest, the noise and chaos swirling around them.
She ‘woke’, if that’s the right word, and the eerie, sudden silence made me feel as if I’d gone deaf.
A full moon lit the stage.
A beautiful, magical moondance
It was a foxtrot American Smooth, danced with every bit of astonishing grace and flair, so lyrical, so touching. And so uncomfortable to watch Ash making love to someone else, no matter how beautiful the dance.
But then something unexpected happened. He pulled a small box out of his pocket, a ring box. But instead of offering it to Sarah, he walked to the front of the stage and jumped off.
The music died away, and from the way all the dancers gathered onto the stage, grins on their faces and barely suppressed excitement, I knew they’d been expecting this.
Voices hushed as Ash walked toward me, the ring box in his hand.
He stood in front of me, then slowly sank to one knee.
“Laney, you are my sunshine, moj sonček. I loved you before I knew it. And although you are my wife, today I kneel before you and ask you to take me as your husband forever, in this life and in the next. Never leave me again, my love. Be with me always.”
He opened the box, presenting me with an engagement ring, a stunning yellow diamond that matched the little sundress I’d married him in.
I held out my hand, a glazed expression on my face.
“You shine so brightly,” I whispered.
“You’re the one who shines, moj sonček.”
I laughed quietly. “At least I know what that means now. Sneak.”
Ash smiled his beautiful smile, and slipped the ring onto my finger, then leaned forward to give me a searing kiss that broke a hundred hearts, including my own.
“You made me very proud last night,” I said, cupping his cheeks with my hands. “Don’t stop. Dance like the world is watching.”
Mom coughed, and when I glanced at her, she was wiping her eyes.
Ash stood up straight, grinned and winked, then vaulted back onto the stage as the band broke into Beyoncé’s Crazy, and the maddest, wildest, craziest, most over the top and life-affirming cha-cha that I’d ever seen. The entire cast was on the stage, giving it their all, saying that life goes on that love goes on and that evil will never win.
Slave to the Rhythm (The Rhythm #1) Page 35