My feet burned with agony as I struggled to stand.
“What are you doing?” hissed Mom.
But I had to. My arms and legs shook with the effort, but I stood with the rest of the audience, clapping and cheering, our applause raising the roof of this tiny theater. And I sobbed wildly, damn sure that I was ruining my makeup.
Finally, the dancers stood at the front of the stage to take their bows, chests heaving with the strain, sweat glistening on their faces, on their arms, and the biggest smiles on their faces.
And there was my Ash, my love, my husband, shining so brightly.
“I love you,” I whispered.
He saw my lips moving, and he raised his damaged hand to rest it over his heart.
I love you, too.
TORTURED, HORRIFIC, TERRIFIC
I thought I’d seen it all, seen every kind of dramatic trick to manipulate an audience’s emotions. I’ve seen real pigs eyes used during that scene in ‘King Lear’. I’ve seen a version of ‘Coriolanus’ so bloody that the front row had to be given raincoats to wear, but last night every emotion was drawn out of me willingly in the freshest, most brutally honest performance it’s been my privilege to experience.
Ash Novak’s ‘Slave—A Love Story’ was not my first choice for a night of entertainment. Ballroom dancing is full of sequins and cheesy grins, or so I thought, but this talented dancer and choreographer suspended then dissolved every crumb of disbelief, in a magical, gut-wrenching, life-altering display of brilliance.
Every step was another piece in a horrific story of modern-day slavery, human trafficking and organized crime.
If this show doesn’t break your heart, then you should see a doctor to check you still have one.
The charismatic lead never put a foot wrong, and was ably support by Sarah Lintort, Yveta Kuznets, Gary Benson and Luka Kokot.
Chicago’s must-see show. Catch it while you can because it’s going to be the hottest ticket in town.
Five months later
Laney
I JUMPED WHEN the apartment door swung open without warning.
My heart thudded in my chest as I saw Ash standing there, his suitcase at his feet, his key in his hand.
“What are you doing here?” I gasped, one arm in my coat sleeve.
“The tour finished and I caught a flight from Dallas.”
“Yes, but what are you doing here now?”
He cocked his head to one side, staring at me, puzzled.
“I came home.”
I stared back, transfixed. He looked the same, but different. The same long, lean build. The same mahogany hair and feline eyes the color of Irish whiskey. The same sharp cheekbones, the same strong, unshaven jaw. But there was a new confidence in the way he held himself, a new certainty that he was doing what he needed, and standing where he belonged.
“I was supposed to meet you at the airport.”
“You’re not happy to see me,” he said, his voice flat.
“Are you nuts?” I shrieked. “I’ve missed you so damn much!” And I threw myself at him.
Ash staggered, catching me before his back thudded against the wall. He grabbed me around the waist, his lips sucking on my neck as I tackled his belt buckle.
“We don’t have time for this,” I muttered, ripping open his shirt to expose his smooth chest, ignoring the buttons that ping-ponged across the wooden floor. “We’re having dinner with my family.”
“What sort of world is it where I don’t have time to make love with my wife?” he asked, his words finishing with a groan as I wrapped my hands around his hot, hard dick.
What kind of world is it? I didn’t have an answer for that. The world spun around us at a dizzying pace, our lives a confusing mass of moments, colored by highs and lows, joys and sorrows.
He grabbed my grasping hands, laughing with the sheer pleasure of living in this moment. And then he carried me to our bedroom.
It was rough and messy, heated, hedonistic thrusting, gasping into each other’s mouths as he pinned me to the bed and fucked me until my body shuddered with new pleasure. He trembled above me, and his eyes squeezed shut. Then with a satisfied grunt, he pulled out and rolled onto his side.
“Holy shit!”
I laughed a soft papery laugh that was part longing, part joy, part tears that threatened to fall, a pouring out of release that was too much to keep inside.
“We’ll be so late,” I whispered as his thumbs brushed tears from my eyes.
“I don’t care.”
“Me neither.”
He gave me a huge, beautiful smile that I’d missed so much, and flung himself onto his back, pulling me against his chest, his gentle hands sweeping across my shoulders.
When we made love again, I kissed every scar on his back, soothing the scars on his soul and mine.
I kissed his fluttering eyelids and watched his lips curve upward in a smile.
“I’m not doing that again,” he said, his eyes sliding open to gaze at me.
“What?!”
His chest rumbled as he laughed.
“Oh, I’m definitely doing that again,” he chuckled. “I meant I’m not touring without you.”
“Ash . . .”
“No, I mean it, Laylay. It’s not worth it. Nothing is worth being away from my sunshine.” He took a deep breath. “Selma said she wants to take the tour to Europe next year. Come with me, my love.”
“I don’t think that would . . .”
“That is your problem,” he said, tapping a long finger against my forehead. “Too much thinking. Whatever happens, we will face it together. Be with me, Laney. It’ll be the next adventure.”
I sighed. “It does sound amazing, but . . . let me think about it.”
“Sure,” he said, rolling from the bed and peeling off his ruined shirt. “But you’ll say yes in the end.”
“I don’t know if . . .”
“You’ll say yes,” he said confidently, leaning down to kiss me into silence.
When he stood up again, he was grinning at me and tucking a semi back in his pants. It was a good thing I was well this week, because his smile told me to expect little sleep tonight.
My eyes slid across his beautiful body, a little thinner than last time we’d been together. And then I saw it.
“You got a new tattoo?”
He nodded, his eyes slanting across mine.
I looked closer, studying the intricate work in ink.
It was a depiction of the sun peeking from behind a cloud, and arcing above it in flowing script was my name.
“My sunshine,” he whispered, his eyes soft.
I reached up, my arms wrapping around his neck as I stroked the soft skin, and I kissed him to say thank you—thank you for being my husband, thank you for being with me, thank you for being the love of my life. Thank you for being you.
I wondered later if our love was built in tiny, paper-thin slices, moment by moment, day by day. I asked Ash about it once, when he fell in love with me. His answer was enigmatic—typical Ash.
“When I felt my heart beat again.”
THE END
Luka
Look out for Luka’s story later on this year . . .
To Kirsten Olsen, editor, friend, confidant, chocolate aficionado.
To Trina Miciotta for her editing and unfailing support.
To Hang Le for her beautiful cover and never-ending creativity.
To Sheena Lumsden for her friendship and all her work behind the scenes.
To Neda Amini for her marketing expertise and enthusiasm for all things books.
To Alana Albertson, friend and author, who shares my love of dancing, glitter and sequins, and made sure that Ash knew his mambo from his salsa.
To Lea Jerancic who checked all things Slovenian while she was checking out Ash.
To Rhonda Koppenhaver who made sure my Chicago references were on the money.
To Dina Farndon Eidinger and Audrey Thunder—you know why ;)
To Selma Ibrahimpasic, Savanna Phillips, Lelyana Taufik, Melissa Parnell and Sarah Lintott for letting me shamelessly exploit their names.
And to Fuñny Souisa, for loving the idea of this story from the start.
Thank you Stalking Angels. You know how much you mean to me and you never let me down.
Tonya Bass Allen, Neda Amini, Jenny Angell, Lisa Clements Baker, Nicola Barton, Jen Berg, Mary Rose Bermundo, Reyna Borderbook, Sarah Bookhooked, Megan Burgad, Kelsey Burns, Gabri Canova, L.E. Chamberlain, Tera Chastain, Elle Christopher, Beverley Cindy, Paola Cortes, Nikki Costello, Emma Darch-Harris, Megan Davis, Jade Donaldson, Drizinha Dri, Mary Dunne, Dina Farndon Eidinger, Jennifer Escobar, Fátima Figueira, Kelly Findlay, Andrea Flaks, Andrea Florkowski, MJ Fryer, Raquel Gamez, Evelyn Garcia, Carly Grey, Helen Remy Grey, Nycole Griffin, Rose Hogg, Kim Howlett, Selma Ibrahimpasic, Carolin Jache, Andrea Jackson, Jayne John, Ashley Jones, Heidi Keil, Rhonda Koppenhaver, Hang Le, Wendy Lika, Sarah Lintott, Sheena Lumsden, Kathrin Magyar, Trina Marie, Susan Marshall, Sharon Kallenberger Marzola, Marie Mason, Bruninha Mazzali, Aime Metzner, Nancy Saunders Meyhoefer, Sharon Mills, Kandace Milostan, Ana Moraes, Barbara Murray, Bethany Neeper, Clare Norton, Luiza Oioli, Crystal Ordex-Hernandez, Celia Ottway, Kirsten Papi, Melissa Parnell, Ana Carina Pereira, Savanna Phillips, Cori Pitts, Vrsha Prose, Ana Kristina Rabacca, Rosarita Reader, Heather Sulzer Regina, Lisa Smith Reid, Carol Sales, Gina Sanders, Rosa Sharon, Jacqueline Showdog, Johanna Nelson Seibert, Sarah Simone, Adele Sloan, Fuñny Souisa, Erin Spencer, Dana Fiore Stusse, Lisa Sylva, Lelyana Taufik, Candy Rhyne Threatt, Audrey Thunder, Ellen Totten, Natalie Townson, Amélie White Vahlé, Tami Walker, Lily Maverick Wallis, Jo Webb, Krista Webber, Shirley Wilkinson, Emma Wynne Williams, Caroline Yamashita, Lisa G. Murray Ziegler.
And the Fanfic readers who were there from the start.
DON’T EQUATE NICENESS with weakness—this is one of my favourite sayings.
I get asked where ideas come from—they come from everywhere. From walks with my dog on the beach, from listening to conversations in pubs and shops, where I lurk unnoticed with my notebook.
And of course, I love watching ballroom dancing on TV. I tried to learn Salsa once. My partner said to me, “Stop marching and stop leading! You’re supposed to look sexy.” So I shall stick to writing about dance instead.
Don’t forget to look for bonus chapters for some books on my website and you can sign up for my news bulletin..
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Slave to the Rhythm (The Rhythm #1) Page 36