Sasha: Book Two

by Tonya Plank

  My back was against the mirror and she placed a palm on either side of me, onto the glass. She arched back and lifted her chin. I took advantage of the position to lick the sweet hollow of her neck.

  As much as I relished being inside her soft wetness, my ass pounding into the wood of the barre was not ideal. I moved forward off it, lifting her completely off the floor.

  “Muscle power!” she giggled.

  “You’re a feather, Rory. But yes, I am very strrrong,” I said, flashing my wicked grin. I walked forward, still carrying her. She wrapped her legs around my waist and her arms around my back more tightly as I carried her all the way across the floor and up the winding staircase to the bedroom.

  Chapter Nine

  Blackpool time was here in a flash. Rory was full of nervous excitement the day of our flight. I splurged on a nice UberLUX to LAX to calm her down a bit. We sipped chardonnay and I caressed her now perfect knee and kissed her cheek as we wended down through Beverly Hills onto La Cienega Boulevard. When we checked our baggage and the extra luggage weight—due to the heaviness of the stone-ridden costumes—cost an additional two hundred dollars, Rory gasped. I had to keep reminding her it was all okay, it was all paid for. And this was all normal. Everyone’s luggage cost a ton for the costumes and shoes alone. She obviously grew up without a lot of money, like I did.

  After we checked in for our flight, I recommended we get shoulder and back massages from the terminal’s salon before the long flights ahead. We’d be in business class but I was such an active person I still found it hard on my back to sit or lie down for long periods of time. Rory had never taken a flight over five hours, so she didn’t know what to expect. And she’d never been abroad. Even showing her new passport to the check-in agent filled her with glee. She was the sweetest thing. Just watching her eyes full of wonder filled me with happiness. I was thrilled to show her the world. The world as I knew it, anyway.

  She’d never taken business class before and delighted in the expanded leg and elbow room, and the way the seats reclined to almost lying position. And that they gave us unlimited cocktails. I ordered a scotch for myself and another chardonnay for her.

  “It’s eleven in the morning and this is already my second!” she squealed.

  “It’ll relax you,” I said with a kiss to her cheek.

  Rory was equally thrilled with the expanded entertainment system. We were set up to watch “Dark Knight Rises” but she ended up spending the flight to New York peering outside at the passing clouds.

  Despite the squeals and the giggles, I could tell she was anxious about what was to come. “There’s no point in stressing out now, sweet,” I said. “Everything’s in our muscle memory. It is what it is in terms of how the judges will like it. We can’t control that any more. Stressing out now will only give us the potential to screw up.”

  She nodded, sobering. “I know.”

  “What are you thinking?” I asked her after the movie ended and she was still gazing outside.

  “What all is down there. The farms, the plains, the mountain ranges, the cities, the lakes, just everything. I’ve only flown cross-country twice. Well, between California and North Carolina. And it’s been a while.”

  It had been a long time since I’d seen the world with those eyes. I missed it, in a way. I rubbed my thumb on the inside of her thigh, and she giggled softly, still lost in her thoughts.

  After we landed at JFK for our connecting flight and were settled in the lounge, her eyes began to fill with tears as she stared down at the bubbles of her glass of champagne. There was so much going on behind those eyes that I couldn’t decipher and it was killing me. One minute she was giddy, the next nervous, then pensive, and sometimes sad.

  “Oh sweet, another penny for your thoughts,” I said, trying to amuse her with another of my “Americanisms” that she so loved.

  But she didn’t laugh. She’d finally gotten used to me, apparently. “It’s just weird being back here. I mean, I wish we had time to go to Lincoln Center and catch a New York City Ballet performance. It would be nice to see how the area’s changed, or stayed the same, since my try-out for the summer intensive.”

  I’d been so wrapped up in the drama with my family and the stress of Blackpool, I’d totally forgotten how she’d almost become a student at the School of American Ballet, before her father passed and her life changed. Of course she was going through a lot right now. It probably brought back a cornucopia of memories, both good and bittersweet. “I’m so sorry. I forgot about your experiences here. I should have arranged for a longer stay-over,” I said.

  “I didn’t think of it either,” she said. “I didn’t feel this until now that I’m here. I mean, I’m just thinking how much life can change. Twelve years ago I came here with the intention of becoming a ballerina. It didn’t work out and I was heartbroken. And now here I am with a law degree and an entirely different dance dream. Not to mention”—now she giggled—“a gorgeous Russian boyfriend and professional dance partner!”

  I kissed her long and soft. “We’ll come back and explore together. I was here for a year as well. You can show me your old places, and I’ll show you mine.”

  “I’d like that,” she whispered.

  Once we were on the plane, Rory was all squeals and giggles. For dinner, she ordered Shepherd’s pie with Caesar salad and chocolate mousse for dessert. And yet more chardonnay. I started to worry she’d get a headache. But I had aspirin. She’d be okay.

  “I’m a bit drunk already but screw it. It’s my first flight abroad!”

  After dinner, I reclined and dozed off, still holding Rory’s hand. When I woke up hours later, she was looking out the window, now more excited than sad and pensive. I looked over her shoulder. We were still over Ireland. She couldn’t have seen much but clouds. I knew she hadn’t slept. Good thing I’d scheduled us to arrive a day early. She’d need it to catch up on rest and adjust to the time difference.

  The flight attendants soon came by with another meal—English breakfast. She gobbled it right up, delighting in every flavor, though the meal was loaded with lard: sausage pudding, fried bread, fried tomato, beans. I was glad to see her enjoying food so, without even thinking about it.

  We had to go through separate lines at customs since I still had a Russian passport and she an American one. I hoped to hold an American one someday. Someday soon.

  “It’s weird being separated on our way from and to the same place,” she remarked. We kissed and hugged goodbye like we wouldn’t be seeing each other again for a long time.

  “I’ll see you on the other side,” I said with a faux sinister tone before planting a long, solid kiss on her lips and dipping her dramatically. She lifted one leg up high, pointing her toe, giggling. People looked at us like the crazed in-love paramours that we were. Let them look! I was so over my PDA-phobia.

  It took forever for her to get through the non-European line, there were so many Americans. I waited outside for her for nearly an hour.

  “I was worried they suspected you of being a terrorist, and put you through the third degree,” I said when I finally saw her approaching.

  “Do I look like a terrorist?” she said, play-slugging me in the arm.

  “Sure, why not? Yellow-blonde hair, big jade doe eyes, soft, milky skin, good enough to drink. Mmmm,” I said, licking her neck.

  “Uh huh. Still waiting for the terrorist part?” She laughed.

  “Oh yes. Well, terrorists come in all shapes and sizes, no? Wasn’t there an American newspaper heiress who was perhaps a terrorist? Something like that?” I wore a cocked smile to let her know I was kind of serious, but not completely.

  “I don’t know if terrorist is the right word for her, but Patty Hearst,” she said. Just as she said the name, she suddenly sobered, as if she’d seen something, or remembered something.

  “What’s wrong?” I said, pulling back to look at her while cupping her chin in my hand.

  “Nothing,” she said flatly. It was cl
ear she was trying to cover something up.

  “No, seriously. You suddenly are upset by something. Please tell me.”

  “No. I’m just feeling a little upset stomach over all that I ate on the plane,” she insisted.

  I decided I’d let her off the hook. If she wanted to talk about it later, she would. I wasn’t one to make anyone talk about something they didn’t want to talk about. And after my silence regarding what had happened, I’d be a huge hypocrite if I was. “It will wear off. If it doesn’t we will get something at the pharmacy,” I said, kissing her forehead.

  ***

  We passed the train station connected to the airport on our way to the taxi stand. The station’s Blackpool-bound platform was filled to capacity with competitors, also making their trek to the mecca of the ballroom world, also pulling heavy luggage. I didn’t see anyone I knew personally, but many of them looked at me and smiled in recognition, then looked away. I smiled and nodded in return.

  When we arrived at the taxi stand, Rory had another fit of giggles. I was glad she was over her blue funk. I looked at her, eyebrows raised.

  “These are for real? I always assumed these old-style cars were only used in movies, and that English taxis were yellow and newer, like the ones in New York.”

  “Nope, this is England. These are for real,” I said, and kissed her cheek. It was quite impossible not to kiss her after every sweet, wonder-filled thing she said.

  I spotted a man holding up a large sign that read “Zakharov.” I led Rory toward him. As he took our bags, I opened the back door for her. She giggled again when she got in. I was just about to lean in for another kiss when I realized there were a plethora of cell phones aimed at us. I stood back and smiled out at the crowd. But they startled Rory. I heard her audibly gasp inside the car.

  “It’s okay,” I said, patting her arm as chattering erupted from the opposite side of the taxi line.

  “That’s her. His new partner!”

  “Who is she?”

  “I don’t know!” said the voices.

  “Oh, I keep forgetting you’re a star,” she said.

  “You’ll get used to it,” I said.

  “Sasha! Obnoxious a bit!”

  I laughed. Not really. Just realistic. “I’m serious. Next year, everyone will be saying, ‘Look, there’s Rory Laudner! Quick, take a picture! Who’s that guy she’s with?’”

  “Stop!” She laughed.

  Of course she didn’t take her eyes off the passing landscape through the window for the entire forty-five minute ride from Manchester to Blackpool. I put my arm around her and closed my eyes, resting my chin in the crook of her neck. “Mmmm, try to get some sleep at some point, love.”

  “Are you kidding? This is fascinating!”

  I laughed as I looked out the window at the rolling hills, the grazing cows, sheep, a few horses.

  “You don’t have horses and cows and green fields anywhere in America? Well, maybe not Los Angeles. But not in North Carolina?”

  “Not English cows and horses and green fields! Look at those gray buildings!” she squealed, bouncing in her seat, when we came to a town center. She pointed at them as if they were the Eiffel Tower. “It’s like something straight out of Dickens! Look at the cobblestoned streets!” She took her cell phone out of her bag and snapped at everything. “Look, a sign for Liverpool! That’s where the Beatles are from!”

  Her excitement was contagious. When we arrived in Blackpool, I felt like I was seeing it anew myself. The little seaside city, with its winding, narrow brick roads lined with pubs, fish and chip places, Indian restaurants, billboards and double-decker buses bearing advertisements on their sides for casinos, its boardwalk and, off in the distance, its little theme park with its Ferris wheel, did have its charm.

  “The beach looks beautiful,” she said. “Too bad it’s so chilly.”

  “This weekend’s a bank holiday here. You’d be surprised how many people go out there,” I said.

  “Mmmm, I dunno. I’m used to California weather.”

  “Me too,” I said proudly. “That’s it. That’s where the competition will be held,” I said as we wended around the large round civic-center-type building that was the Winter Gardens. I was holding her hand, and I could feel her heart pulsing.

  We continued circling around the rotunda, turned off, and took another smaller street bearing a series of small hotels, including ours. Again, she giggled.

  I looked at her.

  “That one’s called the Ruskin Hotel. Just brings back memories of college English classes!”

  I was embarrassed to say I knew nothing of Ruskin. A writer I’d definitely have to look up. But I was delighted she was so delighted with England.

  The check-in line at our hotel extended out the lobby and practically outside, making me kick myself for not having arrived a day earlier. The second we entered, all eyes were on us. As I expected. What I didn’t expect was that Rory would be so overwhelmed with the attention.

  “Hey, Sasha, hey man, how are you?”

  “Sasha!”

  “Oh my God, look!”

  “Where’s Xenia? Are you competing? Is she competing?”

  We were suddenly surrounded by so many people, I couldn’t respond to everyone fast enough. Many were friends and fellow dancers from Russia, who I saw two or three times a year, at this competition, the Worlds, and sometimes another large one in Germany or Austria, if I chose to do those. Some were fellow top-tier competitors who I saw at the show dance performances.

  “Sergei, I’m good, how’s it going?” I said, in Russian to a friend from the Ukraine.

  “Xenia and I broke up. I have a new partner—” I said in answer to Yulia, his girlfriend. Before I could introduce her, I saw an old, familiar face, my good buddy, Valentin.

  “Sasha!”

  “Hey, man!” We hugged and gave each other solid back pats. Val was a good friend from St. Petersburg whom I’d met at my first Blackpool with Micaela. He was a friend of hers and a champion standard ballroom dancer. We’d become better friends when we both lived in New York and taught at the same small studio. We had our first experiences at Blackpool, and then in America together. He now divided his time between New York and Russia and danced for Russia, but we’d remained friends. I felt badly for having been so horrible about keeping up with people in the months between competitions and show dance performances. I’d been a shit friend. But we were all busy. I wanted to talk more with him but there was a sea of arms swinging about my head.

  “You’re just arriving. I’ll let you check in.” He laughed. “We will definitely catch up later.”

  “Absolutely,” I said. I turned to introduce him to Rory, but I felt another slap on my back coming from the other direction, and when I turned to look for Valentin, he’d already gone.

  “How are you? What happened with Xenia?” a woman I recognized but couldn’t place asked me.

  “Ah, we broke up. This is my new partn—”

  But I couldn’t answer everyone simultaneously. There were so many slaps to my back and shoulder, I knew I’d be bruised if this continued. I realized all the cacophony was exacerbated by the fact that I was with a new woman. Everyone was confused and intrigued.

  Then I heard people speaking Japanese. A group of Japanese men and women, all wearing Taka jackets—the main Japanese sponsor—were fast approaching, waving about Blackpool programs and taking pens out of pockets. They were going to ask for my autograph. I definitely wasn’t opposed to signing, but I didn’t want Rory to get overwhelmed. Hell, I was overwhelmed enough for both of us.

  “Hello, I am Max, from New York,” I heard a familiar voice say. I turned to see an old friend from Russia via New York introducing himself to Rory, in broken English. She smiled nervously at him, but I could tell she was very freaked out by all the hands and arms being thrust about, now her way as well as mine.

  “Yes, Rory, this is my friend, Max. He teaches in New York.” Max was a nice guy but more than a bi
t of a horndog when it came to women. I’d have to make it clear she was mine.

  Max wore a wolfish grin, and asked me in Russian who she was. I told him she was my new partner, and cut him off before he was able to ask, with raised eyebrows, what kind of partner.

  As I heard the Japanese voices now at my side, I said to him, “Yes, girlfriend.” I’d meant to whisper but in my haste, it came out rather loudly. At least I’d spoken in Russian. But everyone had heard my answer, and they all—at least the Russians—ooohed and aaahed, and turned to gawk at Rory. Poor girl. She’d never had this much attention all at once before. I couldn’t tell how she felt about it, if it would be good or bad for her still recovering self-image issues, and I didn’t have much time to ponder it now because the autograph requests began, big time.

  “Excuse me, excuse me,” the head of the Japanese team said as another tugged on the bottom of my jacket, handing me a program to sign.

  I graciously smiled and nodded, as per my usual, taking the booklet and the pen the man was holding. I opened it to the first page and signed my name. The group then formed a line—in a very organized manner; they were definitely a formation team—and, one by one, handed me their booklets to autograph. Before I knew it, another group had headed over. This one was composed of people of different nationalities. They clearly weren’t a team and weren’t organized. Nor did they all have booklets, and many were handing me paraphernalia: a ticket to today’s pre-comp competition for qualifiers; a greasy receipt from the fish and chips shop next door. And then suddenly everyone had a pamphlet showcasing the hotel we were in. It was turning into a mad romp, and I found all manner of items thrust in my face. This was fairly normal, but every year I seemed to forget how crazy it could get.