Dance with Me

by Alexis Daria

  Everything would be perfect. Steady. Stable. Secure.

  What else could a man ask for?

  36

  “You’re up early.”

  Natasha lifted her head at Dimitri’s sleepy grumble. He entered the kitchen and ambled over to where she sat at the counter with her laptop.

  “Morning.” She lifted her cheek. He kissed her, then sniffed the air.

  “I made you some.” She pointed to the café con leche by the sink. “I’m still in the habit of getting up at the crack of dawn to teach yoga to people who are about to undo all that relaxation during their work day.”

  He grunted and, after examining the elaborate swan she’d made on top, took a sip. Breathing a deep sigh, he opened his eyes fully and gestured at the crutches leaning against the counter. “How’s your ankle?”

  “A little achy,” she admitted. “I think I overdid it yesterday.”

  He scowled. “And you were thinking about going back to work tomorrow?”

  She sighed and rested her chin on her fist. “I need to work so I can find a place to live before The Dance Off starts filming.”

  His scowl deepened. “You can live here.”

  “You know I can’t.” She sipped from her own cup.

  He came up behind her. “What are you doing?”

  “Looking at apartments.” She scrolled through more listings she couldn’t afford the security deposit on.

  He made a frustrated sound in his throat. “Let me ask you something.”

  “Shoot.” She clicked on a studio apartment that claimed to be near Santa Monica.

  “If Gina’s such a good friend, why did she leave you in the lurch? With your rent, I mean.”

  “Oh, she tried to pay through the end of the lease. I told her not to.”

  His cup clicked on its saucer. “Well, that wasn’t too smart.”

  She turned and shot him a glare. “Excuse me?”

  “It wasn’t. How were you planning to cover the entire rent on your own?”

  “I had money when she left, and an acting gig lined up for the beginning of the summer.”

  He leaned his elbows on the counter next to her, getting in her space. “So, where did all the money go?”

  She cringed away from him. “I was trying to be a responsible adult and fix my credit, so I paid all my credit cards down at the end of the season and closed them.”

  “You closed them?” He looked incredulous. “Why?”

  “So I wouldn’t be tempted and end up back in debt.”

  He shook his head like he couldn’t believe what she was saying. “Tasha, I know how much money you make. How were you in debt?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.” She turned back to the computer, but his questions, and the prospect of not being able to afford any of the apartments she was looking at, made her stomach burn. “I like to go shopping. That’s what credit cards are for, right? Buy now, pay it off later. So, I paid them all off. But I wasn’t expecting my car to die. Or Gina to move. The acting job covered the car, but it cleaned me out. That’s why I ended up taking all these extra jobs—for the rent. I just never thought I’d have to move out, too.”

  He exhaled slowly, then dropped a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m trying not to be pushy, but I strongly suggest we have a conversation about building good credit and savings. I have a good financial adviser who can help. I know it sounds like a lot at first, but if I could learn it, so can you. Is that agreeable?”

  Swallowing hard, Natasha kept her gaze on the screen and struggled to regulate her breathing. Thinking about managing money made her hyperventilate, which was why she didn’t think about it much. “Why are you so fixated on this?”

  “Because I’m worried about you.”

  At those words, she turned to look at him. He didn’t seem angry or judgmental. Just concerned.

  “If you don’t address it, you’re going to end up back in the same situation again the next time something unexpected happens. And your solution to work so hard you run yourself into the ground isn’t a healthy one. Please, Tasha. I care about you. Let me help.”

  His plea touched her heart, but didn’t dispel the fear. She shook her head. “I can’t afford to speak to your adviser.”

  “Let me worry about that. I pay him so much, he’ll talk to anyone I ask him to. Will you do it? Just start with a conversation. That’s all. He’s good at answering questions.”

  When was the last time someone had cared about her this much? Enough to not just help her do something, but to make sure she had the skills to do it again on her own?

  She opened a new browser tab and checked her dismal bank account balance. Maybe he was right. “That still doesn’t solve the immediate problem.”

  “Look, I know it’s easy to focus on the immediate when you’re in survival mode, but I want to help you manage your money for the long term. Don’t worry about an apartment for right now. No one knows you’re here, and I’m not going to kick you out.”

  She counted on her fingers. “Kevin and Lori know. Nik knows. Gina and my mom know. Hell, your mom probably knows. I’m sure your brother told her.”

  “He did.” His phone buzzed in the pocket of his sweatpants, and he pulled it out to check the screen. “I gotta run to the airport to pick up my cousin. Don’t worry, he’s staying in a hotel.” He pressed his lips to hers for a quick, coffee-flavored kiss. “Just chill, all right? I’ll be back soon, and we’ll figure it out.”

  He sounded so confident. And all the apartment hunting was stressing her out. She minimized the tabs with apartment listings. “Fine. Go get ready.”

  Twenty minutes later, he rushed back into the kitchen and rummaged in the pantry.

  “What are you doing now?” he asked, emerging with a handful of protein bars.

  “Working on my reel.”

  He paused by her shoulder on his way out. “You’re good at making videos and stuff, huh?”

  “Yeah, I bought the editing programs and taught myself. Sometimes I post stuff on YouTube—dancing to popular songs, stuff like that.”

  He grinned. “I’ll have to check them out.” He kissed her again, this time with a flash of tongue and the taste of wintergreen toothpaste, then was gone.

  She continued scanning through a few of the videos she’d made recently, including the one where she’d rolled around in Dimitri’s desk chair. That one made her smile, and she started thinking about dancing in rolling chairs, or wheelchairs. The choreography would be a challenge, but if done well . . .

  And that was an idea for another time. She made a note of it, then went back to her existing videos. She ran through the piece she’d changed the music in, making notes of what she could tweak. It was really coming together, and she was anxious for her ankle to heal so she could try it out. Maybe she could get Dimitri to dance parts of it, so she could see how it looked.

  He would do it, if she asked. She was starting to think he’d do anything, simply because she wanted it. That knowledge both thrilled and terrified her. Her whole life, she’d grown accustomed to not asking for things. Living with a single mother and two seniors, money had been tight. She’d learned early that the toys she’d seen on TV weren’t things she could have, just like she would never have supportive, loving parents like the ones on her favorite sitcom. She’d been following Gina since they were fourteen, not just because they were friends, but because Gina had done the work to include Natasha in everything she did, from auditions, to college applications, to managing their apartment in Los Angeles.

  Ay dios. Gina was the most amazing friend anyone could ever hope for. And Natasha had been too scared to call her.

  What could she say, though? Hi Gina. Yeah, I’ve been doing really great since you left. I’m broke, injured, living with the guy I told you I wasn’t going to see anymore—oh, and I used to be an exotic dancer. How about you?

  That would go over brilliantly, and Gina would have a million questions about Dimitri. No easy answers there, either. He said
he loved her, and she was starting to believe him. But what did it matter, if loving him cost her everything—her job, her independence, her ability to prove to her mother that she was good enough?

  The doorbell rang, interrupting her troubling thoughts.

  Natasha yanked off her headphones and grabbed the crutches. It was going to take her three times as long to get to the front door with these things.

  On the way, the rubber bottom on one of the crutches got caught on a throw rug, and she nearly knocked over a lamp. Whatever was being delivered better be worth the trouble. Cursing under her breath, she hobbled over to the door and wrenched it open.

  Her heart leaped into her throat and she gasped.

  ¡Carajo! ¡Coño! ¡Puñeta!

  La Diabla stood on the front steps, flashing her signature smile, thin and evil. “Morning, Natasha.”

  Natasha swallowed. “Hi, Donna.”

  Fucking Donna.

  37

  There was a surprising lack of traffic around LAX that morning, and Dimitri made good time. Alex texted that there was a problem with the luggage carousel, so Dimitri parked in the lot. While he waited, he pulled up Natasha’s YouTube videos on his phone.

  Her face appeared on the screen, full makeup but with her hair pulled back into a tight ballerina bun. Her image waved and grinned. “Hey everyone. Thanks for all the likes on the last video. ¡Los quiero mucho!” She blew kisses at the camera and introduced the song she was about to dance to.

  Dimitri couldn’t hold back his smile. She was too adorable, too beautiful . . . and holy shit, too talented. His smile faded as he watched her dance.

  He’d seen her dance before, of course. Countless times. But it was always to someone else’s choreography—including his own—or her own routine danced with an unskilled partner.

  This was something else. Her classical ballet training was evident in her strength and the lines of her body, the way she completed each movement. She incorporated moves from other dance styles seamlessly, in a way that fit the music and the story being told. When a text message popped up on the screen over the video, he cursed and swiped it away. But it was from Alex, so he switched apps to check it.

  In the parking lot, he wrote back. Come find me.

  Alex knew what the Porsche looked like. Dimitri went back to the video. As soon as it was over, he watched the next. He was on the fourth when Alex knocked on the car window.

  Dimitri popped the trunk, and finished watching the video—danced to a sexy R&B song—while Alex tossed his suitcase inside. When his cousin slid into the passenger seat wearing a scowl very much like the one Dimitri often sported, Dimitri picked up the second coffee from the cup holder and passed it to him.

  Alex gulped down half the cup before speaking. “So, you finally pulled that stick out of your ass and decided this was a good idea?”

  “Posmotri na eto.” Dimitri switched to Russian and thrust the phone at him. “Look at this choreography.”

  With a sigh, Alex took the phone and sipped his coffee while he watched. Dimitri leaned in to watch it again. When it was over, Alex passed the phone back.

  “So?”

  “So?” Dimitri shook the phone at him. “She’s amazing. She’s even better than I am.”

  Alex raised an eyebrow. “Is that the woman who’s living with you?” He glanced back at the phone. “She looks familiar. Is that Natasha Díaz, from your TV show?”

  “How do you know she’s living with me?”

  Alex rolled his eyes. “You just answered my question, and now I know why you were ignoring my messages. Your mother told mine that Nik said you’re living with a woman, but he wouldn’t say who she was.” He tipped his cup toward the phone. “Now I know. She’s one of the dancers from your show. Isn’t that a conflict of interest, since you’re a judge?”

  “Shut up.” Dimitri started the car. “I got you a room at a hotel.”

  Alex snickered. “Don’t want to intrude on your little love nest.”

  Why did everyone keep calling it that? “Did you fly all the way across the country to make fun of me or to talk about producing a show?”

  Alex rubbed his eyes. “You’re right. I’m a little punchy. Didn’t sleep much last night.”

  “I’ll drop you off at the hotel. Drink some more coffee, take a shower, whatever. Then take a taxi to the restaurant. The staff arrives early. I’ll meet you there and we’ll talk about the pitch.”

  Alex yawned. “Why not now?”

  “I forgot the notes.”

  “When are you going to start doing this digitally?”

  Dimitri shrugged. “I think better on paper. Easier to sketch out my ideas.”

  “You know you can draw on computers now.”

  “I know. I have one that does it. Not the same, though.”

  “Fine.” Alex pushed the seat back into a reclining position and popped on his sunglasses. “So, tell me what’s going on with Natasha.”

  And because it was Alex, and Alex was practically his brother, Dimitri told him. Everything. There was an accident on the freeway, so they had a lot of time.

  By the time they pulled up to the hotel, Alex was rubbing his forehead.

  “Hold on, hold on. Let me get this straight.” They’d switched back to English. “You’ve been messing around with Natasha—and other women—for three years, when what you really wanted this whole time was her?”

  Put it like that, and it sounded terrible. “Yeah.”

  “Because you were too chickenshit to tell her you wanted to—what? Be her boyfriend?”

  Scowling, Dimitri parked in the drop-off lot. “I guess. Yeah. She was dating other people, too.”

  “And now, because you work together, you have to keep it quiet that she’s living with you, and she’s still trying to move out.”

  “Correct.”

  “Have you even told her how you feel?”

  “I said I love her and she didn’t believe me!”

  “Well, shit. I wouldn’t believe you either.” Alex squinted at him. “How exactly did you tell her?”

  Dimitri rubbed a hand over his face. “That’s private.”

  Hooting with laughter, Alex smacked his arm. “That means you fucked it up. Come on, tell me. Please. I flew all this way and you’ve made me listen to this whole stupid story for the last forty-five minutes.”

  “I’m not telling you.”

  “Fine. Don’t tell me. But take it from someone who’s married—words are shit. You’ve got to back it up with action.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Action she sees as loving, not your weirdo version of it.” With those parting words, Alex climbed out the car. “Pop the trunk, jackass.”

  38

  Donna raised her thin eyebrows. “Can I come in?”

  Pendeja. Natasha’s fingers clenched on the doorknob, itching to slam it in Donna’s smug face. But Abuela had taught her better than that. Without a word, Natasha shifted to the side and held the door open.

  Donna strolled into Dimitri’s living room and took a seat on the sofa, like she belonged there. “Nice place.”

  Natasha shut the door. “Dimitri’s not here.”

  “That’s fine. I came to see you.”

  Of course she had. It had been obvious the second the door opened. Donna hadn’t seemed the slightest bit surprised to see Natasha opening Dimitri’s front door, propped up by a pair of crutches.

  The bitch knew. That’s why she was here.

  Still, no need to play all her cards yet. Natasha maneuvered around the furniture and took a seat in the plush brown leather armchair. It would have been easier to sit on the sofa, but she didn’t want to sit too close to Donna.

  Once she was settled, she tried for a pleasant smile. “How can I help you?”

  Much better than what she wanted to ask. What the fuck do you want?

  Donna leaned into the cushions, resting her arm on the back of the sofa. Just making herself right the fuck at home. Her gaze flicked toward
Natasha’s wrapped ankle and she sighed. “Didn’t I tell you not to get hurt?”

  “I’m fine.” Natasha kept her breathing even, her face carefully blank. “I’ll be back on my feet soon.”

  “You’re probably wondering why I’m here.”

  “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t.” Flippant wasn’t the right move with Donna, but when Natasha was on edge, she got mouthy.

  “I heard a rumor you were injured, so I stopped by your apartment to check on you. Since Gina’s gone, I wanted to make sure you had help.” Donna raised an eyebrow. “Seems like someone else is offering assistance, according to your building’s super.”

  Coño. Manny had spilled the beans.

  Donna kept going. “He said a big Ukrainian guy was picking up your mail, and you were staying with him. I figured I would find you here.” She spread her hands. “And here you are.”

  Natasha said the first question that popped into her head. “Wait, you speak Spanish?”

  Donna inclined her head. “I do.”

  Natasha narrowed her eyes. “Why didn’t I ever know that?”

  “It’s more convenient to have people think I don’t. You know how it is. Some people look at you differently when they know.”

  “Es la verdad, pero no me importa.” Natasha continued in Spanish, testing the other woman.

  Donna only shrugged and replied in English. “We all make our own choices for how we go about being Latina in this industry. You, apparently, have made yours.”

  Natasha sucked in a breath. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Raising a hand, Donna swirled it to indicate the space around them. “I get it, I do. It’s a hard industry, and an uncertain one. One bad injury, and it’s all gone. Or you age out. Whatever. It’s much easier to shack up with a rich guy, especially one who’s at that settling-down age, with family on his mind.”

  “What?” Was this bitch for real? “¿Qué díces?”

  “That will give you an out, if you want it.” Donna nodded at Natasha’s ankle. “If you want to blame it on the injury, play it up more, get a doctor to lie and say it’s worse than it is, they’ll let you out of the contract. Then you can keep on playing house with Dimitri.”