“Love you, too,” he yells out the window.
But I barely hear his words, because I’m already pulling out of our condo complex at the Fontainebleau II and heading to Ocean Avenue. The sun beats down on my chest. Orange blossoms scent the air. Within minutes, I spy two gorgeous, gay Cuban men in turquoise Day Glow shirts, sipping mojitos at an outdoor café.
Damn, I love Miami.
Reminds me of Odessa. Well, not the gays. At least the view of the water and the gathering of beautiful people. Thank God, Benny is the busiest judge on the circuit; we hit Miami at least four times a year between my competitions and his panels.
This time Benny and I are here for the United States Dancesport Championships. Tonight, I defend my Latin-American Dancesport title.
Competition day is always a headache. Everything’s on me—no on-set estheticians to tone and tan our bodies like on the set of Dancing under the Stars. If the public only knew what it took to entertain them for five fucking minutes.
I pull into the parking lot, jump out of the car, and rush into the hotel. “Viktoria Brooks, here for the ten fifteen appointment with Larissa.”
“Oh yes, Ms. Brooks. We are so thrilled to have you here. You’re scheduled for a Brazilian bikini wax with anal bleaching, a Mandarin Orange Body Polish followed by a custom sparkle spray tan, and then you’ll receive a mani and pedi while Alberto tightens up your hair extensions.” Her eyes widen. “You know, Ms. Brooks, I just love Dancing under the Stars—really, it’s my favorite show. You must lead such a glamorous life,” she gushes.
Glamorous, huh? I smile politely and go sit on the sofa. G-L-A-M-OR-OUS like the Fergie song. If only she had a clue of what I had to do to become Vika Brooks—Ballroom Champion and Reality Television Starlet. I live in the gym and the studio, sometimes dancing up to eight hours a day. I spend every weekend in a hotel in some random state competing. My diet consists of egg whites, vegetables, soup and salad. And I haven’t had a weekend off in two years. Hardly glamorous.
“Ms. Brooks, Larissa is ready for you,” the receptionist says, jolting me back to reality.
In the back room, I take off my lavender-colored velour sweat suit and my matching thong and lay spread eagle on the paper-covered table.
“Viktoria,” Larissa says, trying to take my mind off the fact that she’s pouring hot wax on my body and then gouging the hair out of my pores. “I just got tickets to the comp tonight. I can’t wait to see you win.”
I make a face but it’s not because she just ripped a hot wax strip from my armpit. “Apparently you’re only one who is sure of me. Today’s paper predicted Salomé Sanchez would win with Ricardo Mancini, that pathetic partner of hers.”
“Salami who?”
“Nobody. Just some dumpy dancer.” Mainstream America knows nothing about our world unless they see it on TV.
Larissa pauses, a new glob of pink wax on the stick in her hand. “You’re Viktoria Brooks, two-time winner of Dancing under the Stars. If this Sally chick is so wonderful, why isn’t she on the show?”
“Exactly, Larisha.” I take a deep breath. No nerves, Vikochka. No nerves. What does Salomé have that I don’t have, anyway? The Miami Herald can lick my cha-cha.
Larissa dehairs my other armpit. “Okay, honey, turn over and let’s take care of your bum.”
I get on all fours for my anal wax and bleaching. As much as these beauty treatments are a pain in the ass, it beats the way I did it back in Odessa, rubbing coffee grinds over my body to tan and whipping my body with birch leaves in the banya.
Five hours later, primped and plucked, I’m scrambling around my condo.
“Is my beautiful matryoshka doll ready?” Benny asks. He’s dressed in a blood-orange silk suit. His comb-over is the same color as the sterling silver in his Australian black jade bolo tie. He looks like Alex Trebek on acid. “Let me have a gander,” he asks. He moves toward me and I recoil. His breath reeks of Johnny Walker Green Label whiskey. Maybe I should be the one on acid.
I steady my nerves. “Sure, Venya, do I look sexy?” I run my hands seductively over my Versace slip dress, giving Benny a view of his creation. After all, he spent a fortune on my Extreme Makeover.
With the pride of Dr. Frankenstein staring at his monster, Benny wets his thin lips. “Lassie, you’re stunning. Let’s go.”
Marina gathers up my luggage and stands obediently by the door.
“We’re off like prawns in the sun,” Benny says. I kiss Cha-Cha, my rescue pug mix, goodbye and head out the door. Marina loads my bags into the Jag as I settle in. Benny slides into the driver’s seat, waits for Marina to climb in the back, and then revs the engine.
“Venyochka, do you think I’m going to win tonight?” I gently caress his thigh.
“Of course, Lassie, that’s surer than a bum in a bucket. My girl is the best. And you are dancing with m’boy Jared. You two are the good oil.”
Good oil? That’s a new one. Half the time I have no idea what he is saying. His Australian slang is too much for my limited English. “Salomé and Ricardo can’t beat us, no?”
Benny floors the Jag. “Not unless the Sahara freezes over, and the camels come home with skates on,” he replies. He’s right. My husband, his ex-wife, my stepdaughter and her husband and his parents are six of the eleven judges on the panel—and the other five are all close business associates of Benny. We’re a shoe-in. My family has a vested interest in maintaining our monopoly of the ballroom industry. This sort of nepotism keeps Dancesport out of the Olympics. Nepotism and the fact that not one of the couples competing for tonight’s United States National title are both actually American citizens.
The valet takes our car and we make our grand entrance. Before Dancing under the Stars was on television, competitions were low-key events relegated to the ballrooms of hotels. These days, if one of the dancers on the show is competing, then a red carpet is rolled out and TMZ cameras are in our faces. I sign a few autographs and take a couple of pictures with Benny and then we head inside the lobby. After waltzing through the luxurious lounge, we head over to the cramped vendor room and make our way through the maze of stage jewelry, ballroom shoe peddlers, photographers, and costume designers. Once inside the ballroom, we do our rounds and kiss up to the judges in the house.
Nicole and Eric run over to us, cradling their infant daughter.
“Hi, Daddy. Hi, Vika. Are you excited about tonight?” My stepdaughter’s smile seems totally sincere. I think she genuinely likes me, despite the fact that I am ten years younger than her. Maybe she should go into acting? Dancing wasn’t her gift. She and Eric used to dance this pathetic show dance when they were still competing in Latin. She wore a sequined American Flag and Eric wore red pants and a blue and white shirt. They danced rumba to an acapella version of “The Star Spangled Banner.” Who dances a rumba without music? I was embarrassed to be related to her, even if it is only through marriage. They could never cut it in the International Latin so in order to win a title they competed in American Smooth, which suited Eric’s cheesy “game show host” vibe perfectly.
I put on an even better smile. “Privet, Nikita. I’m thrilled. Thanks for covering Dancing under the Stars charity event this week for me.” I should win an Academy Award next.
“No worries.” Nicole hands Eric their baby, Rebecca. The creature has drool on its cheek. Why anyone would want one of those is beyond me.
Benny coos at the baby. Thank God he is done having kids. Nicole still hasn’t lost the ten pounds of baby weight, and her formerly shiny fire engine red locks are now frizzy and sport long dark roots—a cardinal sin in the ballroom world. I can’t believe the Dancing under the Stars producers cast her again this season. I guess they thought America would like to see a “normal woman” as one of the professionals. She’s just a shadow of the former champion she once was.
“Okay, hon, let’s go get you ready.” Nicole grabs my arm and dutifully guides me to the ladies dressing room. Marina follows, carrying my costumes and makeup
.
“Salomé, hold still!” Jenny Ming’s voice rings out as we walk through the door. That woman couldn’t whisper if her life depended on it.
Jenny, Salomé, and Diana Young are in front of a single-mirrored makeup table. The room is smaller than my closet, but then again, my closet is bigger than most apartments.
Diana looks up and spots us in the mirror. “Uh-oh, girls, look who’s here.”
Jenny stops fussing with Salomé’s dress straps. “Well, lookie here. Tell me, Vika, how did you come up with your cha-cha?” she says in perfect Russian. She studied it at Harvard because she thought it would help her dancing career. So much for that theory.
“It was beautiful, wasn’t it?” I say. Salomé stops spreading her Sun Shimmer and narrows her eyes at me. I meet her stare dead-on. “I had so much fun at Emmys. Too bad you ladies weren’t invited.”
“Don’t you mean the Emmys?” Jenny says, making fun of my English. Bitch.
“I guess my invitation got lost in the mail,” Salomé says. “The producers must’ve gotten confused and wrote down your name instead. Since it was my cha-cha.”
“Okay, ladies,” Nicole blurts, stepping between us. “That’s enough. All cha-chas have similar steps, no? Let’s drop it, for me,” Nicole pleads. Ahh, the benefits of having a stepdaughter who is the nicest dancer in the industry.
Salomé’s lips go tight and white. She squirts more Sun Shimmer into her palm. “Sorry, Nicole.”
Even Salomé isn’t stupid enough to bitch at me in front of one of the judges. Jenny murmurs something to Diana, who laughs as she sews a loose rhinestone onto Salomé’s dress.
Nicole frantically starts gluing crystals above my eyebrows. Marina brushes the soles of my shoes. Schmoozing with the judges cost me precious preening time. I shove my hair into my sequined headband. At least ten other dancers are in various stages of undress. One nameless dancer is curling her hair; another is being sewn into her costume. I feel sorry for them. They’ve spent thousands of dollars to compete and endless hours practicing their routines and they won’t even place. That was the story of my life until I married Benny.
The door flies open, startling all of us. I nearly faint at the familiar rancid smell of yesterday’s stroganoff and Drakkar Noir Cologne.
“Lovely, the rest of the Russian Mafia is here,” Jenny mutters to Diana.
Marina buries her head in my bag, looking for God knows what. Salomé’s ex, Genya, his gorgeous Polish partner Iza, and their six-person entourage take over the dressing room. Three men dressed in identical black Armani suits chat simultaneously on their cell phones, clearly oblivious to the fact that this is the ladies dressing room. Not that anyone will say anything. Their booming voices put Jenny’s shrieks to shame. Genya’s mother Irina and two pre-pubescent Russian dancers start spreading Iza’s costumes in the cramped right corner of the room. Iza strips down buck-ass naked except for her dance heels.
I go to her and kiss both of her cheeks. “Dzien dobry, Iza,” I say in my best Polish. I try not to stare at her perfect non-surgically enhanced body.
“Privet, Vika, good luck for you tonight,” she answers me in Russian. We dancers from the Eastern bloc dominate this sport and understand each other. She binds her long black hair into a knotted ponytail on the top of her head, like an Arabian princess. Iza is my closest friend on the circuit, though it’s hard for her to be around me sometimes because I always place higher than her. We have so much in common—we both came from Eastern Europe in our teens to dance and are at the complete mercy of our partners’ families. I don’t know what I’d do if she wasn’t on Dancing under the Stars with me.
“Iza, sidyat!” Irina grabs still naked Iza by her hair and shoves her into a chair to finish her makeup as her ladies-in-waiting start fussing with her nails and her jewelry. Genya drops his pants, revealing his black bikini brief. He slips his leotard-like manty over his hairy chest. His gold, diamond-laden Star of David necklace gets lost in the forest surrounding it. I catch Salomé staring at Genya. Yup, she is still in love with him.
I sit in my chair and clutch my good luck charm—my stuffed bear, Misha. My mom gave him to me before my baba and I left Odessa. Without her. She remarried after my dad died and her new husband couldn’t get a visa to come here because he wasn’t Jewish. My mom decided to send me here so I could have a better life. I wish she could be here to see me win this title. She would be so proud.
Nicole gently glues on my mink fur eyelashes and Marina puts on a final coat of Pro-Tan to make my skin gleam. Then she starts on my Mac makeup.
“Okay, Vika. You look beautiful as usual,” Nicole says. “I have to get out there. Good luck, luv.” She gives me a big hug.
“Sbacibo, Nikita.”
Marina helps me squeeze into my dress. “Take a deep breath, Vika.”
I hold my breath as the rhinestones scratch my skin. Marina takes out some thread and sews me in. My Latin gown is smoking hot—it is completely nude underneath with a shear slip and has hand-sewn rhinestones that adorn my body, with pink Swarovski crystals covering my ta-tas and, as Benny would say, my “map of Tasmania.” From a distance it looks like I’m dancing naked. Iza and I get our costumes free from the Dancing under the Stars set. Salomé’s fluorescent orange gown looks like she made it herself. I feel bad for her.
“Will the couples in heat one of the Closed Professional United States Latin Championship please take the floor?” a voice beckons over the intercom.
I fluff out my platinum blonde extensions and run out.
I nearly bowl over my stepson Jared outside of the dressing room. Not that he’d notice with his lips all over one of his sixteen-year-old students.
“Excuse me, lyubovnik. I hate to interrupt you or anything...”
The student ducks away shyly. Jared merely leans on the pillar next to him and smiles slyly. “Care for an escort, Ms. Goddess?”
I can’t remember why I ever fucked him, before Benny and I got married. Arrogant as he is, the boy can dance. Luckily, Benny forced him to dance with me. I offer my arm. “Let’s go.”
Jared takes my hand and leads me to the floor. I see Benny winking at me on the sidelines, holding his judging clipboard. Nicole, Eric, both of his parents, and Jared’s mother also secure their posts, ready to judge. The eleven judges are placed around the floor in formation like Marines in boot camp. The lady judges display no emotion, a result of their Botox addictions. The sweat-filled room reeks of fake tanning spray and smelly feet.
Jared and I get corralled with the other one hundred ninety-two competitors in the waiting area. Heat one has twelve couples.
Three hours, three rounds, and a costume change later, we are ready for the final.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer says. “We are now going to proceed with the final round of the Closed Professional United States Latin Championship. The judges have recalled the following six couples to the final round. From New York: Couple 187—Ricardo Mancini and Salomé Sanchez.”
Gross. Salomé is still wearing the monstrosity that she wore from the first round.
“From California: Couple 201—Evgeny Pavlov and Izabella Jasinski.”
Genya leads Iza to the opposite end of the floor from Salomé. He carefully avoids all eye contact with Salomé.
“From California: Couple 216: Jared Brooks and Viktoria Brooks,” the announcer says.
We take our place on the floor directly in front of Benny as the announcer calls three more couples.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Let’s put those hands together for our Closed Professional United States Latin Championship Finalists. Congratulations, competitors. And places for your first dance. The cha-cha. Music, please.”
I hear the entrancing beat of a great cha-cha song: The Blackout Allstars “I Like It Like That.” The music pulsates through my veins. My stepson’s jaw goes firm; his back straightens like a pole. He is wearing his tight black dance pants and black lace Latin shirt, which is ripped open from his navel. Hi
s perfectly chiseled pumpkin-tinted chest and dark brown happy trail almost make me drool, then and there. He gives me a fierce animalistic look, grabs my hand, and we glide into our routine.
I start with a simple cha-cha lock, into fan, as I playfully flirt with the audience. I embrace Jared and drape my arms around his neck, then glide my hands slowly up and down his chest as I do lightning fast swivels. Jared violently throws me down into a deep split while caressing my smooth legs.
Now I remember why I fucked him.
The energy between us is electrifying, I can feel it. Who needs your family on the judges’ panel when you dance like this?
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Genya and Iza dancing their routine in the corner. Jared powers over to their side of the floor and directs our dance near them, thus boxing Genya and Iza in, shielding them from the view of the judges and ensuring our win. He throws me into another deep split.
“Cha-cha. Thank you competitors.”
Jared presents me to the audience and judges. The crowd erupts.
“Who’s your favorite couple out there, ladies and gentlemen?”
“Couple 216!” I hear one of my students yell.
“Go Jared and Vika!”
I look over at my husband, who is grinning ear to ear like a proud stuffed peacock.
“I love you, Lassie,” he mouths to me. I blow him a big kiss. I will give him more later. He deserves it.
Across the floor, Ricardo slaps Salomé across the face, right in front of everybody. She cowers and turns away from the audience. Poor girl. Benny gets rough with me too sometimes, but never in public. I see Genya clench his fist but even he doesn’t have the balls to stop Ricardo. It must kill him to see Ricardo treat Salomé like this. Especially since Genya is such a great guy. I’m sure she regrets leaving him now. Ricardo was Salomé and Genya’s coach back in the day. Mine, too. Jenny, Diana, Nicole, and Eric staged an intervention last year at nationals, when Ricardo punched Salomé after she screwed up her rolls in a disastrous samba. Her nose bled but she kept dancing. He stopped hurting her for a while, but I guess he is back to being a bastard. At least when he beat up his old partner, Emme, they were champions.
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