Dolla whistles. “Girl, I didn’t know when I wrote that song, but I was writin’ it about you.”
And I’m getting paid for this.
So, I think Dolla and I are actually going to win this thing. My favorite thing about Dolla is that he’s the most motivated, driven, energetic man I’ve ever met. He’s moved me to New York temporarily, so he can stay abreast of his business activities. We practice twice a day for three hours each time. And Dolla is a natural dancer.
“O.K. That’s a wrap. Take a break, Sal, and I’ll catch up with you later for practice.”
I wrap my freshly purchased Prada coat around my body and head downstairs to take my limo back to my penthouse suite at the W in Union Square. This is what I’ve been waiting for all my life. I never saw the world outside of dancing. My entire life I’ve always been practicing for a competition, hopping on an airplane, landing in some random nameless city, staying at a hotel located near the airport, competing, and then checking out of the hotel to return home. Repeat. Forty weeks a year. I don’t remember anything else. Not school—I dropped out when I was fifteen. I’ve been living out of my suitcase and hotel rooms, and I’m constantly broke. Even though I made two hundred fifty dollars an hour teaching Japanese and Korean students how to dance and ten thousand dollars for a half hour show with Ricardo, I put all my money back into dancing. Now designers are sending me their clothes and shoes to wear. For free! And in six weeks, I’ve already made thirty thousand dollars. I finally have enough money to move out of my parents’ house. If I win, my parents might stop nagging me to quit dancing. Maybe they’d even brag about me as much as they do about my older sister Ruby, a Stanford-educated lawyer. You’d think winning a world championship at age twenty would make them proud enough for a lifetime.
Back in my suite, I draw myself a bubble bath. Just as I’m about to jump in, the phone rings. “Pardon me, bubbles,” I say giddily, “the queen is being summoned.” This posh life is rough, man.
I grab the phone on the third ring. “Hola?”
“Hey, Sal.”
I jerk the receiver away from my ear. Damn, Jenny talks loud even on the phone. “Hey girl.” I move the phone a tad closer. “I’m so glad you called. You won’t believe my day. I just danced for Dolla’s new video.”
“Really?”
“Hell, yeah. It was sick. MTV was there filming a documentary and Dolla’s such a great daddy.”
“Is he married?”
“Yes. His wife just gave birth to triplet boys—”
“Triplets?”
“—they’re the cutest babies ever. He had them all decked out in Jamal Trey onesies. I hope I marry a guy just like him.” I lean into the bathroom to see if my bubbles are going down. Nope. The queen’s bath is still royal.
“Anyways,” Jenny’s voice changes into her nagging tone, “what are we going to do about Diana? When I flew to San Francisco yesterday, she still wasn’t back from her bender with Vika.”
“Seriously?” I stop ogling the bubbles. “Damn, girl, when I left for JFK at six am, I thought she was just asleep. You haven’t heard from her?”
“No. She won’t return my calls.”
“Huh. That’s weird.”
“No, that’s Vika. She would just love to corrupt Diana.”
“Oh, c’mon.” I pour myself a glass of Chardonnay. “Diana’s an adult. She’s smarter than that. She was probably just dancing all night, got tired, and crashed with Vika.”
“I think we should call her dad.”
I nearly drop the Chardonnay decanter. “No way! That’s messed up, man. Good gawd, the girl’s allowed to have a little fun. And it’s about freakin’ time. She’ll be alright.”
There’s a big sigh on the other end of the phone. I tighten my towel and look longingly at my bath. There’s no talking Jenny down a tree once she’s climbed it high enough.
“Fine,” she finally says. Thank God. “But next time we’re staying with her. No matter how much we can’t stand Vika.”
“Oh, swell. I’ve been wanting to make nicey-nice with Vika.”
“Hey, I don’t like the idea, either, but this is Diana we’re talking about.” My turn to sigh. What a girl will do for her homies. “So, did you vomit today?”
Damn, she’s such a drag. “No, Mom, I didn’t vomit today.”
“You better not be lying to me Salomé. I mean it.”
I so don’t need this shit right now. I get sick sometimes, so sue me. I’m not bulimic. Maybe I’ll drop the phone in the bath and pretend I got disconnected.
Luckily for Jen, she changes the topic. “So, Miss Gossip Queen . . .” She hesitates. “Has Perez Hilton ever blogged about who Tim’s dating?”
“Who? Your beloved basketball player?” Ha! I knew it. “I thought you didn’t like him,” I tease.
“I don’t,” she says way too quickly. I knew it. Jenny’s so falling for Tim. I totally predicted it the minute I heard that she was paired with him. But if she doesn’t want to admit it, so be it. “I just want to know if I have to deal with any crazy girlfriends stalking us at the studio.” Jenny is the worst liar.
My bubbles are bobbing in the tub. Enough waiting! I take the phone to the bathroom and slip into the foamy heaven. Ah, bebita. This is the life. “Well,” I say, settling in, “word has it Mr. Basketball was dating that hot Barbados singer A’isha, but that was at least a whole month ago. He could be single by now. Do you want me to find out?”
“No. No. Just let me know if you hear anything. And I’ll call you when I hear from Diana.”
“Okay, okay.” I lift a pile of bubbles on my palm. I briefly consider mentioning my kiss with Genya to her, the one after our demo dance, but I decide to keep it to myself. I don’t even know what it means yet. “I’ll catch you later. Love ya, kisses.”
“Yeah, love you, bye.”
I turn on the tap to let in more hot water then sink lower into the glorious warmth. I let my mind wander to Genya. He was probably just caught up in the moment. We always used to kiss at the end of our rumbas, so it was just natural. I doubt it meant anything.
I blow the bubbles off my palm and watch the glistening cloud float to the water. I’m so glad I did this show. Not that it’s all bubbles and baths. I’m starving. I would practically kill for a heaping plate of chorizo nachos with mounds of guacamole, sour cream, olives, and cheese, not to mention chicken mole and my abuela’s fresh homemade pumpkin empanadas. She makes the best empanadas ever. The meal plan Gabriel has me on is almost as bad as Ricardo’s. Egg whites, spinach, turkey breast, and veggies. That’s it!
The audience only sees the glam. They also don’t understand that no one in the ballroom industry can ever have a normal relationship. We have three options for dating: you can either date your partner and combine your floor and relationship problems, like what happened with me and Genya; you can date a dancer who is not your partner and the worse dancer of the two will be jealous of the others’ success; or you can date a non-dancer, who has a hard time understanding the partner relationship and the travel demands.
So, basically, it’s hopeless.
“And I chose that?” I mutter to my bubbles. “What an idiot.” How ‘bout a normal life? What would that be like? Falling in love and not worrying about choosing between him and my career. Actually spending the money I make on something other than costumes and competition fees. And going dancing with mis chicas and partying like a hip-hop mogul. I could stand that. Ooh, and drinking Starbucks Venti Caramel Frapaccinos with whipped cream, and eating plates and plates of Round Table’s King Arthur Supreme Pizza with shrimp and anchovies, and inhaling chocolate pecan pie a la mode and Piña Coladas without reporting to step classes five minutes later. And dying my hair a natural color. That would be something. Hell, I could stand not being a tanorexic, for Christ’s sake. And how about saving the lives of the minks who have died for my fake eyelashes. And a vacation, what’s that like? I wanna find out. I wanna live my life my way. Dammit, I want a life, p
eriod!
I scoop up bubbles with both hands and lift them to my face, staring into a billion sudsy prisms. I love this world Dolla has shown me. I want more.
Hell, I deserve more.
The bathroom light twinkles in the suds. Yeah, I could stand this life. I close my eyes, make my wish, and blow hard.
10
Vika
TONY RUNS ACROSS the stage at the Staples Center in Los Angeles, dousing young groupies with bottles of Jägermeister.
“Who wants a fucking shot?” he yells at the crowd of fifteen thousand screaming fans. The mob delivers their God a sacrifice and lifts a young girl on stage. Tony cocks back her head and floods her mouth with fluid. His eyes twinkle as he gazes at their sea of smiles. “I know y’all in the back ain’t got no booze, but you know what? I got a goddamn titty cam.” He hands the bottles to a guy in the front row, lifts his sagging pants up by the belt, and grabs a camera from a roadie. The fans go nuts. Girls in the front row lift up their shirts in unison as Tony broadcasts their breasts across the Jumbotron.
I ask the butler in my luxury box seat to fetch me another Lemon Drop. I’m going to need it.
The Dancing under the Stars cameraman, who is supposed to film some footage of me watching the Möxie Cörps concert, is distracted by the titty cam. I seize my chance. I sneak off to the buffet table and consider my options: spicy, fried, hot Buffalo wings, hot dogs, veggies and dip, fried crab and cream cheese wontons, teriyaki skewers, sandwiches, fruit, cookies and scones. I look back at the cameraman to make sure he is still focused on the girly show. Safe. I steal a single plump, spicy, fried, hot Buffalo wing, drench it in blue cheese dressing, and quickly devour it before the cameraman can catch me. I wrap the evidence of my crime in a cocktail napkin and I stuff it into my Chanel bag. Then I pile veggies and fruit with just a lemon wedge for flavoring onto my plate and return to my leather seat.
I lick my lips, still on fire from my clandestine wing. I’ll need to do an extra spin class tomorrow for my sin but it will be worth it. I focus back on the concert. Tony has stripped down to a black studded leather bikini bottom attached to suspenders and launched into his drum solo. Tony’s drum set—suspended from cables—is levitating above the stage.
My body tingles. I remember when I saw Möxie Cörps at the Moscow Music and Peace Festival. My mama and her new husband saved up for months to buy tickets to the show. We took a train from Odessa. There were one hundred twenty five thousand people, screaming, crying, so happy to be alive. It was the first time anyone in the Soviet Union had been to a western rock concert. I was only a little girl, but when Tony took the stage and his drum set flew over the audience, I knew he had what we all wanted. Freedom.
The butler interrupts my memory. “Ms. Brooks, here’s your drink.”
“Thank you.” I take a long sip. Tony finishes his drum solo.
“I fucking love you all,” he shouts. “I wanna give a big shout out to my gorgeous dance partner, Viktoria Brooks, who’s here tonight.” He points his drumstick my way. I get up from my recliner and walk over to the glass partition of the box hanging over the other stadium seats. The Jumbotron focuses on me and I wave.
“I’m crazy about this girl. Isn’t she smoking hot?” The pack howls. “So make sure you guys vote for us every Monday night.”
Eight songs and two encores later, I’m backstage with the cameraman positioned to get a shot of me embracing Tony.
Guitarist Devin “Dax” Thomas stumbles down the stairs. His face drowns in his lush blonde mane. “So you must be Tony’s sexy partner.” He leans into me and strokes my cheek. “You’ve put a spell on him, that’s sure. I haven’t seen him this sprung since his ex-wife.”
Tony runs off stage, still clad only in his bikini brief, gushing sweat. He sprints toward me like a coyote and scoops me up. “Did you like the show? I was so fucking nervous playing since I knew you were watching.”
I escape from his arms. His sweat has stained my brand new Valentino dress. I turn away from the camera and position my purse so his sweat marks won’t be broadcast on national television. “Antoshka, you were awesome. I saw you play in Russia twenty years ago and you were even better than I remember.”
Tony gives me a devilish smile. “No way! You were at the Moscow Music and Peace Festival?”
I purse my lips. I don’t want to give him the power of knowing I was in love with him for years. “Oh, da. My stepdad was huge fan and he dragged my mama and me along. Not my kind of music, but it was cool.”
“Zavetakis!” his fat, balding manager yells. “Stop talking to your girlfriend and get your ass to the meet and greet.”
“Zavetakis?” I ask.
He growls. “My real last name. It’s Greek. He made me shorten it when we got signed.” The manager comes toward us, scowling. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you tomorrow?” He goes in for a kiss.
I give him my cheek and smile for the camera. “Of course.”
I TIPTOE BACK into my house, trying not to wake up Benny. But it’s too late. My husband is waiting for me in the living room, drinking whiskey—straight up.
I kick off my Jimmy Choo’s and throw down my purse. “Allo Venya. Waiting up for me?” The scent of Cuban cigars overwhelms me.
Benny takes another sip. “I just missed you, luv. The only time I see you is on set.” I try to read him, but it’s tough. He can go blank at the drop of a hat. He reaches for my hand. “You hungry? Marina just mashed up a banana with some peanut butter for you.”
Ooh, lucky me. Cha-Cha comes over to me and licks my feet. I scoop her up and we cuddle next to Benny on our white leather couch. There’s a life-sized portrait of me hanging over the fireplace that Benny commissioned when we got married. “No, thanks. I’m so tired and I’ve got to kill myself at gym tomorrow. I ruined my diet tonight.”
He starts rubbing my feet. His face softens a little bit, finally. I guess we’re okay. “You’re working so hard,” he says. “I’m proud of the way you’re handling Salomé.” He raises his furry brow. “How’s Tony treating you?”
“Oh, he’s alright.” I look away from him and pet Cha-Cha. “He works real hard but he’s kind of dumb. Typical rock star. Tonight was just crazy though. His fans are obsessed.” I moan. Benny just gives the best foot rubs. I’m still so turned on from seeing Tony tonight. I push Cha-Cha off my lap and climb on top of Benny and give him a big kiss. “Venyochka, can we talk tomorrow?”
“No worries.” He kisses me again and gently rolls me off of his lap. “But remember, tomorrow we have the National Dance Council of America luncheon and I need you there.”
What? “But I promised Tony—”
He slams the rest of his drink. “No buts. It’s non-negotiable. You’ll attend.”
I jump off the sofa. “I can’t go.”
He gets up from the couch and points his stubby finger in my face. “You will go.”
This is bullshit. “Nyet. I won’t. Look, Venya, things have to change around here. I’m the star now. I can’t be seen at stupid dance council meeting.”
His face goes hard and he clutches me by the arms. “Now listen here, Viktoria Josephovna Brooks. The only reason you’re on this bloody show is me. I turned you into the dancer you are today. Not to mention that I support your grandmother. Luxury retirement homes aren’t cheap. Hundreds of young girls would kill to be in your place. I’m sure Diana would do anything to dance with Jared and be the U.S. Professional Latin Champion.”
I can’t believe this bastard brought my baba into this. That’s low, even for him. I try to squirm out of his clamps but I’m unsuccessful. Cha-Cha comes to my rescue and nips at Benny’s foot. “You wouldn’t dare,” I challenge. “Diana would never agree to do what I did. She’s Mormon, and engaged.”
He releases his hold on me and laughs. “Don’t be so sure, Lassie. Ambition makes people forget all their morals.” I stare at the hair protruding out of his ear. It’s like a goddamn peach. “Don’t embarrass me. You’ll come with me tomorr
ow. End of discussion.”
I scowl at him and rub my arms, trying to erase the red marks.
He forces a kiss on me. “I’ll be in bed. You better be upstairs in twenty minutes.” He turns and ascends up our circular staircase.
Fuck. Who does that bastard think he is? I can’t even fake that I’m sick tomorrow—he’d drag me out of bed. I see my Chanel bag vibrating, grab it, and probe for my iPhone. One new message.
Tony (Mobile): Hey babe. Sorry I couldn’t hang out after tonight’s show. You’ve got me wound up. I can’t think about anything else. We still on for tomorrow?
I can’t believe I have to go to that damn lunch. Why am I still married to Benny? I don’t need this anymore.
Vika (Mobile): I can’t meet you. I’ll call later. Sorry.
I rummage through my purse and fish out the remnants of that divine wing. I head to the kitchen to dispose of my indulgence. Cha-Cha trots by my side. Story of my life. Hiding things I love and pretending to love things that I need. Marina is hunched over the kitchen table, feigning to read a Russian Glamour. But I know she just heard our fight.
She shuts her magazine and stands up. “Hello, Vikochka. Do you want a banana?” she says in Russian.
I throw the crumpled napkin onto the sparkly black granite countertop. What a relief to talk to someone in my own language. “Nah, just throw this away for me.” She obediently opens the trash lid. She has bags under her eyes. “You look tired, Marishka. Maybe you should get some rest.”
Her chin drops. “Me? Don’t you worry about little old me.”
“Stop with old. You’re my age.” I lean against the counter and watch as Marishka squirts a few drops of honey onto my smashed banana. “Anything good in Glamour this month?” I turn the magazine and pull it closer for a better look, dislodging a handwritten list underneath it. “To Do” it says in Russian. It’s a long list. “Oh, did you send Baba the pashmina shawl?” Baba loves pashmina. And anything Baba loves, I get Baba. She worked to bleeding fingers for me to dance.
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