Sway

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Sway Page 13

by Alana Albertson


  Jenny comes bounding from behind. She gives Diana a big hug. “See! I told you everything would be fine. Where do you guys want to go? Let’s go to Nobu. I’m craving their abalone.”

  I stash my phone in my purse. I can’t tell them about Genya. Not yet. I barely know what’s up myself. “You guys go ahead. I’m not in the sushi mood.” The reporters start exiting so we move to the side of the stage.

  “Fine, no sushi. Let’s go to The Ivy.” Jenny picks up her phone and starts dialing. “Not a raw fish in that place.”

  I take her hand. “Not tonight, Jen. I’m super tired. I have an early flight to New York tomorrow so I’m gonna just get a hotel room so I can get some sleep.”

  Jenny looks at me kind of funny, but Diana is so happy-happy-joy-joy she doesn’t give me a second thought.

  “Then it’s just Jen and me,” our little Mormon chirps. “Sal, you call us later. I need to par-tay!”

  “Oh, God,” Jenny mutters as Diana pulls her over to the lingering media. “We’ve created a monster, Sal,” she calls over her shoulder.

  I shrug and give her a thumbs-up, watching them disappear around the corner with the reporters. Bingo! Exit, stage right! I duck out the back of the studio, call my driver, and tell him to meet me in forty-five minutes.

  I rush to my trailer across the back lot and shimmy out of my dress before the door’s even closed. Shower! Scrubbing the orange tanning cream off myself under the hot water, I marvel for the millionth time that a Latina has to paint her skin like some kind of coloring book. It’s the dumbest thing ever—and God, do I hate the smell of the stuff! I nearly graft my skin trying to loofa it off, but I still have orangey running streaks all over my body. I swear, I look like a stubby giraffe. I slather on Palmer’s Cocoa Butter to mask the smell. Sure, I can afford the expensive creams and all now, but I love my Palmer’s so it stays. My mane of hair is all over the place so I scrunch in some spray gel and stuff it up into a big floppy hat.

  I’m halfway to the limo waiting outside the studio door before I realize that I need to pee. Dammit! I look at my watch. I don’t want to head all the way back to my trailer . . . I’ll just sneak into the bathrooms at the back of the stage. Busting left, I cut around a corner and beeline to the backstage area. When I get there it’s deserted—no dancers, so no media. Or maybe it’s the other way around. I duck into the ladies room, do my thing, then dash back out again—running smack into two guys making out.

  “Oh! Sorry, guys,” I mumble and look down at my feet, shielding my face from embarrassment. “I totally wasn’t looking.”

  “No worries,” I hear. His buddy cracks up and they run toward the men’s room, covering their faces.

  No worries. I know that voice! I whip my head back for a look and see Eric and some man plowing through the restroom door. Not that I need to see—I know Eric’s voice when I hear it. Eric as in Nicole’s husband. Good God! The couple with the only perfect ballroom marriage. Eric was my original coach for five years before I met Ricardo; I just know that was him.

  I practically stumble to the limo then throw myself into the backseat. Tequila, I need tequila. I pour myself one on the rocks. Eric with a guy? Nicole would totally freak if she knew. Or . . . maybe she does know. Oh, God, that’s not possible, is it? Shit! They’re fucking Cinderella and Prince Charming—if their love isn’t real then there’s no hope for the rest of us. Whenever I doubt getting back together with Genya, I always come back to “if Eric and Nicole can make it work, so can we.” What does this mean?

  I pour myself another tequila, skipping the ice this time.

  This is so bad. I mean, if the fairy tale isn’t real, then what’s the point of it all? The only guy I’ve been with besides Genya was some guy as drunk as I was after a competition in South Africa—and that was three whole years ago. For me, it’s always been Genya, always. And now he’s throwing himself at me . . . but shit, what isn’t throwing itself at me right now? I’ve been offered ownership in dance studios, free clothes, even endorsement opportunities for diet pills. I wanted change and, hell, did I get it? Money, fame, Dolla and his videos, everything I want is falling in my lap and Genya decides he wants me back now? It’s all I ever dreamed of—Genya, ballroom dance, love everlasting, the whole pretty package. Only, it doesn’t fit anymore. Crap. Crap, crap, crap!

  What am I going to do? I love Genya, I know I do, but I also know I don’t love what he does anymore, and I know that’s what he wants—he’s all about the ballroom fantasy, partners on and off the floor. But that clearly doesn’t exist, just ask Prince Fucking Charming. And I honestly don’t know if I ever want to compete again.

  I take a swig of tequila, straight out of the bottle. Fuck the glass.

  The driver pulls up at the lobby. I hobble out and check for paparazzi. Cool, coast is clear. I cover my face with my hand just in case the front desk attendants recognize me. I don’t want anyone to know what I’m doing until I do.

  I head into the elevator but nearly step out again before the doors close. The ride up takes forever. Fifth floor . . . sixth floor . . . seventh floor. Ding! I step off.

  Breathe, baby.

  Room 715 . . . 717 . . . 719 . . . I look to the next door and see Genya, wearing Calvin Klein pajama bottoms and a white T-shirt, wedged in the doorway, waiting for me.

  I nearly bolt back to the elevator.

  But before I can do or say anything, he seizes me, pulling me into the brightly lit room, and starts kissing my neck.

  “I’ve been waiting for this since the day you left me.” He clasps my hands in his. I melt. He seems stronger now than when we were just kids.

  “Dimka. Wait.” I separate from him and move toward the door.

  “What is it?” He runs his hands through his hair, the same old nervous gesture from forever ago. “Sal, where are you going?”

  “Here.” I stop short of the door and turn off the light. Now he won’t see my speckled skin. Or my big ass. He’s used to Iza’s tight curves, flat belly, and perky breasts. I can’t possibly turn him on. I hear his loud sigh. Maybe I’m not the only one who’s scared.

  I make out his face in the darkness. “Dimka . . . can you just hold me?”

  “Come here.” The covers rustle as he gets into the bed. I lie down and cuddle up on his chest. “No rush,” he whispers, “we’re gonna be together forever. This time, I’m not letting you go.”

  That’s all I need to hear. I roll on top of him. Our bodies remember each other. He slowly undresses me, taking his time exploring my body. He lifts off his shirt. Man, has he filled out. We kiss for what seems like forever, just like when we were fifteen years old.

  “You’re even sweeter than I remember,” he whispers.

  Another star for Palmer’s Cocoa Butter.

  16

  Vika

  JIMMY CHOO IS a fucking idiot! For the second time in thirty seconds, I nearly face-plant in the parking lot on these stupid stilettos. Clearly Choo never chased a rock star in heels. “Antoshka! Wait up! Antoshka!”

  Up ahead, Tony stops and turns. Finally!

  I wave my arms. “Over here! Hello!” He spots me. “I can go after all.”

  He swings his arm wide to wave me over. When I get there, he’s laughing. I pat my hair down. “What? What’s so funny?”

  “You. You run like a girl, woman.”

  I swat him with my Versace handbag. “And I dance like goddess. Now shut up and tell me where you plan to take me. Benny just called and he decided to catch redeye to Australia. I’m all yours.”

  “Cool! We’ll grab a bite at Bella, then hit my club, Rok Bar.” He swings his leg over his motorcycle. “Hop on, mama.”

  Looking at him draped over that motorcycle, thirteen years fall away and I’m a teenager again, posters of Tony all over my wall. Tony hands me a spare helmet that he keeps on the back of his bike, probably just in case he needs to give a groupie a ride. “Let’s ride!”

  Tony hasn’t said a word to me about the L-stuff or that ros
y night at my trailer since it happened. And Vika isn’t no dummy—I haven’t talked about it, either. The weirdest thing is that it hasn’t been weird between us at all. We dance, we talk, and, now, we party.

  I try to get my helmet on but it won’t fit. Tony turns to me and smooshes my hair into the helmet. I feel claustrophobic. I swing my leg over the back of his bike and wrap my arms around his waist. I turn my head to the right, my cheek pressed into his back, absorbing and savoring this moment.

  We roll off, cruising from the studio down to Las Palmas Avenue. Tony pulls into his VIP parking space at the back of his club, and we walk through the main entrance of Bella.

  Paparazzi are screaming at us, begging for a picture. Thankfully, I look fabulous. I am wearing a jade Ingwa Melero Cuenca dress and nude Jimmy Choo pumps. Not an outfit for easy riding, but I managed. Ken Paves added subtle, strategically-placed emerald extensions in my hair to match my eyes and dress, and I look hot as all hell. I seductively lean into Tony and place my hand on his chest and give my best media grin.

  We walk into Bella and are escorted to a private table in the celebrity section. A-list movie star Grant Asher and his starlet wife Winter Reed are on our right, that obnoxious couple from Bravo’s top reality show is sitting in the back, and boy bander Rick Lawrence and his flame, former MTV VJ Victoria Mason, are cuddling at a table in front of us. I force a fake smile and wave to Rick, even though he tossed our friendship aside like an old dance shoe after we won Dancing under the Stars. Who cares? I’m here with Tony Zave, which in my book is a way better deal than being friends with some D-Lister.

  “Hey, Grant, dude, how are you?” Tony asks. “I’d like you to meet my lovely partner in crime, Vika.”

  “Nice to meet you, Vika.” He stands up and bows like some 1920s gentleman. “This is my wife, Winter.”

  No shit. “Hi, guys, so nice to meet with you.” I decide to act casual. That’s the best tactic when dealing with celebrity types. I focus on the matching red Kaballah strings that he and Winter are wearing. “Sorry I missed your Purim party. I would have loved to go. Tony told me you all had fun.”

  “No big deal, hope to see you next time,” Winter says. “Good luck on the show. You’re the best. I twittered yesterday that I think you’re going to win.” Grant winks and they both give me thumbs up.

  Hey, there, thumbs up from Grant and Winter. Who needs a stupid crystal encrusted dance shoe championship trophy?

  Tony and I sit down. I flick my murderous heels off under the table. Uh oh—there’s pasta on this menu. I would kill for some creamy pesto penne but my costumes won’t allow it.

  The waiter comes to take our order. “I’ll have the Caprese salad with celebrity tomatoes, fresh buffalo mozzarella and basil, and a grilled salmon with no potatoes or pasta. Can I get side of spinach, steamed, no oil. And Lemon Drop.”

  “Salmon? Babe, why don’t you have the pumpkin ravioli? It’s amazing.”

  Benny would never let me order pasta. Especially not during the season. “Antoshka, I can’t . . .my costumes have to fit.”

  He shakes his head and then looks up at the waiter. “I’ll start with the fried calamari and then I’ll have two orders of the pumpkin ravioli, just in case the lady changes her mind.” He winks at me.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m gobbling down the pumpkin ravioli. Tony was right—it was amazing. He orders chocolate mousse. At the end of our feast, Tony sips his Grey Goose dirty martini then wipes some chocolate off my lips and leans into me. “I wanna show you something.” He rolls up his sleeve and I see a bandage over his right forearm. “Take it off.”

  I pull back the gauze. There, still red and bruised, is the outline of a woman’s body. My body. Tony has tattooed my ass and legs in dance heels on his arm.

  Oh, no, here we go. “Impressive. How’d they find any blank space?”

  “I was saving a place for my next wife.” He raises his eyebrows at me.

  “Sucks for her, ‘cause now she’ll have to stare at my body for the rest of her life.’” He doesn’t respond. “Antoshka—”

  “Hey, you two.” Winter and Grant interrupt, stopping by on their way out. “Enjoy your dinner,” Grant says, rubbing Tony on the head like a dog.

  “Next party, Vika, you’re there. Got it?” Winter gives me another thumbs up and they head for the door.

  I stare after them, speechless. Across from me, Tony pulls another blue cheese filled olive off the cocktail spear and pops it into his mouth. “That,” he says through his olive, “is what I can give you.”

  I smile vaguely then put a Lemon Drop to my mouth.

  Tony stands up. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Don’t have to tell me twice.” I wedge my feet back into my pumps and he hoists me out of my chair, practically dragging me out of the restaurant.

  He takes me next door to his club Rok Bar. We head to his office off the VIP room and lay on the black leather couch. Tony hikes my skirt up, spreads my legs, and wraps them around his waist. I arch my back so I can give him a better view of my breasts.

  “You’re so fucking hot, Vika. I fucking love you,” he says.

  Tony’s lips encase mine and I feel his hot tongue trace the inside of my mouth. Tony’s big strong hand guides down from the nape of my neck to the swell of my back. I begin nibbling on his ears.

  “Vika, I want you so fucking bad. I’m gonna explode,” he says.

  God, what am I doing? I can’t throw my life away just for one night.

  Tony gently cups my breasts and buries his face in my cleavage. His left hand slides down my body and he sticks his hand beneath my skirt.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this. “Antoshka, mili moy, do you know that I had my entire wall plastered with your photos when I was little girl?” I use my breathy phone sex voice.

  “Yeah, baby, we’re meant to be. You’re a goddess.”

  Tony pulls down my thong and brings his mouth to my freshly waxed lips. I swear I didn’t plan on hooking up with Tony but for some reason I felt compelled to get my bikini coifed in the shape of a pentagram and dyed blood red last week. Something just came over me. I had to hide myself from Benny for a week.

  “Vika, that’s fucking killer. I love it. Did you do this for me?”

  “Tattoo, wax job . . . same difference.”

  “Fucking-A!”

  I lay back, relax, and enjoy looking down to see Tony purring in between my legs, his tousled chocolate mane grazing my thighs. The stubble on his face rubs against my smooth skin. Although . . . he’s going kind of fast; I’m not going against every promise I ever made to my husband for a few minutes. Slow the fuck down. I squiggle around so he gets the hint. There we go baby. That’s just right. This is the life.

  I push his mouth away and unbutton his pants. Ten inches, like shown in his video. Thank God the camera only adds pounds. How did I get to be so fucking lucky? I kneel down in between his legs and take him into my mouth. Well, as much of him as I can. I start playfully humming and flicking my tongue.

  Tony props himself up with pillows so he can watch. He begins to put his hand on my neck but I slap it. I hate it when guys do that. I know what I’m doing.

  “Come here,” Tony says. I climb on top of him and start the ride of my life. I put my cha-cha swivels and samba hip action to good use and tear him apart. Like dancing a bolero, we move as one. Slowly rising and falling together.

  He’s so big, I’m actually in pain. I hope this doesn’t affect my dancing tomorrow, seeing as I won’t be able to walk.

  Tony thrusts even deeper making me scream his name. Tears well in my eyes. What did I just do?

  “I need you Vika. You’re beautiful, talented, fucking sexy, sweet, and great in bed. Don’t ever leave me.” His puppy dog eyes plead for acceptance.

  He flips me over and pulls my feet in the air. Jimmy Choo’s still on. So that’s it—these shoes were made for fucking.

  Jive

  Dancing by himself in the middle of the floor, he jump
ed, bounced, and spun. Annoyed at his arrogance, she slid beside him and matched his every flick and point. He grabbed her by the waist and spun her around. She ran from him and he snapped her back like a rubber band. The music broke and he released his hold on her. She trotted off the floor, counting the minutes until they could boogie again.

  17

  Salomé

  I CAN’T BELIEVE this. I’m standing here, gripping Dolla’s hand for dear life. We’re in the bottom two with Xavier and Diana. Either way, tonight is going to suck.

  “It’s time for the dance off. Both couples will perform a jive and the judges’ new scores will be averaged in with the audience vote. First up, Xavier Viramontes with his partner, Diana Young.

  Dolla and I head back stage to watch the shipwreck. Xavier grabs Diana forcefully and they start their jive. Diana looks beautiful, but a tad skinnier than she usually is. She’s been getting diet tips from Vika. Benny’s eyes are glued on her and I don’t think he’s even paying attention to Xavier’s steps at all. Xavier’s heart is clearly not in this—he looks like he wants to go home, dragging his feet across the floor and sloppily kicking his legs in the wrong direction. To be honest, my dear Diana isn’t helping matters. The choreography is too hard for Xavier and she put so much side by side moves which isn’t a good idea because then she can’t back lead Xavier when he makes a mistake. She tries to make up for it by dancing around him but unless Dolla and I totally screw up our dance, my darling Diana is going home.

  Twenty minutes later, we are all back on stage awaiting our fate. Our routine went great, but there is no joy for me. Diana is going to lose it when she gets eliminated.

  Matt reads the teleprompter. “One of the couples will move on in the competition and the other will be leaving us tonight. The couple with the lowest score when combined with the audience vote is . . . Xavier Viramontes and Diana Young.”

 

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