Pop Star

by Meredith Michelle

  “Have fun,” Sasha mouths, and blows you a kiss as you walk out the door.

  A sleek black Escalade waits at the curb. Serge bundles you into the car, a total gentleman, opening and closing the door as you slide into the soft, leather seat. The driver glides off into the night without a word from Serge. Clearly, he has been informed of the destination ahead of time.

  The night is clear, a sprinkling of stars visible despite the diffuse light of the city. The driver takes you slowly past the White House, by the majestic Lincoln Memorial, through the World War I and World War II Memorials with their cascading fountains aglow, and around the soaring Washington Monument. The crescent moon hangs just above the structure’s narrow point.

  “The first time I came to this city when I was very young, my mother told me that people call that the pencil building,” Serge says, leaning into you slightly as the car take a curve. “In the same conversation she told me about the U.S. Constitution. For years, I believed that was the giant pencil used to sign the Constitution.”

  “That’s adorable.” You laugh.

  “Yes,” Serge says. “I was a very cute child.”

  You laugh again, enchanted by the city, with the moonlight, and with this man who keeps surprising you with his warmth and now with his humor.

  “How long have you lived in the US?” Suddenly you are all too aware how little you know about Serge, and you want to know more.

  “Seventeen years,” he tells you. “Almost two-thirds of my life.” You also had no idea how old he was—so that’s one question answered.

  “I feel silly even asking this, but where are you from, originally? Russia?”

  “Do not feel silly. I am from Ukraine. Close enough.”

  “Oh, I just thought, since you were speaking a little Russian that must be where you grew up.”

  “Most people do not realize, in Ukraine we use both Ukrainian and Russian. At home we speak mostly Russian, though.”

  “What is it like there? Do you remember it?”

  “Oh yes. I remember it very well, and I have been back many times.” Serge pauses, pensive for a moment. “It is very different in many ways, and in many ways not very different at all.” He looks at you for a long moment. “I know that is a terrible answer”—he scoots closer to you—“but it is difficult to describe. I would like to take you there one day, to show you what I mean.”

  You are drawn to him like a magnet, his energy pulling you irresistibly toward him. Before you can think, your lips are on his, one hand pressing against his strong chest while your other hand finds his thigh. The car hits a bump, jolting you closer together, and as you move your hand to brace yourself, you brush against his desire.

  Serge sucks in his breath and kisses you harder, pressing one hand against the nape of your neck as he pulls you to him.

  The car comes to a stop and the driver politely clears his throat. “Sir, this is the Tidal Basin.” He is a consummate professional, discreetly averting his eyes from the rearview mirror as he speaks.

  You come up for air, your lips feeling deliciously bruised. Your heart beats double-time and you feel slightly dizzy but energized and intoxicated at the same time, a combination of the way you feel before you go onstage and the way you feel just after a performance.

  Serge quickly exits the car and offers his hand to help you step down. “What are we doing?” you ask him.

  “Come and see,” Serge says, leading you down a little path toward the water.

  You gasp as you take in the scene before you. The Tidal Basin’s waters, mirror-still, reflect the crescent moon and the light of the city, casting an almost-eerie glow through the white-pink cherry blossom trees that encircle the Basin. The path, though virtually empty of tourists, is coated with thousands of delicate, individual petals, which fall like flakes of snow from the canopy of trees. The Washington Monument rises in the distance, its top visible past the seemingly endless ring of trees.

  “This is beautiful,” you say, giving Serge’s hand a little squeeze as he guides you along the path.

  “I hoped they would still be in bloom when we arrived.” He brushes a petal from your hair. “They bloom at different times every year.”

  “Really?” You’ve heard about the cherry blossoms, maybe learned about them in school, but you had no idea they were so gorgeous.

  “Do you know the history of these trees?” Serge asks as you walk.

  “I don’t think I do.”

  “They were originally a gift from Japan, from the Mayor of Tokyo. He gave the US three thousand trees to celebrate the friendship of the two countries.”

  “Quite a gift.” You are impressed by Serge’s knowledge and touched that he wants to share it with you.

  “It was. And look how they have been cared for and how much joy they bring to the people who see them.” He stops talking for a moment as you make your way past a couple embracing under the trees near the water’s edge. The darkness provides an intimate privacy you wouldn’t have thought possible in this busy city.

  “They really are breathtaking,” you whisper.

  “In exchange, the US gave Japan a gift of flowering dogwood trees, also very beautiful.”

  “I can’t imagine anything prettier than this.” Gazing across the water, you see the graceful dome of the Jefferson Memorial coming into view.

  “And, did you know, almost seventy years later, Japan suffered a terrible flood and a loss of many of its most beautiful cherry trees. The US was able to give Japanese horticulturists cuttings from these trees, the same trees they had originally gifted to the US, to replace the trees they lost.”

  You stop to smile up at Serge. “How do you know all of this?”

  “Oh, I am a bit of a history buff.” Serge laughs, brushing several fallen petals from your hair and shoulders. “And I have a special affinity for cherry blossoms. We used to have them not far from where I grew up, in Uzhgorod. They bloomed the same time that these trees do, in very early springtime, along some of the streets and sidewalks of Pushkin Square. We called it Sakura Alley. I used to walk through those streets with my mother, feeling like I must be in the Garden of Eden. Then when I came here many years later, it brought back memories of home, but at the same time it was like nothing I had ever seen. I thought this must be what heaven will look like.”

  As Serge speaks, his voice becomes low and musical. You can almost see the trees of his childhood as he describes them, the manicured square and orderly pathways lined with a sudden profusion of unruly blooms. It must have been magical.

  “Come, let me show you this.” Serge quickens his pace, leading you along the path until the Jefferson Memorial looms larger as you grow closer to it, its stone columns bathed in white light.

  As you near a fork in the path, Serge takes his phone from his pocket and turns on the flashlight, searching among the trees.

  “Ah here!” Serge says, stopping near a large holly tree. “This is it.” He lays a hand reverently on the trunks of a gnarled and weathered-looking tree that stands beside the holly. This tree is devoid of petals and its trunk is twisted, limbs amputated in several spots.

  “What kind of tree is this?”

  “This,” Serge says, gazing at the tree with admiration, “is the indicator tree.”

  “The indicator tree?”

  “Yes, it is the most amazing cherry tree of them all. Every year this tree blooms about ten days ahead of the rest of the trees. So, it indicates when all of the other trees will bloom.”

  “That is very cool.” You place your hand gently on the tree’s trunk, your palm pressing lightly against the thick bark.

  “It is not the most handsome tree,” Serge leans back, looking up through its branches. “But it is the most important. It has an ability none of the other trees have. It is very strong. And it is the most reliable.” Serge smiles, wrapping his arms around your waist.

  “I can see why you like this tree,” you smile, gazing up at him. His eyes reflect the moonlight as h
e locks his gaze with yours.

  “That is good, Sladkaya,” he says leaning down to kiss you again.

  As he does, a swooping sense of vertigo spins through your body again, and you hold on tightly to Serge, knowing he is exactly the balance you need.

  The car awaits you at the top of the path. You hold tight to Serge’s hand, fingers intertwined, on the ride back to the hotel. Serge tips the driver and opens your door, helping you out onto the street. You have no idea what time it is and want the night to go on forever.

  At the door to your suite, Serge is a total gentleman. “This was a wonderful night,” he says, glancing both ways down the hall before planting a gentle kiss on your lips.

  “It really was,” you tell him. “I loved every second. And I loved getting to know you. You really are an amazing person, do you know that?”

  Serge blushes adorably, ruddy color rising just above the edges of his five-o’clock shadow.

  “The feeling is mutual, Honey Noble,” Serge says, struggling with the moniker.

  “What happened to Sladkaya?” The word sounds much less sexy coming from your lips.

  “I will save that,” Serge says, lightly brushing your cheek with his thumb, “for when we are not in public.”

  You look down at the floor for a moment. “Well, maybe we should find some privacy then.” Sliding the key into the door, you lead Serge into your suite. Luckily, the room is empty, the lights low, and Sasha’s door is firmly shut.

  A hot blush rises to your cheeks as Serge dips his head to kiss you. “Sladkaya,” Serge breathes, moving to kiss your neck, your shoulders, then returning to your mouth. He pulls you to him hard, and you feel the solid urgency of him pressing against you. “Ya uvle-chion toboy,” he breathes into your ear.

  Though you don’t know what the words mean, they have an immediate effect, and you feel yourself melting, your limbs becoming liquid as Serge holds you in his arms. Everything about him feels so unexpected but at the same time so right. You pull away for a moment to lead him to your room.

  You tumble onto the bed together, desperately hungry for one another. Now that he has you to himself, he is less inhibited, pulling you to him as he presses into you, kissing you fiercely. He turns you to face away from him and makes quick work of the laces at the back of your dress, pulling it down past your hips and hooking your panties with his finger to fling them aside. He hungrily kisses the back of your neck, then pulls the band from your hair so that it falls thick and free down your back. He groans as he reaches around to take your breasts into each hand, kneading them as he thrusts against you from behind.

  You reach around to find him, and run your hand across the hot bulge of his desire. He takes in a sharp breath before taking your hand and entwining his fingers with yours. He pauses and you feel him pull away for a moment before he finds you with his fingers, then you gasp as you feel his tongue move between your legs from behind, quickly finding your most sensitive area. He thrusts his tongue in and out, then flickering just the tip of it against your clit.

  All too soon, you are ready, and you reach for a condom then back around to pull him to you again. The smooth length of him presses urgently against your ass, sliding deliciously back and forth against you. Then, in one quick motion, Serge puts his hands on your hips, pulls you backward to him, and thrusts into you.

  You cry out as he fills every inch of you, then again as he slides back and thrusts deeply once more.

  “Are you okay?” he whispers gruffly into your ear.

  “Yes,” you breathe, pressing back into him, feeling sparks ignite as he thrusts.

  Suddenly, you have to see him, to look into his eyes, and so you pull away and turn quickly. His shirt is still on, so you make quick work of the buttons and he pulls it roughly over his head when enough are undone.

  You gasp again when you see him fully naked, his pale, smooth skin like marble illuminated by the diffuse light of the city. Every muscle is beautifully pronounced, his abs chiseled, his arms strong and sinewy. You lie back on the bed, your hair spread around you, and you look into his eyes. “You are so sexy,” you tell him.

  Serge holds your gaze for a long moment and smiles, white teeth flashing and eyes sparkling. “Ya tebya lyublyu,” he says, and kisses you deeply.

  You reach to take his strong buttocks in each hand, the muscles stunningly powerful, and you pull him to you. Slowly, he drives into you, and you arch up into him, delighting in pleasure as he fills you. It takes only seconds before you come, pressing your face into his neck as you drown in waves of pleasure.

  “Oh, Sladkaya,” Serge groans as he comes.

  He holds you for a long time, catching his breath and moving slightly inside you, making you tremble. “Sorry,” he says. He rolls to your side, wraps his arms around you, and kisses your hair.

  You lie like that for what feels like hours, fully connected, skin-to-skin, fulfilled by the simple whisper of one another’s breath, soothed by the steadily slowing beating of one another’s hearts.

  “Ya tebya lyublyu,” Serge whispers again, softly.

  You wish you knew what his words meant, what to say in return. Maybe you’ll remember to ask him in the morning, but right now it feels as though dreams and reality are beginning to mesh. Serge’s arms are wrapped around you, his strong chest pressed firmly against your back and you are suddenly very, very sleepy. After a few moments, you drift off into sleep.

  The bright sun wakes you early the next morning. You crack your eyes open slowly, and before you are even completely awake you are aware of the sense of complete and utter satiety that fills your body. You lift your head the tiniest bit to peek at Serge. In his slumber, sheets tangled around his waist, he looks every bit the Greek god. His dancer’s body is beyond flawless, one perfect buttock and one muscled leg fully visible. Even his foot is handsome, the arch impeccable. You take a moment to drink him in and feel suddenly giddy that this man is in your bed. You stifle a joyful giggle, burying your head in your pillow.

  Serge’s thick lashes flutter and he cracks one eye open, blinking at you sleepily. Without moving anything but his arm, he pulls you to him, pressing you into a long, drowsy kiss. He pulls away, smacking his lips. “Still sweet,” he pronounces, which makes you giggle again. “What is funny?” he asks.

  “Nothing,” you say. “I’m just happy.”

  Serge sits up and smiles. “Me too.” He grabs you by the waist and flings you back onto the bed, pressing himself into you. “Very happy.”

  You let out a huge laugh, then stifle it with your hand, aware that Sasha, who shares your suite, is likely awake and having his morning coffee. A few moments later, you hear a light knock at your door, followed by Sasha’s voice.

  “You okay in there, Henrietta?” Sasha calls.

  This makes you laugh even harder. Now Serge is laughing, too, though he’s doing a better job of being quiet than you are.

  “Yes,” you answer. “I’m fine.”

  “Fine?” Serge asks in a whisper. “No”—he thrusts against you, making your insides sing with desire—“you are much more than fine.”

  You widen your eyes at Serge as Sasha calls through the door again.

  “You don’t sound fine, Henrietta. You sound downright funny. Is something going on in there?”

  “Um, sort of,” you say, giggling into Serge’s neck.

  “Oh lord.” Sasha sighs. “I’ll set another place for breakfast. You’re lucky I have my robe on.”

  Serge falls back onto the bed laughing.

  “Busted.” You giggle, climbing on top of him and kissing him before rolling just out of his reach.

  “That is not fair!” he whispers.

  You place your finger on his handsome lips. “To be continued,” you promise.

  After a quick shower, Serge joins you and Sasha at the table. Serge looks impossibly sexy, dressed in last night’s jeans and white button-down, his hair still wet and his five-o’clock shadow highlighting his chiseled features.


  “Welcome,” drawls Sasha, clearly impressed. “Coffee?” he offers.

  “Please,” Serge answers.

  “Well,” Sasha takes a sip and gazes over at you. “This is certainly unexpected.”

  You tilt your head at Sasha, remembering his shameless setup the night before. “Not entirely unexpected, I don’t think,” you tell him.

  Serge pulls his chair closer to yours and puts his arm around you.

  “How was that moonlight tour, anyway?” Sasha asks, taking a bite of his toast.

  “It was perfect. Very romantic. Did you have something to do with setting that up?”

  Sasha looks aghast. “Give the man some credit. I only helped arrange the driver. The rest was all Serge.”

  You smile at these two men, one who cares about you so deeply he would do anything to make you happy, and one who might be beginning to feel that way, too. “Thank you,” you say. “It was just what I needed.”

  * * *

  Serge spends more and more time with you as you travel down the East Coast. Ever the gentleman, he is respectful of Sasha’s relationship with you, and he has not yet asked about Crispin, though surely he must have seen the two of you together at some point. When Serge isn’t with you, he spends his time rehearsing with Niko, coming up with new stunts to throw into their performances, adding drama by spinning or tossing their cellos in synch.

  Serge, Niko, and Sasha even strike up an unexpected friendship, spending hours backstage or on the bus playing cards together. The sight of the two hulking men flanking the equally tall but thin and wiry Sasha never fails to amuse you.

  On the first day of your Miami stop, Sasha busily hangs costumes in order and rolls them backstage. Serge, a calm energy in the frenetic venue, sits in the corner reading.

  “Hello?” Freddie calls out as he enters the dressing room.

  Serge looks up from the book, a giant tome focused on early Roman history.

  “Ah!” Freddie announces when he sees Serge. “Just the person I was looking for. You and Niko have attracted quite a following. Your groupies are already lined up outside,” he says, referring to the mass of screaming female fans, self-titled “Burya Babes,” that now follow the duo from venue to venue. “And check out Twitter,” Freddie flips his phone around to show Serge the Burya page. “Look at that!” he barks. “You just broke seven million followers!”