"Hey, Tom. Did I ever tell you about the time I went to confession and accidentally picked up a call girl?" Hank asks.
The waitress delivers our food and as we eat, Hank regales us with one crazy story after another. Our laughter attracts Sonya and Dominic, and soon our private booth is surrounded by a handful of others enjoying the show, but ruining what should be my private time with Tom.
After a while, my side aching from all the laughter, Tom says, "I hate to break up the party, but I've got to get to the airport."
My heart drops.
"Ah darn it, and here I was jabbering away when all you wanted to do was corner the girl and count her freckles."
Pavel and Sonya laugh and say their goodbyes. Hank shuffles out of the booth and whispers in my ear.
"It's always good to keep 'em wanting more." He winks at me and shakes Tom's hand. "Best of luck to you, son. You better bring your A game with this one."
"Thanks, Sir, I'll do my best." Tom and I slide out of the booth.
"I'm sorry about the interruptions," I say. "I swear this never happens when you're not here. You are a people magnet."
"I think there was a conspiracy to keep us from being alone, but it was fun. Hank's a riot." He gestures toward the door. "Any chance I could convince you to ride along with me to the airport?"
And spend more time with him? "Of course."
I think he visibly relaxed at my response. His hand is at the small of my back as he guides me toward a black town car.
"I ordered it earlier," he explains opening the door for me.
"Pretty swanky." I slide in and he follows, telling the driver his airline. The driver pulls into traffic. I turn to Tom. "Thank you for coming."
But he isn't listening. He sweeps me into his arms. His lips crush mine and I lose myself to the touch of his kisses. He coaxes my lips apart and his tongue mingles with mine. I place my hand on his chest and soak in his scent. He is solid and real and he flew across the country just to see me.
"Oh, Chelsea. You have no idea what you do to me," he whispers in my ear, tickling my skin with his breath.
I'm at a loss. I want to beg him not to go, but that wouldn't be fair. He can't stay, and I can't follow. I press my cheek to his. "I hate that you have to go." The town car pulls into the kiss and fly lane at the airport. How appropriate.
He brushes a lock of hair behind my ear. "I'm so glad I came."
"So am I. You have no idea."
"All I want is to be with you and get to know everything about you."
"I'll be in New York before you know it," I say more for my own benefit.
"I'm counting on that."
The interior lights come on. Tom pulls out his wallet. "Here's for my fare." He pulls out a few twenties. "This should be enough to drive my friend back to her apartment."
The driver nods his thanks.
Tom sighs and steps out of the car. I stand next to the open door, longing to follow him back to New York.
He lowers his forehead to mine. "I'll talk to you tomorrow."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. He smiles, kisses me quick on the forehead, and turns to enter the terminal. I duck back into the car, so my last memory isn't of him disappearing from sight. That would be too much to bear.
As the car pulls into traffic, I struggle between the grin that covers my face and the ache in my heart.
13
Los Angeles
"If I'd known meeting a guy would put you in such a great mood that you'd work this hard, I would have been parading men through here from week one," Dominic says after we're safe for another week.
I toss an empty water bottle at him. "You're not even close to funny, and I'm too happy to fight with you."
"Good, because we have a lot more work to do."
And since Tom's busy on the other side of the country, I dive into rehearsals with a new passion. It's ten o'clock before I get home, and I could really use hearing Tom's voice. He texted an hour ago, so maybe he's still up.
It's an unseasonably balmy night, so I sit on my tiny deck overlooking the parking lot of my apartment when Tom's accented voice answers. "Hey, love."
My heart flips every time he says that. I know it's just a common English phrase, but I like to pretend it means more. "Am I calling too late?"
"Not at all. A bunch of us went out after the show for a friend's birthday. I'm walking home now."
"Hank was voted off tonight."
"I'm sorry. He's a terrific guy, but he never could dance."
Which is absolutely true, but it didn't matter. He was always nice. "I'm going to miss him. He introduced me to bourbon."
"You drink bourbon?" He asks, surprised.
"Only with Hank," I laugh, feeling melancholy. The stars are out and the moon illuminates the puffy clouds. Whenever someone leaves in my life, it's always painful. "So, how was your show tonight?"
"A quiet audience, so we had to work harder to get a reaction out of them."
"I suppose a Tuesday isn't a wild night for theatre."
“Not necessarily. After the show a couple of housewives were feeling up my backside when I posed for a picture with them,” he says.
“Oh my God. That’s rude.” And yet I would have liked to the see the expression on his face when it happened.
“One of the hazards of my job.” He laughs. “With Hank going home, you realize that means it's at least another week before you come to New York, and at the rate you're going, it'll be longer."
"I wish the show would be over already." We're both frustrated with not being able to see each other, and it's worse because now I actually love it.
I throw myself back into rehearsals, trying to keep my constant thoughts of Tom at bay, which works some of the time. The rest of the time we're on the phone whispering during my brief rehearsal breaks, texting when our schedules don't align, and FaceTiming at the end our days. It's obsessive, childish, thrilling, and I love every second of it.
Tom's blind confidence in me and constant encouragement drives me to work harder on my dances. He's the most talented person I've ever met, and I'm more concerned with embarrassing myself in front of him than the national viewing audience.
On performance night the following week, I've never felt more prepared or worried about pulling off a great performance. I feel Tom's presence across the miles as I take my place in the ballroom wearing my glitzy silver cha cha dress. The number goes well, as does our Argentine tango, yet the judges’ comments are mixed with Stephen Harris unhappy with my musicality.
Tuesday night we're back under the glaring elimination spotlights. I worked harder this past week than ever before. Please let us be safe, please let us be safe.
Dominic gives my arm a supportive squeeze. "We're at the point of the competition where anything can happen. Even good teams go home," he whispers in my ear as the daunting music tortures us. I hold my breath.
Marcus MacIntyre drags out the announcement as long as possible. "And the team returning next week is...Chelsea and Dominic!"
I release my breath and hug Dominic. Each week is getting tougher to get through.
Marcus eventually sends Tedrick and Daria home.
"Congratulations on making it this far," Marcus says after they say their goodbyes. "And now for a little surprise... We'll be scrambling the teams and you'll be switching partners for next week."
I turn to Dominic. "But I don't want to dance with anyone else."
"I know. Everyone hates the switch up. It can mess with your progress and has been known to bring down great teams."
Around us others complain as a table with two glass bowls is rolled out.
"In this bowl are the names of all the pro dancers. In the other is a list of dance styles. Each celebrity will choose a slip of paper stating the name of their new partner. That new partner will then select a slip giving them the style of dance."
Panic strikes. It took me forever to get used to Dominic. He gets me. He's my safe zone in all of this.<
br />
One by one the celebrities go up and select a name. My only options are Ivan, who partners Haley, and from what I've heard and seen, he's quite the flirt. Or Pavel, Dominic's best friend. Clearly Pavel is the way to go. Dominic will help smooth the way.
But then Molly Gibson, the hair flipping, reality dating show girl selects Dominic. He gives me a sympathetic smile and leaves to join her. I feel hollow as I wait for my chance.
When it's finally my turn, I try to mask my nervousness as I reach into the bowl. I unfold the paper and read the name. Ivan. My heart sinks.
Ivan bounds to my side and gives me a bear hug then a quick wet kiss on the mouth. I step back. He fishes out the dance style and grins. "Rumba." The word rolls off his tongue seductively. "The dance of love. Oh, baby, we are going to be fabulous together."
But it doesn't sound fabulous at all. Ivan is the guy Hank warned me about. He's always hitting on the women in the show. He gives me a satisfied smile.
Once all the new teams are paired up, Marcus calls for our attention. "Congratulations on your new partners. Now say goodbye to your old partners until next week. I can't wait to see how you all do."
I beeline over to Dominic. He reads my expression. "You're going to be fine. Ivan's a great dancer."
"But—"
"I know," he says. "The switch up is always the hardest part of the show. Hang in there and we’ll be back together soon.
Still the first thing I do when I get back to my apartment is FaceTime Tom and complain about the situation.
"It's only one week. How bad could it be?" he says with a laugh, but his doubtful expression isn't much relief. "And if you’re voted off it’s good news because you’ll come visit me."
And with that, I figure I can get through anything.
The next morning at the studio I find my way to the new rehearsal room. The space is similar to where Dominic and I practiced, but the camera crew and producer are new as is Ivan with his black hair slicked back with too much product and wearing a muscle-revealing black tank and jeans.
"Ah, there's my eager little minx, right on time."
I give a weak smile and set my bag near the door. Do women really respond to this?
"I've been watching you since the show began," he says in a tone I can only call smarmy. He struts over to me. "Are you ready to be schooled in the dance of love?"
"Um, you bet," I answer, trying to find the right mix of willingness to cooperate and yet not wanting to over engage. We take our place in the center of the room facing the wall of mirrors.
"The rumba is the slowest of the Latin dances, which lends it to also being the most erotic." He takes me in his arms, closer than seems necessary. "The core of the dance is a basic box step."
He guides me into the steps, which really are rather simple. We go over it a few times.
"But what makes the rumba different is the quick, quick, slow pattern." His arm on my lower back tightens so that our bodies are pressed together as he leads me into the moves.
Maybe if I imagine I'm in Tom's arms this won't be so uncomfortable, but Ivan's pungent cologne makes that impossible.
"Very nice. You catch on quickly. Now you add hip movement," he says in a low whispery voice, his cigarette breath in my face. "You see, it's like sexual foreplay, building and teasing in a constant movement of seduction." With his hooded eyes on mine, he grinds his hips against me.
I push against his arms, forcing him to release me, and step away.
"Ah, what is this? You are shy?" He says, feigning surprise.
I notice the camera guy focusing on me. I want to tell Ivan to take his trumped up Latin accent and rumba his pretentious ass outta there, but instead say, "Nope. Just need a little space."
Ivan chuckles. "Such an innocent you are, jumpy as a young colt. But I will change all that. Mark my word. By Monday night, you will be an alluring seductress with every man in the audience wanting you."
What I want is to vomit.
By the end of the day I'm so disgusted I flee the building and rush home to shower off his odorous stench.
My first impulse is to call Tom, but he already warned me he couldn't talk tonight. He's doing some sort of workshop for another show, which makes no sense since he's in a hit show, but on top of it he has a two-show day, and then the workshop and a show tomorrow too. With him unavailable I call my best friend.
"Oh my God, Anna. Ivan is a total piece of work!"
"He does come off as pretty confident on the show."
I check the cupboard for a bottle of wine, but I have none. "It's more like egotistical, puffed-up, grade-A asshole." I slam the door shut and settle on a lemonade.
"He can't be that bad."
"And he's the handsy-ist guy I've ever encountered." I shudder in revulsion. It's not just how often he touches me, but how he does it. If a guy touched me that way at a bar, I'd throw a drink at him.
"He's probably trying to get a rise out of you. You'll have to fight fire with fire."
"And how do I do that?"
"You could play along and meet him grope for grope."
"Yuck."
"Or you could work a little passive-aggressive magic on him?"
Now she has my attention. "Go on."
"You're so dedicated. Have you ever watched his partner Haley? She totally runs the show with him. Take a page from her book. Show up late. Take your time. Don't be so willing to get to work. Keep your phone on and I'll text and call you every ten minutes. It'll throw him off his game."
"You think Haley has been acting that way on purpose? I thought she was just flighty."
"Okay, maybe she is, but she's also a model. She deals with jerks like him ten times a day. I doubt she's a total airhead."
I think of how she saunters around with her nose in the air avoiding rehearsal. I figured she didn't care? But I can see how it could be a defense mechanism.
"I can do that."
The next day I saunter into rehearsal at eleven o'clock.
"There you are. I was afraid you forgot about me," Ivan says pursing his lips in a pout.
My stomach churns, but I gush, "I am so sorry. I overslept and that never happens." I take my time setting down my bag and organizing my things. When I can't stall any longer, I join him in the center of the room. He opens his arms as if I'd step right in for his groping session. At the last second I turn back, leaving him with only air, and dig out my phone to send Anna a quick text.
Satisfied, I finally return and stop two feet away and face the mirror.
"I'm over here, kitten," he purrs.
"Of course." I turn and he steps closer.
"Let's see if you remember the routine after lazing about in bed all morning." He holds out his arms and I take his hand, his arm clamping tight at my waist. I fight the urge to stiffen and instead smile amiably.
We work through the steps and I'm amazed at how well I remember it as Ivan's teaching technique is so different from Dominic's.
"Excellent my brilliant little protégé. Today I will school you on passion, allure, the je ne sais quoi. The audience must see your desire, feel our heat. It will be as if we're making love." He speaks in what I assume is his bedroom voice, husky and over pronouncing each word while his hand caresses my upper ass.
I choke back my revulsion.
"Look deep into my eyes and feel my desire."
Focusing on him is near impossible.
"Relax your body. Come closer."
I lean in, and maybe it was his cloying cologne, or maybe it was a self-defense mechanism against his smarminess, but out of nowhere I let out a huge, juicy, "Achoo!"
Ivan freezes and I see the evidence of my sneeze glistening on his face. He releases me with a look of disgust, and I fight the urge to bust out laughing.
"Oh my gosh. I guess I'm coming down with a cold." I blow my nose then reach out to mop up his face with the damp tissue. He jerks and stumbles away.
After that Ivan keeps his distance. The loud pinging of my phon
e every time Anna texts, keeps the distractions coming. And when my phone unexpectedly sounds Tom's ringtone, I scramble off and spend twenty minutes as I go into detail about my various ideas for Anna's bachelorette party I’m throwing after the show is over.
"You and your friends should fly to New York and hold it here," he suggests. "You can all stay at my place."
"That's an amazing idea. Let me run it by the girls and see."
Ivan keeps huffing from across the room, so I say my goodbyes and get back to work.
The rest of our rehearsals are better as I make sure to wipe my nose a lot in case Ivan wants to get too close. We fine-tune every move and step of the dance until it's second nature. But on Sunday after watching our camera blocking, Dominic pulls me aside.
"What do you think?" I ask, eager for his approval. He is my true partner and how Ivan and I do affects him as much as me.
"Well," he hesitates, searching for words. "It's obvious you don't like Ivan."
I'm taken aback. "It is?" I can't stand him, but I didn't think that came out in the dance. I just didn't want the leech groping me and trying to get me into bed all the time.
"It's like you're back to week two and won't look him in the eye. Half the rumba is the connection to your partner. Chemistry is everything. You’re better than this."
I blow out my breath and push my hair back. "He's a total creeper."
Dominic smirks. "I know, but if you don't work on chemistry, we're going home on Tuesday. And trust me, Ivan won't care. It's less competition for he and Haley."
"But how am I suppose to do that when I find him repulsive." I glance over at Ivan chatting up one of the troupe dancers. He looks up when she points out that we're watching him.
"Come on. I'll show you." Dominic drags me off to the lobby where we can have privacy. When he's satisfied there's no one else around, he takes dance position. "Remember, every move has an intention. You can't just go through the motions. You have to connect with him."
"But anytime I give Ivan the slightest encouragement, he seems to think I'll want to tango between the sheets."
"Tomorrow night you'll be done with him. You can fake it until then. Now let's give this a shot. Pretend I'm Ivan."
If Ever Page 12