by Tonya Plank
I shook off my thoughts and concentrated on the beautiful woman before me. I felt her concentrating as well. And she looked so much better when she did so. Her walks had much greater balance and control.
“It’s actually a little bit better,” I mumbled after she’d made a few rotations around the room. I wasn’t used to giving praise. Not to people I desperately wanted to improve. Even when they deserved it. It was wrong. I knew it was. Maybe I just feared praise would make her relax too much, think she didn’t have to continue working her ass off.
I walked up behind her, and, as before, made adjustments, then trailed her as she walked.
“Not perfect, by any means,” I added. “But better. Not anywhere near as good as it should be. But better.” I was trying.
She glanced at me, eyebrows raised halfway up her forehead, a very worried look in her eye. Perhaps I needed to treat her differently than my former partners. Unlike them, her head seemed in no danger whatsoever of growing too big. Quite the opposite, in fact.
“Here, face mirror. Face the mirror,” I repeated, correcting myself. “Hold out your arms.”
She did as I said. I lightly pushed down on her shoulder, elongated her right arm by brushing my fingertips along it from the shoulder down to the wrist.
“Your rib cage moves first, remember. That’s what causes your arm to move. Otherwise it looks like you are just flailing about, flapping like a chicken.”
She laughed. I didn’t. I was all seriousness now. I drew my hand back up to her shoulder, placed my fingers just below her armpit. I held her side, my palm on her back, my fingers rounding around the edge of her breast. I placed my left hand on her left side in the exact same position. Intimate, yes. That’s what dancing was.
“First your leg goes,” I said, taking a step sideways. “Then, your hip follows.” I settled into my right hip, my pelvis so close behind her, her hips automatically moved forward and to the side in line with mine. “Then your rib cage.”
I moved her torso with my hands still on the outer edges of her breasts. It flashed through my mind that moving each hand a couple millimeters would place my palms directly over her nipples. But it was just a flash. I was a pro. And she was my student.
“Just feel how I am moving. I want you to emulate it in your practice.” I could feel her breathe. She was moving her muscles in unison with mine.
“You will have another chance to show me how much you can improve in two weeks’ time,” I said, releasing her after we’d danced the basic in this intimate way to an entire song.
“What do you mean?” She turned toward me.
“I know, we are missing a lot of lessons. That’s why I need you to practice.”
“I mean, why next week?”
She didn’t know about the competition in Orange County? I knew she was too new to want to compete, but it was all everyone was talking about. I assumed she was coming to watch. “It’s the competition in Orange County. I have several students competing during the day, and at night my new partner and I will compete in the pro division.”
She looked surprised.
“Rory, I would very much like for you to come and watch. I think it would be very educational for you. The students compete during the day and the professionals at night. I think you would get a great deal out of watching both. If you have time,” I added, remembering she was a lawyer and might not have the day off. But I also realized as I was speaking that I very much wanted her there. I needed her there, in a strange way. I wanted her to be a part of this someday. Someday soon.
“Oh, I’d love to!” she exclaimed.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Usually only students who were competing themselves showed so much enthusiasm. Rory was happy just watching. Because it meant she would learn. Her face was so aglow, I wanted badly to pull her into me and press my lips against hers.
“Good. Seeing you there will make me very happy. You seem very serious about dance and I think you will get a lot out of it,” I said instead.
I spotted Arabelle outside pacing. I glanced at the clock. We were five minutes over.
“I’m so sorry, Rory, I have to go now to prrrractice.” Ugh, those r’s. Sometimes they happened not out of frustration but out of excitement. “I look forward to seeing you Saturday.”
Her grin continued to cover her face, and she nodded rapidly. That cute, lightning-fast nod of hers was the tic that revealed her nervousness or excitement.
“And Rory?” I added as I opened the door for Arabelle. She turned back. “I also look forward to you not disappointing me next lesson,” I said in my most commanding tone, no grin, eyes straight open, piercing those beautiful, wondrous irises.
“Um, no, I won’t,” she squeaked, then turned and fled.
***
“So that new student of yours, the one I let you have?” Alessia began.
We were in the back room off the lobby and I was signing my pay sheets for the week. I turned to her and raised my eyebrows. She hadn’t actually asked a question. She still said nothing. “Rory Laudner?” I said.
“Yes, that’s it.” She smiled somewhat devilishly.
I had no idea what she was thinking. Nothing had happened between us. Yet. Had she thought we’d violated the no student-teacher fraternizing rule? I shrugged. “What about her?”
“Is she competing?”
I took a step back. “Competing? In O.C.?” It was a week away. She’d taken only three lessons with me thus far.
My expression must have spoken for me.
“It’s never too soon to start them on a competing track. And word has it, she’s quite good already.”
I stood still. I didn’t know if I wanted to subject Rory to all the political nonsense of student-teacher pro/am competitions. It could be such a mound of bullshit, with judges rewarding students based on how often they competed, how much money they brought to the organizers, in other words. Something told me Rory didn’t have the money for all the comps—I was sure she didn’t have Luna’s or Cheryl’s money, and definitely not their rich spouses. She was too good anyway. She was pro material. Not yet, but soon. But I couldn’t say that to Alessia. I was being paid to teach her. At least right now.
Alessia smiled. It was a smile laced with sweetness but deep down she was a businessperson. “This is how we make our money, Sasha. This is why your salary is so high.” She eyed the pay sheet I was currently signing.
Oh, please. I made most of my money performing in showcases around the world and winning and finaling in major championships. She knew that. But I didn’t want to rock any boats right now. I had to at least pay lip service to what she wanted to hear. I nodded politely, scribbled my signature, and walked out.
Chapter 14
I checked into the hotel in Brea, where the competition would be held, a couple hours early. I swam a few laps in the pool, showered, donned my tux and headed downstairs to meet each of my students for a brief practice. It always felt weird dressing like this in the morning. But such was the American Pro Am.
I danced with Svetlana first, my most serious student, from Russia—though I met her here. She didn’t have Rory’s raw talent, but she was a very good dancer with a pro career ahead of her. She was competing in the advanced Latin event and I hoped she’d place well. But it all depended on who else was dancing and what kind of money they’d put into the system over the years. This was the way the pro/ams were. This is why I wanted Sveta to go pro as soon as possible and didn’t even want Rory involved.
We went through each of our routines as Cheryl and Luna waited. “When’s it going to be our turn?” I heard Cheryl say, rather loudly, to Luna. The woman did not have a subtle bone in her body.
Sadie whispered something to her. I didn’t know what I’d done to deserve that woman, without whom things would be considerably more difficult. Whatever she’d said, she shut Cheryl right up.
The second Sveta and I finished, Cheryl whipped off her dance robe. Her costume was quite…something. It was onyx
and covered millimeter to millimeter with crystals. The thing must have cost a small fortune. Maybe not even a small one. It clung to her body like it was a second skin and had a slit up one leg and a low-cut back. It was a nice, sexy cut for a woman who was sure of herself; I just thought the stones were way overdoing it. She’d be flashing her money more than anything.
When I began to dance with her, I realized she was actually quite nervous. Her whole body shook and her hands clawed at me more than ever.
I whispered the step sequence as we danced. She’d forgotten what little she’d actually known. I placed both hands on her upper arms and told her not to worry, it was her first time and she was going to do just fine.
“Oh I know I am,” she snapped, rather loudly.
Okay, then. I released her and exchanged raised eyebrows with Sadie before turning to Luna for her warm-up. Luna kept her robe on while we danced. I’d change into my matching top after dancing with Sveta.
After we finished, I told the women I’d planned to get a small bite to eat at the hotel’s restaurant, where I knew some of my fellow pro friends would be waiting. They followed me like puppy dogs. I met Arabelle there. She was among friends as well. She looked regal, standing straight up, elongating her neck, her long, lithe limbs crossed gracefully at the ankles and wrists. She was only half as beautiful as Rory, but I wished Rory would see her posture and emulate it. She looked the quintessential dancer. Her hair was tied back into a chic French twist, and her voice was light and delicate as she laughed and chatted. Our gazes caught and we exchanged pleasant smiles. I had a feeling those might be our last pleasantries for a while.
Some friends patted me on the back, asked me how I was doing. Maurizio, a ballroom champion from the studio, invited me to sit with the gang. There were several others there who I knew from local and national comps. Most of my good friends from Russia and Europe still lived and worked overseas. We only saw each other at Blackpool and the World championships. Or at the pro performances in Japan.
“That’s right, you’re not with Xenia anymore?” Maurizio said.
I nodded, realizing it was a little lonely here not having my longtime partner with me. But I had to admit it was less lonely than in the past couple of years, when we only fought all the time. I longed to have another long-term, close-knit partnership, someone I knew inside and out and who knew me as well. Glancing at Arabelle, I knew it wasn’t going to be with her. She seemed to read my mind. Her body spoke my thoughts; a sad look overcame her.
“Sit down, man,” said Maks, a Latin pro also from Russia who taught at a studio near UCLA.
As I inched into the booth, Cheryl plopped down right next to me, putting her arm around me. Her jitters were completely gone; her confidence was back. Her hip rubbed against mine, I could feel the jewels through the silky fabric of the robe. She crossed her legs and the stiletto of her left dance shoe landed right between my calves, and she toed my right leg.
Just as I was about to excuse myself, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see Sadie, who was giving me an insistent look as if she had something to tell me. I had no idea if she did, but it gave me an out.
“Oh right,” I said, as if her gaze reminded me of something I had to do immediately. “Gentlemen, I will need you to excuse us. Or me, anyway. You can stay and talk if you like,” I said to Cheryl.
She laughed. “Of course I won’t stay without you!”
“Good seeing you, man,” Maurizio said to me.
“You too.”
“See you out there, dude,” Maks said, trying to develop an Americanized vocabulary as well.
Cheryl slowly inched out of the booth, then stood and wrapped her arm around me as I got up, as if I needed her help. I’d had needy students before, but Cheryl took the cake.
And then, without seeing her, I felt her. I sensed her presence. I don’t know how to explain it; it’s like the air suddenly became very quiet and perfumed, filled with the scent of Rory. I turned and there she was, peering into my soul from across the room. She wore a red sundress with a pink cardigan, and flat ballet-style shoes. She looked sweet and sexy at once. She was with a young Indian man I’d seen her with at the studio. I felt a sudden pang of jealousy, hoping they were just friends. They appeared that way. Her lips slowly curved up into a bashful smile.
“Let’s go see what Sadie wants, honey,” said Cheryl, her arm tightening around me, her nails digging into my bicep.
I nodded at Rory and mouthed a hello. She nodded back as her cheeks took on a rosy hue. Then the Indian man led her up to the bar.
“We need to get back to the ballroom. Svetlana’s round will be up soon,” Sadie said, lifting me out of my Rory-induced reverie.
“Oh, right,” I said, prying Cheryl’s fingernails from my biceps. I had another student to tend to.
When we entered the ballroom, heads turned. Lots of heads. I was used to all the pointing and whispers and chattering. I was a celebrity, after all, at these events. But I’d forgotten I had a new student. I felt a change in Cheryl. She straightened, smoothed her hair self-consciously, then threw her arm around me, giggled, and gripped my arm hard again. This was her way of showing nerves. She was not used to being the center of attention. Luna, on the other side of me, laced her arm through mine, pulling me from the other direction. I felt like these women were going to rip me down the middle.
Mitsi, a social dance teacher from the studio, waved at me. She sat at a banquet table with several others. I nodded back, unable to wave.
“I need to go find Sveta,” I said to Cheryl and Luna. “Our competition is coming up soon. Why don’t you sit with the studio.” I nodded toward Mitsi.
“Ooooh, I wanna go with you!” Cheryl wailed.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” I said, breaking free. I walked over to the table and pulled a padded chair out for her. She harrumphed as she sat.
“Hurry,” she said.
She was really testing my last nerve. She’d paid only for my time dancing with her. I owed Svetlana just as much time as I did her. Her possessiveness was getting freaky. Maybe it was just nervous energy.
I spotted Svetlana in the corner, by the water cooler. On my way toward her, various people I knew and didn’t know called out my name, wishing me luck, and congratulating me on prior wins. I waved to everyone and gave them a professional nod and smile, along with a “Thank you.” I enjoyed the limelight. I wouldn’t be a very good performer if I didn’t. I was always very conscious of being debonair, professional, dancerly, and gracious to fans. Unless I was pressed for time, I would sign autographs and pose for pictures. This usually happened only at Nationals or the international competitions. But I did have a few requests here.
“Mr. Sasha,” said an older Asian woman approaching me, handing me a program.
I glanced at Sveta, then nodded and said, “Of course.” She had the program opened to the page titled “National Champions,” which showcased Xenia and me, from last year’s national comp. A brief shot of panic went up my spine, wondering how Arabelle and I would compare this year. “Your name?” I asked, trying not to show my momentary surge of nerves.
“Amie,” she said, spelling it out.
As I signed, I felt it. Another presence. But not Rory’s. This one was full of negativity, very bad vibes. I looked up to see Cheryl’s beady green eyes aimed directly at me. It was only an illusion, I knew, because the room was dark. But those green eyes seemed to glow in the dark. She looked witch-like. She narrowed her lids. I’d said I was going to my student and here I was, acting like a diva and signing autographs. It was disconcerting how those eyes had sent a shockwave down my spine, nearly as much as the reminder of Xenia.
“Here you are,” I said to Amie, handing her program back. “Enjoy the competition.”
“Oh I will, I will. I can’t wait for you to dance, Mr. Sasha. And I don’t care who it with, I love you, Mr. Sasha,” she gushed. Like me, English wasn’t her first language, and, like me, she made mistakes when exc
ited.
“Thank you so much,” I said to her. I saw Cheryl getting up. I ignored her and hightailed it to Sveta. “How are you doing?” I said to Sveta. She was stretching.
“I’m ready,” she asserted.
“Yes, you are.” This one didn’t really need a pep talk from me.
I felt a pull on my arm. I turned to see, not Cheryl, but Luna. Her face was practically on fire she was so angry.
“What happened?” I said.
“That little rodent, that little beast, that, ugh, that wretched idiot who can’t dance her way out of a paper bag. That evil…lesbian!” she spat.
“Oh my God, I just saw it,” Cheryl said, running over and embracing her.
“What did you see?” I was completely confused.
“She stole my costume! That royal bitch!” Luna screeched. Several people, including Amie, the woman whose book I just signed, looked over. She was causing quite the scene.
“I…I don’t understand. You’re wearing…” I said, eyeing the fringe peeking out from under Luna’s robe. How could anyone have stolen Luna’s costume when she was wearing it?
“Argh! I have to deal with this,” she said, slapping my arm. “How dare she!”
“She saw you in it in the changing room at the studio. Remember that day we were all in our costumes and that Rory and that lesbian and trans-fucking weirdo were all there? They saw your costume. They’re trying to sabotage you!” Cheryl shrieked.
Svetlana and I looked at each other openmouthed. Sveta had a good amount of self-confidence, but I didn’t want this outburst to have any effect on her nerves.
Luna stomped toward one of the judges. Though it was the middle of a jive heat, she tugged on the arm of his tux. I couldn’t look.
“It’s okay,” I said, pulling Sveta aside and talking to her in Russian, trying to take her attention—along with that of everyone else in our vicinity—from what was happening on the edge of the dance floor between my student and a head judge.