Sasha: Book One

by Tonya Plank

  “Okay, okay. Ya umnaya eee krasivaya zhenshchina. You’re right, it is easier once you take one syllable at a time. Like you said.”

  “Yes. See how much I know. Very good, and it’s true.” I gave her a short but ever-so-sweet kiss on the lips.

  “Okay, now what did I just say? I’m really horny and…I want you to come on my…”

  “Rory! Would I have you say that? Seriously?”

  She backed up and looked me squarely in the eyes, frowning as if thinking about it.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Mmmm, probably not,” she said.

  I shook my head sadly. “For all that we’ve done together, you don’t know me very well.” But I couldn’t feign being upset for long. I felt my mischievous smile returning.

  “Okay, so what was it? What did I just say?” she prodded.

  “Believe it or not, you just said, ‘I am a smart and beautiful woman.’”

  “Aw, really?” She blushed. “That’s so sweet, Sasha.”

  “Yes, really.”

  She nuzzled her nose into my cheek and took my hands and wrapped them around her back. “Okay, so now every time you think I’m laughing at you—and I never am—you can remember that I had such trouble calling myself a woman.” She giggled. “That I had such trouble with everything but the ‘I’ and the ‘and’ actually. And those I probably didn’t pronounce completely right either.”

  “It’s very hard to speak another language,” I whispered, rubbing my lips along her forehead. “You did very well.” I trailed kisses down her nose to her cheek.

  “Mmmm,” she moaned, then stopped, and said, “Teach me something else.” She squealed and made another little bounce.

  “Something else? Why?” I moaned, my lips still on her neck. I wanted action now, no more words.

  “Because I’m having fun learning Russian! Come on!”

  I took a breath and lifted my chin. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

  “Oh come on, you’re not serious! That’s crazy hard!”

  “It’s three words.”

  “Yeah but the second and third one are crazy.”

  “They aren’t crazy at all. You wanted to learn. Come on. So easy.”

  “Okay, I got the first word. Ya! I something something!”

  “Very good,” I laughed. “Tebya…”

  “Dubya. Like the way George W. Bush says his middle initial.”

  “No, t, as in TV. Tebya.”

  “Oh tubya. Bathtub.”

  “Rory, no bathtub. Tebya, like rhymes with the name, English name, Ted. There’s a movie with Mark Wahlberg.”

  “Oh, tebya.”

  “Yes, yes. Okay, now lyublyu,” I finished.

  “Oh good lord. Leeyou…the vowels together are hard,” she faux-whined.

  “Lyublyu,” I repeated.

  “Leeyoubleeyou,” she said.

  Damn, was she sweet, trying so hard like that. It was a long, hard word. Watching her mouth form those letters, I just had this vision of her…doing something else with that beautiful little mouth. And of tasting it fully, with my tongue. And her words! I couldn’t help myself. I tossed our things quickly off the couch, then pulled her down onto it, kissing her hungrily.

  “What did I say?” she asked, pushing me up just long enough to utter those words.

  “You guess,” I managed, now kissing more greedily until I was nearly sucking the back of her gloriously long neck, creating marks that would most definitely show the next day. Except no one would see them since they were on her back. Unless she wore her hair up. Which she’d just have to not do. Unless she wanted to show people what I’d done to her. My love for her. My lust for her. I fumbled with her zipper, but not for long. Soon the jacket was off, followed by her skirt, then shoes, then tights. Before I got to the leotard straps, she went for my belt buckle.

  “I can’t stay the night,” she moaned between breaths, unzipping my pants and sliding them over my ass, along with my underwear.

  “That’s why we’re not going upstairs. See, very close to the door,” I said, pointing to it, which made her cackle with delight. I tugged down on her spaghetti straps while she pulled my shirt up and over my head.

  An hour later, we were still on that couch. Me, running my fingers up and down her arms, between soft kisses to her neck and lips; she, tracing the lines of my winged thinker, nuzzling her nose into my bicep.

  “I don’t want to go but you know I have to.”

  “I know,” I said after a long pause. “We didn’t do much practicing tonight.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “What time do you think you will be able to be here tomorrow? Or is it futile to ask?”

  She shrugged. “Probably futile. But hopefully by six.”

  “Okay. I will have Greta here by then. You can start choreographing and I will be home at nine. I need to take a very short trip again. I will be gone Wednesday through Sunday. I will book Greta every night this week from six to nine. You two will get a lot done and we will be together again by Saturday.” I said this all really fast, and ended with a long kiss to her forehead. I didn’t want her to ask too many questions. I had my very last performance with Xenia. The last of my career with her. So it would be bittersweet. And, of course, as always, I’d planned to do more searching for my sister. I couldn’t go to Japan and not do that. I just couldn’t. Even for Blackpool rehearsal.

  “A trip? Another show dance with Xenia?”

  I nodded. “This will be my last one with her.”

  “Wow. Japan again?”

  I nodded again.

  “They really love you guys there.”

  “They really love ballroom. It’s probably more popular there, I mean per capita, than anywhere else in the world.”

  She giggled. “Per capita!”

  I rolled my eyes. “When will you learn that I have taken a lot of English lessons?” I shook my head in playful reprobation.

  “I just hope I will dance there someday with you,” she whispered.

  “Oh that will most definitely happen. I assure you.” I kissed her softly, slowly. Afterward, she sighed deeply. I could see the slight worry in her eyes. I couldn’t say I blamed her. If she was going off on trips with James all the time, even if they were purely professional, I’d be a bit pissed too.

  “Rory?” I said, cupping her chin in my hands, looking into her beautiful eyes. “I love you.”

  Her irises lit up. I felt the blood rush through her veins, by my hold on her wrist. Her whole face began to glow. “Oh, wow. I-I-I love you too!” she stuttered.

  “I know. You told me earlier. In Russian.”

  She looked stunned before breaking into a giddy smile. I brought her chin toward my face and gave her a long, delicious kiss that hopefully banished all of those silly worries.

  ***

  I was happily surprised not to receive any texts from Rory the following night. When I got home, she and Greta were choreographing our rumba routine.

  “I love this!” Rory squealed.

  “Show me.” I threw my things down and pulled out a barstool. They went through the routine, Greta dancing my parts. It was lovely. Greta had taken advantage of Rory’s ballet background and flexibility. She had her start off with this delicious arabesque penchée where she lifted her long leg straight up in the air, while bowing down to me. After she lowered it, I took her, pulled her close, then spun her into a series of rapid-fire chaîné turns before taking her into a sexy, twisty spiral. At one point, the highlight, I’d lunge toward her, while she wrapped her leg around my shoulder, so that when I rose, she’d be in a standing split. Very hot. Then I pulled her in a slide. So sexy, so beautiful.

  “Impressive,” I said, eyeing Rory’s leg, wrapped around Greta’s shoulder, from hip to toe. She giggled.

  “Okay, let’s see you now, Sasha,” Greta said, waving me over. Of course. I couldn’t wait to take Rory in my arms.

  We started with a couple walks toward each other. I sped up the last
one, to show Rory how we could interpret the rhythm differently from everyone else to make us stand apart. But she wasn’t expecting me to speed up. I kept forgetting she wasn’t a trained Latin dancer. And she still wasn’t that used to me. Since I’d caught her off guard, she nearly fell into me.

  “No, you should still do the arabesque. I’m not changing the choreography,” I tried to explain.

  Rory looked at Greta, as if for help.

  “I don’t think she understood what you were doing,” Greta said. “I didn’t lead her into it so fast like that. But it’s okay. It looks snazzier the way you did it. I like it.” She looked at Rory, nodding. “Now that she knows that’s what you’re doing, she’ll be ready next time. Try again.”

  We did. She was on my timing now, but when I pulled her in, she was so light, so un-sturdy, she nearly lost her balance.

  “I’m still getting used to your strength,” she said, voice now quivering. How quickly we could go from mad crazy lovemaking one night to fear and frustration the next.

  “It’s okay, Rory. No one expects perfection on the first go-round,” Greta piped in, giving her a wink and me a single raised eyebrow, her warning to remember our pact.

  I exhaled. I wasn’t going to get anxious. We’d get this. I’d trust Greta to make Rory understand, to teach her, so she’d get it. We tried it several more times and by the last time, Rory was finally able to control her leg lift and maintain her balance. Yes. It would be okay. It would.

  “Good. It’s really improving,” Greta said, echoing my thoughts. “Practice will make perfect. Let’s move on for now.”

  Then the chaîné turns. I whipped her into them too quickly; she lost control and went spinning too far away from me. She caught her balance but then wasn’t focused enough to spot when she turned and got dizzy. She almost fell.

  “Okay, so that’s going to be a really strong lead too,” Rory said, tittering. I knew she was nervous, but this was not a time to laugh. But I managed to hold my tongue.

  “Sasha is strong. I warned you,” Greta said to her.

  “It’s rumba. It’s dance of passion. The man’s lead must be strong to emanate passion.” I couldn’t help but chime in.

  Rory looked like she had something to say, but held her tongue.

  “Again, she just needs to get used to your strength. You don’t know how strong you are, Sasha,” Greta said to me. “Try again.”

  It got better but remained far from perfect. I felt like I was pushing and pulling her too hard. It had to be like that to an extent to evoke the fiery passion of the dance. It wasn’t a soft, lyrical waltz. She had to get used to my strength and counter me. If I was any gentler, we’d be dancing a ballet pas de deux.

  Rory eyed the clock. “I’m sorry, you guys. I really need to go.”

  “I know,” I said after a breath, forcing my voice to be soft and low.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow at six,” Rory said to Greta on her way out.

  “Will do,” Greta answered. Then she propped up Rory’s chin and whispered something to her that I couldn’t hear.

  Rory nodded.

  I walked her to her car. She opened the door and turned back to face me. “Have a good trip,” she said, trying hard to smile though I knew she was upset our practice was less than stellar.

  I suddenly felt a ferocity burn inside me. I would not have a good trip. I wanted nothing to do with Xenia at this point; I wanted to be practicing with Rory. We weren’t progressing rapidly enough; we were nowhere near where we needed to be. But Xenia and I had already promised our services and been paid. And though I had another reason for visiting Japan, I knew in my hearts of hearts I wasn’t going to find Tatiana. It would be a waste again.

  “Thank you,” I said, not allowing my heat to show. “It will be Sunday before we know it. And when I return we will work very hard.”

  She nodded. I was touching her car door, but not any part of her body. Frustrated as I was with our practice, I wanted badly to scoop her up in my arms, carry her upstairs. But she had to work, and I had to fume. Alone.

  Chapter 22

  While Xenia slept on the plane to Tokyo, I consulted my map of strip clubs. What a pervert I’d look like if anyone saw this, I thought. I hadn’t tried every single club, but I’d definitely done an extensive sampling. I decided to focus again on central Tokyo, near the touristy area, and the agency. I didn’t know what else to do. I was out of ideas. I thought about what it would be like to be here with Rory, after we won Blackpool. If that ever had a chance in hell of happening. I couldn’t keep Tatiana from Rory like I did Xenia. I couldn’t lie. Not if she was here with me. Of course that would mean telling her all about my fucked-up family, my past, my guilt for what happened to Tatiana. Could I bear to reveal all of that to her?

  The first night’s work yielded the same results as always: people who didn’t know her. One dancer even recognized me. I guess I’d been to that club before. I wasn’t worried about getting in trouble anymore because I wasn’t staying in any one club long enough for anyone to get angry with me for bothering patrons.

  I returned to the hotel my first night feeling defeated and angry at myself for hoping for different results from all the times before. Why hope when nothing had changed?

  It was the following day that it happened. It was a few hours before my performance and I was in a park near the hotel, showing Tatiana’s photo to some random passersby. I looked at my watch. I had enough time to take one more walk around the park. As I was circling a fountain, I spotted her from behind. She was gazing into the water, at her reflection. I felt a shockwave travel down my spine. She had the same long, white blonde hair, and she stood looking down exactly as Tatiana would. She was the same height and had the same thin, petite frame. She wore tight faded jeans, pink Converse sneakers and a black and white checkered pea coat. She wore no socks with the shoes. It was cold here. She was Russian. Russians were used to cold; we had thick skin.

  I approached cautiously, trying hard not to get my hopes up. She might well be Tatiana’s replacement at the agency, might not know a thing about her. When I was a few feet away, she turned her head a little to the other side, and lifted her face to the sun, as if to catch some of its rays. It created a glowing, halo effect around her beautiful small head.

  “Tatiana,” I cried out, without meaning to shout so.

  She whipped her head in my direction. When our eyes met, I clearly saw it wasn’t her.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, after swallowing my disappointment. “You looked like someone else. My mistake.”

  But she continued to look at me, her eyes wide and searching. Had she understood me? I then realized I’d spoken in Russian. I’d thought she was Russian but now wasn’t sure.

  “Well, have a nice day,” I said in English. But as I began to turn away, I realized something. She’d responded to the name Tatiana. I looked back up at her.

  Her eyes were still fixed on me, and now they registered I’d realized something. She looked scared, and turned to walk away.

  “No, don’t. Please wait,” I pleaded. I pulled out the photo of Tatiana. She stopped walking but her back remained toward me. I reached around her and placed the photo in front of her face. “Please. Please tell me if you know this woman.”

  She was still turned away from me but I felt nervous energy overtake her whole body. She literally began shaking. She tried to push my hand out of the way but I wouldn’t let her. I remained firm. She knew something.

  “Please, she is very dear to me. I love her very much. Please, I am so worried about her.” My voice cracked.

  Finally, the girl turned to me. I saw pure fear in her eyes.

  “I am her brother, Sasha.” If Tatiana had told her about my uncle, I wanted to make sure she knew I wasn’t him.

  She shook her head, and closed her eyes.

  “What do you know?” I placed both hands on her shoulders and began shaking her. I knew I shouldn’t have gotten physical but I needed her to give me answ
ers. I’d waited too long. I was desperate.

  She shook her head. “She is fine. She is happy with him. She wants you to leave her alone now.” She said this all in broken English. She had a solid Russian accent.

  “Him? Who is ‘him’?” I nearly shouted, still gripping her, now more tightly.

  “She wants nothing to do with her family. She made that clear. She wants to be with this man. She is in love.”

  “Who? Who is he? Is he the one who paid her debts? Are you sure she’s in love with him?”

  She struggled out of my arms. I continued to hold her, increasing my grip. She looked around, as if silently calling out for help. “Please let go of me.” Now she spoke in Russian.

  “Did you work with her at the agency?”

  She nodded. “She is happy. She doesn’t want you. Leave her alone and leave me alone.”

  People were now looking. I lightened up. She broke free of my grip and began running away. I couldn’t let her get away, despite people’s stares. I easily overtook her. I grabbed her again around the waist.

  “If you don’t let go of me immediately, I will scream,” she whispered in Russian.

  “Please,” I said, without releasing her. “You’re all I have to go on. Please talk to me.”

  “I already have.”

  Two older white men approached. “Miss, are you okay?” one asked with an English accent.

  “No, I’m not,” she said, giving me one last ‘get away from me before it’s too late’ look.

  “Sir, I think this woman would like you to leave,” the other man said to me. “We’ll call for help if you don’t release her.”

  I looked at her again. Her eyes were watery. I didn’t know if she was really crying or if it was a ploy for sympathy.

  “Immediately, sir,” the man added.

  I reluctantly released her.

  “Thank you,” she said to the men, then ran as fast as she could away from me. I automatically began to take off after her, but both men forcibly held me back.

  “You need to be on your way. There’s an officer right over there,” the other man said, pointing.