Slave to the Rhythm (47 page)

The ugly beauty of Las Vegas . . .

The backdrop was of a half-finished skyscraper in some unfamiliar European city that I guessed was Ljubljana, as a construction gang of six men strode onto the stage. In the lead was Ash, wearing boots, overalls, tool belt and hardhat—and looking super macho, his back arching, his arms whipping into the strong, masculine shapes of the Paso Doble, banderillas stamps and the exaggerated Flamenco taps with his feet, disdainful promenade and counter promenade.

Although the bib overalls covered his chest, his arms were bare, the spotlights catching the play of his toned biceps when he moved.

A tarpaulin became a matador’s cape, as the men lunged and fought their way across the stage in a series of striking and scripted poses.

I doubt anyone had ever seen ballroom dancing that was so aggressive, so red blooded and muscular. And definitely not with hardhats.

“Oh my!” said Mom, her mouth dropping open.

And then I saw Luka slink onto the stage, shaggy hair and yellow contact lenses that gave him a feral intensity to match his wolfish prowl. This was Volkov, all his cruelty on display, and when he smiled, his lips pulled back in a sneer, his teeth appeared to be sharp and pointed.

I drew in a deep breath. I knew this was Luka, I knew he was acting, but it was chilling to watch him stalk Ash across the stage from the shadows.

Then the music switched, and I smiled to see Ash channeling his inner Elvis as his hips rolled to
Bossa Nova Baby
, integrated into a fast-paced jive as the other construction workers joined him then peeled off one by one.

We had a brief glimpse of an airplane against a backdrop of rolling clouds before the scene changed to Las Vegas in all its nighttime glory.

Ash tossed away his hardhat and tools, and dropped the bib from his overalls leaving him bare chested, his prominent abs on display. He had a huge, surprised grin on his face as eight Las Vegas showgirls strutted onto the stage to
Hanky Panky
, all towering headdresses and wide smiles, led by Yveta, thick makeup hiding her scar, but only as long as she kept smiling. The moment she stopped, the ridged scarring was obvious. How bitterly ironic.

Gary sashayed onto the floor, doing the gayest jive I’d ever seen, and the audience started to laugh. Ash and Gary danced side-by-side, sharp kicks and flicks, moving so rapidly I was out of breath just watching. Then Ash leap-frogged over Gary, achieving the full splits mid-air and landing perfectly in time. Gary did a slide through Ash’s open legs, winking at the audience.

Two of the showgirls danced forward and the jive became increasingly athletic as the girls threw themselves at Ash and Gary in a series of stunning Lindy Hop inspired jumps and lifts. The audience clapped and cheered their appreciation.

I noticed that the wolf character was still in the background, watching silently as he prowled the edges of the stage, an ominous presence, occasionally licking his lips. Creepy.

Mom squeezed my hand and I leaned my head toward her.

“Ash is amazing! This is fantastic!”

I threw her a wide grin.

“Told you so!” I whispered.

The jive continued with increasing craziness as Ash exited the stage for his first costume change.

Moments later, the backdrop became an opulent hotel room with two women dressed in a hooker’s version of Catholic schoolgirls, perched on a couch. I hoped there weren’t any real schoolgirls in the audience.

Then Oliver swept onto the stage. Even though I knew he wasn’t the real Sergei, it gave me chills to see the navy three-piece suit and neatly-combed gray wig. Volkov spun him around and they crossed the stage together in a slow foxtrot to the strains of Sam the Sham’s
Little Red Riding Hood
.

Yveta and Ash edged onto the stage looking lost and scared, hand in hand. Yveta wore a fifties-style prom dress in soft pink, and Ash had a scarlet silk shirt that clung to his chest and arms, disappearing into tight black pants that showcased his trim waist, narrow hips and beautifully toned butt.

The music was chilling, telling the story of these two innocents, babes in the wood, dancing with wolves.

A tasty treat for a big bad wolf . . .

The sinister music rose and fell as the creepiest American smooth that I’d ever seen flowed across the stage. Ash danced with Yveta and then was whisked away by Sergei. I choked as Oliver stroked Ash’s chest and ass suggestively. I wondered how much this bothered Ash, how many bad memories it brought back. I was shocked when Oliver/Sergei cupped Ash’s genitals and smiled. A horrified gasp undercut the sensual music as the audience grasped the changing tone of the story.

The two Catholic schoolgirls danced together, their movements so sexual that I broke out into a sweat and saw Dad shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Never had ballroom dancing been so beautiful and so disturbing.

I nearly retched when Sergei pulled out a knife and drew it across one of the girls’ throats, filled a wineglass with the ‘blood’ and then drank it as she slumped to the floor, her eyes lifeless.

It was so shocking, so unexpected, and a brilliant metaphor for everything that had happened.

“That’s too much,” Mom muttered, unable to look.

She wasn’t the only one.

“It’s real,” I whispered back.

“Too real,” she said, and I couldn’t disagree as my stomach churned.

The lights dimmed and the music warped and changed again, this time to a nightclub beat. The scenery was familiar . . .

Vanessa tapped me on the shoulder.

“Laney, is that
our
nightclub?”

She was right. Ash had recreated the club in Las Vegas where we’d met. And he was dancing suggestively with six women, seeming to promise them everything as they tucked dollar bills in the front of his pants.

Jealousy flared hot and deep inside me.

It’s just dancing
, I told myself. But it was more than that—it was Ash announcing to the world that he’d whored himself in Las Vegas—and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

I asked him once if he would have tried to get money from me.

His answer was enigmatic.

“When I dance, I lose myself in the music—it isn’t good for business.”

What could I say to that?

One of the women ripped his shirt open and I wanted to break every finger on her manicured hand.

It’s just dancing
, I told myself And then the cute, poppy lyrics of Little Mix, but now with an uneasy undercurrent of sex for sale.

I could barely watch, until the artistry and sassiness of the sexy and seductive cha-cha with its Cuban breaks and vividness drew me in. It became a party, almost an orgy, as Ash danced with each of the women and all the backing dancers were on the stage, thrusting and grinding lewdly.

It was men with sleek stomachs, polished like Greek bronzes, tapered waists, strong thighs and tight asses.

It was women as voyeurs, window shopping for beautiful young men. I understood it, recognized it, but it made my blood boil when Ash’s partner looked at him with lust in her beautiful eyes. And God, it looked as though Ash felt the same.

It’s a performance, a beautiful goddamn performance.

But still, Volkov and Sergei lurked in the background, the evil puppeteers, glimpsed between the dancers so that you wondered if you’d really seen them or whether your paranoia was running overtime—and knowing that’s how it had been for Ash.

Slowly the music faded away, leaving just the jagged sound of a heartbeat as two pure white spotlights lit the stage. Sarah sat alone at a table, wearing a simple yellow dress that caught the light, the bodice glittering with tiny crystals.

She looked so vulnerable, so beautiful, and Ash stared at her, mesmerized. Another hot bolt of jealousy made me clench my fists.

A slow pulse of music started, in time with the heartbeat, and I recognized one of Ash’s favorite songs by
Adele
, but the lyrics were subtly altered as a man’s voice poured out his longing for a lost love.

Ash held his hand out to her, as if asking her to dance, and I gasped. That was me! Sarah was me! He’d recreated the moment that we met. This was how he saw me, how he felt when he thought of me. Tears formed in my eyes and I rubbed them away impatiently.

When the table was rolled away, revealing Sarah sitting in a wheelchair, the audience inhaled sharply.

I saw Ash’s shock. I saw the disbelief. I saw Sarah’s pain. I saw her humiliation and defeat—
my
humiliation and defeat.

Mom gripped my hand tightly.

But then Ash scooped her from the wheelchair, carrying her in his arms, her bare feet moving in exquisite rumba shapes, although they never touched the ground.

I was awed by the beauty of the dance, amazed at the display of physical strength as Ash carried 110 pounds of dancer in a way that appeared effortless, but I knew wasn’t.

And I finally understood why he had barred me from rehearsals. Because this was his gift to me, the dance we would never have; the first dance as it should have been but could never happen.

And this time I couldn’t hold back the tears. Every step, every look at
her
, every gesture he made to
her
, was to me. And he carried her for the entire dance.

And I forgave him for being stubborn and secretive. And I forgave him for being intense and driven. And I forgave him for shouting at me when he was stressed and tired. I forgave every time he’d closed me down or shut me out, because this was him telling me through every step, through every movement of his beautiful body, that I was loved, that I was desired, and that everything that had happened between us was real.

We were real.

When the dance ended, the audience stood on their feet and applauded. Except me, of course, because just like the night we met, I couldn’t stand on my own two feet.

The house lights came on, but the applause didn’t stop for several minutes.

All around me people were smiling and wiping their eyes; Angie’s reporter friend was scribbling furiously in his notebook.

“Oh my God!” Vanessa said, shock and awe in her voice. “That was
you!
That’s your story. He danced that for you! With you!”

“Yes,” I said, my voice lost and small.

Mom threw me a look of concern, then pushed my wheelchair up the slope to the tiny theater bar.

People pointed and whispered when they saw the chair, and a couple even blatantly took photographs of me. I was surprised and annoyed, but then two reporters came up to me, phones in hand, wanting impromptu interviews.

I steeled myself and smiled, answering their questions as well as I could. I was grateful when Selma arrived to help, agreeing to set up interviews with the principal dancers in the next few days.

“The reviews are going to be good, Laney,” she said once we were alone, her tone serious.

I smiled sadly at her, already knowing where she was going with this.

“There’ll be offers from theaters across the country. I’ll be able to put together a national tour.”

“I know.”

Her expression shifted.

“You’re not going to come, are you?”

I sighed and looked down.

“No. My body has been going through some changes, I know you’ve noticed. I’ve not been well . . . as well as I should be. That happens sometimes with RA. You have months, years even, of being at a plateau, and for no reason that you can think of, the meds don’t seem to hold it back anymore. My doctor wants me to try a higher dose of chemo, maybe even different drugs. And . . . I just feel I’d do better if I stayed in one place. At home.”

She nodded slowly.

“Have you told Ash?”

I shook my head.

“No, not yet. I wanted him to have this . . . tonight.”

“He’ll be devastated.”

“I know. But I’ll never be part of his world like that. It’s not possible for me. And I don’t think he can live without it.”

“Are you sure about this, Laney? Because I think it’s
you
he can’t live without.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, but I was saved trying to find a reply when the Mayor and his wife came to shake my hand and say how pleased they were that this ‘phenomenal work’ had premiered in Chicago. Then they had their photos taken by the Press as they stood with smiles next to the woman in the wheelchair.

The Police Commissioner came and said a few words to my mom and dad, smiled at me, and disappeared into the crowd.

There was a feverish excitement in the bar, everyone wondering how the rest of the show would play out, despite many of them having read about Ash’s story in the newspapers.

“Did that really happen?” asked Vanessa avidly. “Did that Sergei guy really drink a woman’s blood?”

I shivered at the mention of his name, and Jo elbowed her in the ribs.

“What?” Then she looked at me. “Oh, sorry.”

“I think it’s a metaphor,” I said, my voice tight.
At least I hoped it was.

My cousin Paddy strolled across, casting an appreciative eye over my friends.

“Some show,” he said thoughtfully, handing me a glass of whiskey.

“What do you think of it?”

“Totally fucked up,” he grinned, “but the dancing is fuck hot. Nice one, cuz,” and he sauntered away, winking at Vanessa.

“Is he . . . ?”

“Off limits,” I said, as she pouted at me.

Jo laughed.

“Trust me. Paddy has slept with half of Chicago, and the other half is in his contacts list. Don’t even think about it.”

I groaned as I saw the light of challenge in Vanessa’s eyes. Oh well, she’d been warned.

As everyone settled into their seats for the second half, my nerves were wearing a permanent groove. I
felt
the show was good; it
seemed
people were enjoying it. But my objectivity was long gone, so I couldn’t be sure.

I had to smile when the stage burst to life in a blaze of color and light as the pulsing, happy beats of
Viva Las Vegas
erupted from the orchestra pit.

Ash swaggered onto the stage, dressed all in black, although sequins on his shirt caught the light and I think someone had dusted his chest with glittery powder. He was doing some sexy shimmy thing, followed by samba rolls, his crotch pressing into Yveta’s ass. I winced, finding it hard to watch my husband getting so up close and personal with another woman, especially since I knew he’d slept with her before we’d met. I saw the way she watched him when she thought no one was looking and she totally ignored me.