Sasha: Book One Read online

  “Come on. I will be easy on you if you will be easy on me,” I said, extending my hand to her again.

  But it was too little, too late, and I knew it.

  “Let’s just finish the stupid routine,” she said with a smirk.

  We did. There were no more mishaps, at least none that would be obvious to the audience. But we were working against each other and we both knew it. When we finished, she simply picked up her bag and left. I ran my fingers through my hair, harshly, completely ruining my polished, professional, gelled-back style. Through the room’s glass windows, I now saw that everyone in the practice room was looking right at me, their eyes full of pity. Fuck that, I don’t need anyone’s pity, I thought. I stomped my Cuban heeled-shoe on the floor, slung my bag over my shoulder, and slammed the practice door behind me.

  It wasn’t until after I closed the practice room door that I sensed her presence. She’d been in the practice room, watching. My ballerina. I knew it. It was uncanny but I felt her. Why was she there? Was she taking lessons with someone else? I was about to return when I heard footsteps approaching the closed door. Many footsteps. The Xenia and Sasha Show was over and people were leaving the practice room en masse. I turned and went on my way. But I’d find out what my ballerina was up to.

  Chapter 4

  Alessandra was no help at all.

  “You expect me to find a student without giving me a name?” she said, tapping at the computer.

  “There’s no one with the last name of Prescott?” I said, hoping she wasn’t married to James. There were certainly no wedding bands.

  “Nope.”

  Relief washed over me. “Can you just search all of the newly registered students?” I asked her.

  She looked up, with one raised eyebrow, which meant I was being a royal pain. I knew I was, but that wasn’t going to stop me.

  “The extremes I go to for you.” She shook her head, but wore a sly smile. “So there are these two new students you’re so interested in now? This Cheryl I lost a longtime student for and now this other girl?”

  “No, not that I’m so interested in.” I didn’t know how to answer. “I want to broaden my student base, Alessia. And don’t worry, it looks like Cheryl will turn out to be another solid student.” By that I meant that she would spend a lot of money at the studio on privates and possibly competitions. And Alessia knew that.

  “Mmm hmm,” she said, suspicion lacing her voice.

  “I’m just curious,” I said, shooting her one raised eyebrow, warning her not to be a pain in my ass either. I could be secretive. I brought a lot of money into the studio for her. She could allow me my curiosity.

  She returned her eyes to the computer, the one brow still raised. “Mmm hmm,” she murmured. “Okay, we’ll just go through the I.D. photos of all the new students.” It was the school’s policy to take headshots of each student when they registered for their I.D. cards. She turned the monitor toward me. I shook my head. She clicked around again. Nope, not her. “What about…no, that’s a man…” We went through this for about ten minutes. Then, finally, her beautiful face lit up the screen.

  Again, the instant I saw her it was like looking into my sister’s eyes. Her angelic face, her large eyes full of wonder, her sweet honey wisps of hair framing her rosy cheeks.

  “Hmm, could be her,” I said, making sure not to show any emotion.

  “Rory Laudner. She registered a week ago. She’s signed up for Mitsi’s beginning rumba class, and it looks like she just signed up this morning for Pepe’s beginning mambo. That’s it. No international syllabus classes, no private lessons.”

  “But she’s reserving space in the private lesson room,” I said. “When is her next reservation?”

  Alessandra laughed. “You got a thing for this girl, Sasha?” Her eyebrow somehow shot up even farther, till it nearly hit her hairline.

  I simply blinked. We had a bit of a stare-off before her eyes returned to the screen. She didn’t need to know anything.

  “No reservations in the system. If you saw her there, either she wasn’t practicing herself and was just watching someone else, or she was practicing improperly, without paying. Hmm, maybe I’ll have to keep an eye on her?” But her tone was playful.

  “Your eyes won’t be needed. Mine will suffice,” I said. “Thank you, Alessia.” I turned to walk away.

  “Sasha,” she called out. “Don’t forget about the no-fraternizing policy I implemented here specifically for your lady problems.”

  I nodded without turning back. No, Alessia, I won’t forget.

  ***

  Xenia and I focused on cha-cha tonight, a faster dance. It meant slippery connections were even more fraught with danger because if she lost balance she could really go flying. At one point, she clawed my hand, Cheryl-like, and I flinched. She harrumphed. I didn’t feel like defending myself or apologizing. I was trying hard to overcome my tendency to criticize her. I managed to say nothing, which was the best I could at that point.

  I reached out to whisk her into a fast series of swivels around me, a cute, sexy move. But her hand was not where it was supposed to be, and I had to reach backward to grab her. She resisted me and kept going. I had to strong-arm her back in. I was turned at a weird angle and I felt a momentary pull in my lower back. A horrible place to have an injury, possibly the worst.

  “Xenia,” I yelled as I pulled her toward me.

  She crashed into me, her forehead knocking hard into my chin. “Argh!” she cried. She pulled away, struggled out of my grasp, and smacked me with her palm. Right across the face. I was stunned.

  “What are you doing? Are you crazy?” I shouted, in Russian.

  She rubbed her forehead. I rubbed my back. We were going to kill each other.

  “Why didn’t you take my hand—”

  “You just smashed my head with your chin! Don’t you dare put me on the defensive!” There were tears in her eyes.

  “If you wouldn’t have resisted me—”

  “You just did it again. You have got to be a man and take responsibility. You are pushing and pulling me all over the floor. This isn’t a partnership. You are an abuser. That’s what you are. You beat up on women.” She backed away from me, her words getting louder.

  People from the main practice room were peering inside. Several of my Russian students were practicing in the main room. They understood her. Me, an abuser? That was my father. How dare she compare me to him? I tried to swallow my anger. I breathed deeply and held my hands down, at my sides.

  And then I spotted her. Out of the corner of my eye. Her innocent, childlike beauty. But it wasn’t Tatiana. It was my ballerina. Rory. Of course it was Rory. I looked at her straight on, catching my breath. Her large eyes widened even farther. She looked truly worried for me. Seeing her and thinking of Tatiana, of someone who might well have been abused by my father, by men in the agency, in the clubs where she might have danced, I grew all the angrier at Xenia and her melodrama.

  I turned back to her. “What is wrong with you?” I said.

  She blinked, then shook her head and began laughing again, like before. She threw her head back, laughing harder.

  I looked back at Rory. She was turned away from me but I caught her gaze in the mirror. Her eyes were fixed right on me. How much I would rather dance with her right now, than with my so-called professional partner. How much more of a mental connection we’d had in the simple foxtrot we’d shared at the hotel.

  “Xenia…” I wasn’t even sure what to say. I really didn’t have any desire to touch this woman again. This woman who was accusing me of nasty things. I was strong. But she knew my strength. We’d been together for several years. We’d once danced well together. How could this be an issue again, all these years later? And to say that because I was strong, I was abusive?

  “That’s the problem,” she finally said. “You are asking the wrong question. You need to ask, ‘What is wrong with me.’” She pounded her chest, indicating I needed to ask myself wha
t my problem was. “Until you do… What’s out there?” She came up behind me, looking around my shoulder, toward Rory.

  “Nothing,” I said, turning to her.

  She snickered “Your students. They worship you. They would never talk back to you. Whatever you want, Sasha. They would let you twist and turn their wrists, pull their shoulders out of their sockets, push them to the ground, where they will give you a blow job. I don’t know what kind of dancers they’d make, but they will be your perfect little whores,” she screeched.

  She’d always been jealous of any attention I got from women, but it was never this bad. “Stop it,” I said. “You’re acting like a child.”

  She shook her head, marched to the corner of the room, slung her bag over her shoulder, and swung open the door.

  “Xenia.” As much as I wanted to be out of her presence right now, we needed to practice. We had showcases coming up very soon. We’d already been paid handsomely for them. We couldn’t disappoint the organizers, the audience. “Xenia, please.”

  But she was out. The door slammed behind her. But instead of heading straight toward the door to the hallway, she darted toward Rory.

  “Xenia,” I said, opening the door and walking quickly toward her.

  Just as she was about to collide with Rory, she made a forty-five-degree turn, and stalked toward the outer door. Rory took a step back, and put her hand to her cheek.

  “Oh my God,” said a student who I didn’t know, who was standing next to Rory. I heard another gasp, followed by chatter.

  “Why did she spit on her?” said one of my Russian students to another.

  Spit? What the fuck? I raced to the door. I seriously felt like slapping her across the face now. Though I’d never do that. I would never, ever hit a woman. I would yell at her, though, like she’d never been yelled at before.

  But there was Rory, standing there, her gaze now turned toward the floor, her hand still to her cheek. She looked confused and embarrassed.

  I walked toward her, held my arm to her. I could see the powdery white skin of her eyelids, her long, long lashes, that made her look even more delicate, sadder. She was so incredibly beautiful. “I am very sorry about that,” I said. “Are you okay?”

  Our eyes locked. Her chin was still turned down. I held my arm toward her but didn’t want to touch her, for fear of violating…something. As she’d just been violated by my angry, envious partner’s spit. Xenia truly disgusted me.

  “Please,” I continued, not knowing what else to say but wanting badly to say something, to connect with her. “Please, accept my apology,” was all I could come up with.

  Her eyes became moist and her cheeks grew redder. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but then thought the better of it, quickly turned and ran out the door.

  Shit.

  ***

  I didn’t see Rory in the practice room the next few days. I knew from her schedule she didn’t have any group classes again until the following week, but I hoped to see her in the practice room. I did see her replacement, though, for a new private lesson at Holly’s old time. Cheryl hadn’t improved a bit. I knew she wouldn’t. She had no patience for practicing toward perfection. She simply wanted to have fun, and doing the same step over and over again until her body truly understood the movement was just not fun for her. She wanted to dance with me, be in my arms. This was usually the point when I’d give up on truly trying to teach a student, when I’d realize she wasn’t in it to perfect her technique, to become a compelling dancer, but just to touch the hot male Latin champion. I don’t mean to sound obnoxious. I’d just experienced this far too much.

  Nonetheless, it didn’t at all shock me when Cheryl told me she wanted to do a pro/am competition with me. The upcoming pro/am that was happening down in Orange County in just a few weeks. I knew from experience it wasn’t so much about becoming an accomplished dancer as it was being seen with a champ. I knew she wouldn’t be up to par by then, at the rate she was going, but I’d put her in the newcomer’s slot, and we’d focus on the simple pre-bronze routines, consisting of very basic steps in each dance. Since we’d only done rumba, it meant I had to teach her the basics of four more dances fast. We had to work. I was going to have to order her to concentrate and refrain from flirting and touching and making jokes about my grammar.

  “Out of curiosity, how did you find out about it?” I asked her, since I hadn’t mentioned it and I hadn’t seen posters up yet.

  “I have a friend here who told me I’m ready.”

  I forced myself to hold back laughter. Who would have told her something like that? “Oh, who’s that?” I said.

  “Luna Hensely,” she said.

  Luna? She knew Luna? Luna didn’t get along with anyone. Especially someone exactly like her. And, now that I thought about it, she and Cheryl could be twins. Both filthy rich, Beverly Hills stay-at-homes who came to the studio during the day, both given to snobbishness. They even had a similar way of turning up their chins and peering down their noses at everyone.

  “Ah yes, Luna,” I said, with a chuckle. “Well, I’m glad you found a friend here.”

  She burst out laughing. “No, not here! I’ve known her for years. My husband is a lawyer, as you know. He represents her husband and his production company. That’s how you got the gig where we met,” she said, her voice now sounding sensual, her fingernails tickling my open palm.

  She’d already known all about me. Luna had told her. I suddenly felt a bit disgusted, as if I now owed her something, or she thought I did. I released her from close handhold. “We have a lot to get done in a short time. Let’s work on the basics of the other dances. Side by side, in the mirror,” I said, stepping away from her. I managed to stay unconnected to her throughout the lesson, avoided clutching claws and grazing nails. We got through the basics of two more dances—cha-cha and samba—though I felt pretty sure she wasn’t going to retain any of what I told her.

  ***

  Despite our fight, Xenia showed up to our practice as usual. We were performing at the studio’s monthly showcase the following night. This would be our first go-through of the routine we’d soon perform in Tokyo. We had to work; she knew it as well as I did. It didn’t matter if we couldn’t stand the sight of each other. So, after I told her spitting on Rory was rude and childish, and she insisted she didn’t, that people were either making it up or didn’t see clearly, I let it go.

  Before the party, I received a call from my uncle. He and my cousin were in town and wished to see me. I wasn’t tremendously comfortable seeing them. I felt like they knew something about Tatiana and were holding back. I just didn’t trust my family, awful as it sounds. I suspected my mother and father had sent them to check up on me, to spy, to see what kind of house I lived in, what kind of car I drove. I didn’t like my family knowing details about my life. This was my life now. I didn’t want them interfering. They’d judge, they’d make assumptions, they’d hate me for what I had. But I’d worked hard for what I had. They wouldn’t understand that. They’d want more money from me. And after they’d kept what I’d given them to wire to the Tokyo agency, I wasn’t giving them a damn thing more. So I arranged to meet my uncle at the Chateau Marmont’s bar after the studio party was over. It was close to the studio, and was a very touristy, public place.

  I arrived at the party early, but remained low-key and hid myself in the back rooms. I arrived early to look for Rory. Sadly, I didn’t see her anywhere. And I hadn’t sensed her presence, as I had the two times I’d seen her before in the studio. I couldn’t say I blamed her; Xenia had been such a witch. And Xenia was the female star here. She’d be back though. She had two more group classes. I was sure she’d be back.

  We performed well, wowed the students, as usual. We made some mistakes but were able to hide them. We were pros, after all. We acted our parts. We pretended to be madly in love during rumba, became playfully sexual for samba, flirted shamelessly with each other for cha-cha and jive, and played powerful matador a
nd beautiful flowing cape during paso doble. It was all an act, of course. But we were believable. And the students gave us a five-minute standing ovation. After dancing, I left the performance room to change as quickly as I could, apologizing to students, telling them I had an important appointment and would see them during the week. Xenia, annoyed, rolled her eyes at my rudeness—she liked to remain the center of attention as long as possible—and promised everyone she’d stay and dance with each of them.

  Despite my earliness, my uncle and cousin were already at the Chateau when I arrived. They’d chosen a lounge seat in the front room, which annoyed me. I really didn’t want to run into anyone I knew, and the two of them were the splitting image of Russian mobsters. My uncle was a short, squat man, with a heavy, thumping gait. He was bald, with small, beady eyes, a square jaw, and a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. He actually looked like a cartoon version of a gangster. My cousin was taller and less heavyset, and his voice was higher-pitched and less severe. I imagined if they ever harassed anyone, he’d play the “good cop” to my uncle’s “bad cop.”

  My uncle did most of the talking. He often wore his sunglasses, even inside, and he never looked directly at you when he spoke, which made me trust him even less. We’d never been close. I hadn’t seen him since I was small. He was my mother’s brother, and I knew she blamed me, at least in part, for all that had happened to Tatiana. She’d accused me of making Tatiana want to leave, be like her big brother, become an artist. My mother also claimed that my becoming the prodigal son, turning my back on the family and ceasing to bring in the much-needed money, had forced her to encourage Tatiana to go off to Tokyo. It was bullshit; I’d left Tamara’s aunt’s house years before Tatiana went to Tokyo. But it was her version of the truth, and it always would be. And my uncle’s affinities were to her, not me.