But though Dima had always convinced me that I was the one who cheated, now I was wondering if Bret was right.
Did Dima really rape me? In my mind, there was a big difference between rape and being taken advantage of, but the lines were blurry now.
At least I had no more secrets. I hoped and prayed that Bret would calm down and take me back. But I knew Bret. And that didn’t seem likely.
Clearly I was a mess.
And I needed to see a therapist and figure out how to process what happened with Dima.
When I’d composed myself enough, I called Benny and explained that I wouldn’t be able to go to Los Angeles today. I would take the day off. The thought of sitting for hours in an airport and then on a plane with nothing to do but stew about Bret sounded like agony. I could at least put off the flight until later that night.
But tomorrow, I would have to see Bret.
We had a group hip-hop dance practice.
The Next Day
Benny’s eyes lit up the minute he caught me bouncing through Brooks Ballroom studio modeling the new line of Dancing Under the Stars women’s hip-hop dancewear. He twirled me around, and we danced a few steps of the quickstep he had choreographed for Xavier and me.
I smiled and broke into some crunking moves. Benny had made me the official choreographer for the dance. That was the good news. The bad news was that I’d have to spend seven hours in the same room as Bret and Dima.
I knew this studio was Vika’s turf, but I took a cab straight from the airport super early to help the set designers give it a street vibe. I hung up some paper on the walls and got some hip-hop dancer friends of mine to spray paint urban graffiti, swapped out the blue velvet curtains for some black rayon ones, and hired a DJ to set up a real booth. The cameramen and sound guys were milling around the room after they hooked up the LCD flat-screen television I’d requested. Benny had brought in the newest designs for everyone to try on, and the crew even set up some strobe lights. I hoped everyone could feel the vibe.
Bret had arrived ten minutes ago but had gone straight to the back of the studio. He didn’t even look at me. My heart ached.
The other dancers started piling into the studio, two by two as if getting ready for a trip on an ark. As soon as they walked into the studio, the costume girl handed them workout wear to put on. But Eric and Nicole, who usually arrived at the studio arm in arm, carting matching Starbucks lattes, headed to opposite corners of the studio. Nicole looked pale, and her usual shellacked ponytail was askew.
Had Nicole found out about Eric being with another guy? Ugh, I hope she was okay.
“Alright, people!” I clapped my hands. This ball was mine, and I ran with it. “Let’s do this. We’ve got some hip-hopping to do.”
I walked over to the music booth and told the DJ what to play. “Is everyone here?”
“Dima isn’t here yet,” Vika said, her eyes glued to the door.
“He’s not?” I hadn’t even noticed his absence. I looked at the clock. It was nearly nine o’clock. Was he now avoiding me?
“I texted to him,” Vika mumbled, “but haven’t heard back.”
“Well, I’m sure he’ll show up.” I gave Vika a reassuring smile, but she looked stressed. Time to distract. “I’m so excited about this group hip-hop thing. I love urban dance, and I’ve been experimenting with some crunking and breaking, so this is gonna be off the hook.” I glanced around the room. The cameramen were setting up. Benny kissed Vika goodbye. Vika gave me the evil eye when she saw me watching, and on the opposite side of the room, Bret paced around the floor.
“So,” I started, “we have to do an eight-count as a group in the beginning, and then the partners each do a breakout solo. The order for the solos is Bret, Jenny, Jared, Vika, Ricardo, Elizabeth, Eric, Nicole, Dima, and I will close. I’ll work on all your solos later, but let’s get started on the group part. We’re dancing to one of my favorite songs, Rob Base and DJ E-Z Rock’s “Joy and Pain.” But let’s begin with a warmup. It’s old school to get you in the mood.”
I signaled the sound guy. He flipped on the strobe lights then started playing Cameo’s “Word Up.” I loved that song. Reminded me of high school jazz class, since my instructor had been stuck in the eighties.
I skipped to the front of the room and led everyone in a dance isolation routine. “Roll your hips to the right, now to the left, now circles.” The lights were kicking on and off, and Bret kept making goofy faces into the mirror as he tried to keep up with me. Hip-hop wasn’t his thing but he was doing a pretty good job.
“That’s it, Bret! Bend your knees. Good!” He ignored me, but Vika was actually following her steps and not giving me any attitude. And I hated to admit it, but she looked super cute in her low-rise pink hip-hop pants and matching bra tank top, which her breasts filled out perfectly.
Two hours into the actual choreography, Dima strolled in like he was in no rush, and the DJ cut the sound. Dima would get away with it, though. None of us were stupid enough to question him.
“Dude, where’ve you been?” Bret asked.
Well, almost none of us.
“None of your business,” Dima barked. “I’m here now.”
“Hell yeah, it’s my business.” Bret got right up in his face, sweating and huffing from the routine. “We’ve all been here for two whole hours, and now we’re gonna have to be here even longer to catch your ass up.”
Dima pushed Bret’s shoulder.
Dima must’ve had a death wish.
The other dancers froze in position as stocky six-feet, two-hundred-thirty-pound Bret looked at a gangly six-feet-two-inch and a buck-sixty Dima.
I cringed—this wasn’t gonna be good.
Bret narrowed his eyes, and his voice deepened. “Back up, Dima. You don’t want to fight me.”
“Don’t tell to me what to do!” Dima cursed in Russian and flew at Bret.
But Bret threw Dima down and had him in a headlock faster than I could say cha-cha. Dima’s scrawny legs were kicking in the air like a psycho Popeye cartoon. It would almost be funny if I wasn’t sure Dima was about to die.
“You motherfucker. You fucking raped her!”
Oh my God!
“Dimichka! Dimichka!” Vika screamed. “Somebody do something!”
Eric, Ricardo, and Jared were on it. They dove in and yanked Dima and Bret apart, successfully ending the combat. Then, after only a second of peace, Dima sucker-punched Bret.
Bret roundhouse kicked him in the face, and blood gushed from Dima’s nose.
The referees broke it up again. Like two snarling dogs, Dima and Bret had to be pulled to opposite sides of the room.
This was crazy. And it was all my fault.
Bret
I always loved the drive to Bolinas. It was windy and beautiful—the perfect escape from Hollywood and Selena.
The producers had the idea of filming my practice session with Robyn on the beach, which was fine by me. Bolinas was a great town. Selena used to want to own a little cottage on the beach here and spend her days playing with our kids in the sand. An ideal artist community, Bolinas was the home to surfers, poets, writers, artists, and recluses.
In order to keep their little slice of paradise hidden, the locals always destroyed any signs that identified the town. Robyn and I made the journey without needing a map, but I was delighted when we lost the filming crew behind us. I figured they would head farther down Highway One before they realized they’d missed the unmarked turn.
Robyn pointed ahead. “Could you stop here?”
I pulled in front of the Coast Café. We ran inside and ordered two coffees. I loved the surfboards that were hanging from the ceiling.
Robyn seemed mesmerized by the quaint town. We looked at the locals down below on the courtyard from the café’s sunny deck.
I took a sip of my coffee. “I feel like I’m back in the seventies.”
“Yeah, isn’t it awesome?” Robyn blended into the local scene.
My min
d drifted to Selena. We had spent our last weekend together here before the cheating story leaked. Selena had even mentioned that she wanted to get married on the beach.
Robyn put her hand on my shoulder. “I can see you’re struggling with something.”
“There’s nothing to say. Selena and I gave our relationship another try, and it didn’t work out. End of story.”
“This isn’t about that, is it? This is about her cheating. I read the article.”
I grimaced.
“Look, Bret. Selena was young. I’m not saying what she did was okay, but it was her path.”
Bret wasn’t in the mood to listen to her New Age dogma. “It wasn’t the cheating. I think she was raped, which, of course, is not her fault. But she doesn’t see it that way and still wants to compete at Blackpool with Dima. I can’t accept that.”
“I will never ever condone an assault, but that is for her to figure out, not you. Don’t you see, Bret? This was your journey. To help her heal. She needs you. We don’t have to share the same beliefs, but you can’t live in the past. You must be present, be here now.”
“I never thought of it that way.” I had been so angry with Selena for still wanting to dance with him after she should realize what he did to her.
“You know, things haven’t always been perfect with Xavier and me. In the earlier years, I found out that he had cheated on me when he was on the road. I was devastated—filled with so much rage. I blamed him, myself, his music. I left him and filed for divorce. It ended up being a good time for me, though. I focused on improving myself—I learned how to meditate, studied yoga, took a painting class. Once I released all the anger I had toward Xavi, I realized that no matter what, I still loved him. I am happier with him, despite his betrayal than I am on my own. He had learned from his mistakes also, and now we are stronger than ever. So, what I’m saying is that if Selena makes you happy, and you truly love her, you owe it to yourself to forgive her…or you’ll never be at peace.”
The cool ocean breeze made me shiver. “I still don’t see how we could ever create a life together. We’re just too different.”
“Yes, you are different. But she loves you, I can see that. And sometimes, that is enough.”
We finished our coffees and headed into town. The shoot was on “The Patch”—a gorgeous stretch of sand that was popular for longboarders. A group of photographers stood under a makeup canopy, with production people huddled behind them. I was sure the locals were not thrilled with the shoot littering their beloved beach with cameras, dressing trailers, and stylists.
As I sat in the makeup chair for my on-location clip, I scanned the scenery for Selena, just in case she popped up with Xavier. She had a habit of showing up everywhere I was. She wasn’t here, which was a relief.
But no matter how hard I tried to push her out of my mind, she kept haunting my thoughts.
Selena
It had been weeks since Dima and Bret’s fight. I still hadn’t spoken to Bret. At least I would have fun tonight—Xavier was throwing a huge bash. Bret would never come, though. He hated parties and costumes.
But first, I had to focus on the show.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, put your hands together for Xavier and Selena, who will be dancing a swing to the Ray Charles classic ‘Hit the Road Jack.’”
Xavier and I glided onto the stage. He looked so fine in his Pachuco-Zoot-Suit-inspired digs. The man had gotten into the creation of his costume, big time. He’d called all of his fashion gurus in to design the perfectly authentic outfit: a black and red pinstriped double-breasted jacket with sleeves that hung to the end of his fingertips, a cardinal-tinted silk shirt, flowing pegged pants, a black fedora with a scarlet feather, a long wallet chain and tan calcos shoes with squared-off bulldog toes. Classic.
And they’d hooked me up, too: a killer red plumed skirt with a black ruby-bedazzled corset studded with diamonds and rubies, and a huge red-feathered headdress. I’d even stuck a switchblade knife into my bouffant-styled hair. H-O-T, baby.
The audience went wild when we began to dance. Swing was one of my best dances, and for tonight, I had choreographed a very Lindy Hop-inspired routine. The two of us flicked up our heels in unison and flew across the floor.
Xavier was divine. A true musician. He pulled out all the stops. He had even planned a huge Zoot Suit bash.
We did our signature sugar push move, with Xavier tossing me away then yanking me back, and I knew we had nailed this number. As we kicked into our final pose, the music came to a crashing end and applause exploded from the audience. Boo-yah, baby!
Both of us breathing heavily, we headed over to Matt. It was pretty stupid trying to interview dancers in the seconds after a performance, but that was Dancing Under the Stars, so there we were, two panting dogs dressed to the nines.
“So, Xavier,” host Matt said, “you look quite dapper tonight. Audience, doesn’t he look dapper?”
“Come on, people, show me some love!” Xavier shouted. They did, of course. Loudly. “Oye, ese, I gotta tell ya. This crowd is amazing. Give it up for my guisa Selena! Yeah! Show some love. She is bangin’. Those moves are hot. I mean, this dance is very special to me, very special to me, for real. I’m Chicano, and mi abeulo was a Pachuco. In preparation for this dance, I studied the richness and culture during World War II, back in the 1940s. How Mexican-Americans had an integral part in creating the music and dancing swing. In fact, in honor of what I have learned from this dance, I’m gonna create a special Zoot-Suit-inspired line of clothing for my line, Xavier Tomás Clothing.” Xavier pounded his fist over his heart. “I feel it, Matt. I feel it deep.”
“Xavier, that’s great. It’s wonderful that you’ve taken such an interest in the history of ballroom dance. Selena, what do you think about Xavier’s newfound inspiration?”
“Well, I don’t know much about history,” I mumbled. “But Xavier’s the best. He’s so great and supportive of me, and I love his outfit.” Yeah, that would go down in the archives as the best answer ever. I hated doing interviews; I just wanted to dance.
“Let’s see what the judges had to say. Benjamin Brooks?”
“Xavier, my good bastard, that was a beaut’. Love your duds. You got the style of the dance down,” Benny said.
“Karen Lopez,” Matt said
“Xavier, you are a dream. You gave such an authentic feel to the dance. I can see that you made a strong effort to include some Lindy Hop moves into your swing, but I really appreciate the fact that you still danced with traditional timing,” she said.
“Steve Samson,” Matt asked.
“Xavier, you’re like a rocket. Taking off fast and furious. It was superb,” Steve replied.
“After the break, the judges will reveal their scores,” said Matt.
Xavier and I headed backstage. We awaited our scores surrounded by the other dancers. The judges gave us three tens!
Thank God, we were the last dance of the night. Xavier and I plowed through the after-show press junket as fast as we could. I rushed to my trailer to change. Jenny and Elizabeth were already inside waiting for me so we could go together.
Jenny leaned over my sink, scrubbing off her makeup. Water beads trickled down her forehead. “There you are. Can you please tell Queen Elizabeth over here that what she’s wearing is underwear and not an actual dress?” Jenny grabbed a towel and wiped off her face.
Elizabeth pranced around in a near see-through pink silk slip. “It is too a dress,” she whined. “It’s a Diane von Furstenberg. Vika let me borrow it.” She twirled around like a princess.
Apparently, Jenny and I weren’t as cool as Vika. Elizabeth had ditched us last week to attend store grand openings with Vika and Nicole.
Jenny whipped the towel at Elizabeth. “Elizabeth, please stop taking fashion advice from Vika. She was a stripper.”
Elizabeth pouted. “No, she wasn’t. She was a go-go dancer. It’s not the same thing.”
Just one day of peace is all I ask. “Come on, g
uys. Jenny, stop giving her such a hard time about everything. What do you want her to wear? Braids and a cotton ankle-length dress?”
Jenny slipped into a navy knee-length skirt.
I backed up to Elizabeth, who unhooked my corset.
Ahh, to breathe again.
“Jen, you did so much better tonight. Dion even stood up straight.”
Jenny zipped up her boots. “Yes, Dion’s improving rapidly. But I think overall, he’s better at the Standard dances.”
I threw on my favorite dress and fastened my five-inch pumps. “This party is gonna be awesome. Come on. Let’s go.”
Xavier’s customized carucha waited outside to take us to the jamboree.
Would Bret show up?
Xavier outdid himself this time. He had hired a celebrity event designer to coordinate his “Zoot Suit Bash.” Xavier rented out the ballroom of the Beverly Hills L’Hermitage hotel and booked the Los Angeles Philharmonic Orchestra for a night of 1940s-era swing jazz music. It would be off the scale, this shindig. Party of the century, if not the millennium.
We entered through an elegant lobby, crowned by a majestic crystal chandelier, then climbed two flights of marble steps. With each step, the sounds of the orchestra grew louder, and then we arrived, and the doors burst open.
It was even better than I had imagined: the raised bandstand filled with gleaming instruments, the pulsating music, and the bubbly performers set against vibrant orange and blue decor. And the dance floor—God! I’d never seen anything like it. Burnished maple, accented by a shiny brass rail tracing its perimeter. There were round tables, and a soda fountain dispensing tall mugs of Mexican Coke for a nickel each.
It was gorgeous here. I thought I had died and landed on the set of the play Zoot Suit. I loved it.
Xavier took the stage as my posse and I moved through the crowd.
“¿Que Pasiones? Welcome, everybody, to the new Savoy Ballroom,” he said into a microphone. “I have created this evening in appreciation for the jazz legends who inspired me: Tin-Tan, Cab Calloway, and Lalo Guerrero. Ladies and gentlemen, the music never stops at the Zoot Suit Bash. I also wanted to bring awareness to the Sleepy Lagoon murder trial and the Zoot Suit Riots. Al rato, vato.”
The Swan and The Sergeant (Heroes Ever After Book 4) Page 14
