A Dance too Far

by H L Day

  He turned, shifting himself to sit cross-legged. "I was weak. It was an error of judgment."

  A bolt of satisfaction shot through me. "Because you like me?"

  One corner of his mouth quirked up. "I like your cock."

  I wasn't going to let him get away with that. What we had was more than sex. "Would it kill you to admit that this thing between us is mutual?"

  "It doesn't matter." He rested his chin on his hand. "Think of it this way. Even if we could be... together." He faltered on the word as if it was difficult to say. "After the show, I will be going back to Russia. Are you coming to Russia, Max? Are you leaving your family and friends behind... for me?"

  "Is that an invitation?"

  His expression was nothing but weary at the fact I was making light of it. "And then I will be off to whichever country I am required to go to. My life is dancing. A... relationship is not in the cards for me, whether that is dictated by Dmitry"—he shrugged—"or circumstance."

  The words hurt. Not just because they were delivered in his usual blunt fashion but also because I could recognize the truth in them. While he was performing, he'd need to travel all over the world. "You really meant it when you said this was the last time?"

  He nodded. "It has to be. More for your sake than mine. Dmitry will disapprove. He will be angry with me, but he won't hurt me. Nothing lasting anyway. I am too valuable to him. But you..."

  "I'm nothing to him."

  "Exactly."

  I planted a hand on his chest, pushing him back until he lay flat on the bed again. I moved over him, fitting our bodies together and watching the way his face warred between the desire to let me do what I wanted and to push me off in order to back up his words. His cock stirred beneath my thigh, and I smiled smugly at the knowledge that he wanted me again so soon. I still needed more, though. "Tell me that it's not just about sex. Tell me that you like me."

  "Max..." There was a heavy dose of warning in his voice.

  "I need to know. If this is going to be the last time, then I need to know that I'm not crazy. That it's not all been one-sided." I slid my hand between our bodies, pressing it against the place where his heart lay. "Give me that at least."

  His eyes closed, and I could almost picture the argument going on inside his head. I kept my hand where it was, feeling the reassuring thud of his heart beneath my palm.

  His eyelids flickered open, and for a moment, I was blinded by the raw emotion I saw there. Emotion he'd never shown me before, and I'd probably never get to see again. He smiled. Not one of his mocking smiles, but an honest-to-God genuine one. "I like you, Max. I don't know why, but I do. You're almost as fucked up as I am. Maybe that's it. Like attracts like. Happy now?"

  I nuzzled into his neck, a profound mixture of happiness and sadness rushing through me, the certainty that we could really have been something. I pushed the thought out of my head. I still had him in my arms. There'd be time later to dwell on what could have been. I shifted so that our cocks aligned, my hips starting a slow grind to push them together, my fingers trailing through the slight stickiness of cum on his abdomen from his last orgasm. "There're two more condoms. It doesn't end until we've used both. Then you can walk away. Deal?"

  I expected him to protest. I expected Dmitry's name to appear. I expected him to tell me—yet again—that there were a hundred reasons why we couldn't and shouldn't take any more risks. But it was Valentin. So he did the one thing I didn't anticipate; he simply said, "Deal."

  I reached for condom number two, my cock already more than eager to be back inside him.

  Chapter Eight

  Valentin

  I pursued Yakov down the corridor, the rehearsal schedule that had been delivered only moments before still clutched in my hand. "There must be some mistake."

  Yakov turned with an inquisitive look on his face, so I sought to explain, switching to Russian so that there was less chance of what I had to say being misconstrued. "It says I am to rehearse all four dances today. I cannot do four. It's out of the question."

  His brow furrowed. "The show begins next week, and you have still not done a full run-through."

  "Yes, I know... but..." Although Yakov had been informed that I was on partial medical leave, I knew that he was less clear on the reasons for it. Dmitry had claimed that it wasn't fair to let the man worry, to put extra strain on him when he was already trying to put a show together. Therefore, as far as I knew, he'd been led to believe that I'd been suffering from some sort of lingering virus, that my reasons for cutting back on dancing were down to lack of stamina while I was still recovering. There was nothing I could say without admitting that Dmitry had lied to him.

  "Is there a problem?" I turned my head to see the familiar figure of Dmitry bearing down on us, a look of consternation on his face. The silent shadows of Mikhail and Igor moved to either side of the corridor to let him through. He looked first to Yakov and then to me when no answer from the theater manager was forthcoming. I waved the piece of paper. "I'm down to rehearse four dances today."

  Dmitry shrugged. "Then you will do four dances." He leaned conspiratorially toward Yakov. "Dancers, they are so difficult to handle. I do not know how you stand to be around so many all the time. I have my hands full with just the one."

  I walked away as they both started to laugh, hoping that the door to my dressing room would be sufficient to drown them out. I'd wait there for the call to go onstage. I shut the door and leaned my head back against the wall, turning my ankle in slow circles and trying to ignore the jolt of discomfort caused by the movement. I guessed that it was make-or-break time. My ankle either would withstand four dances, or it wouldn't, and the latter didn't bear thinking about.

  * * * *

  I crossed to the center of the stage for the third time. I'd gotten through the first two dances with very little pain due to the high-strength painkilling injections, but it was starting to wear off. Either that or the stress and strain of dancing the previous two had bled through the effects of the opiates. The first two had been solos, whereas this was a group dance. Once I got through it, there was only one more. Then I'd be able to retreat to my dressing room and deal with the aftereffects of the pain.

  I glanced in the direction of the sound booth, half expecting to see a pair of blue eyes looking back at me, but Max's head was down. Three days had gone by since the party, and he'd kept his word to the point where there had been no contact. At least I assumed he'd kept his word. He could have called, but I hadn't turned the phone back on. There was too much temptation in being able to pick it up and talk to him. It should have made me happy that he was doing exactly what I'd asked him to do. Instead it left a huge, gaping hole I wasn't used to feeling. I should never have been stupid enough to admit that I felt something for him. It felt as if that knowledge was out there now, taunting me and reminding me of what I couldn't have. It was silly because despite the relatively small amount of time we'd spent together, it was still far longer than I'd spent with any one person before, and I suspected it was the same with Max. In many ways we were like two peas in a pod. After the party, we'd not only used all the remaining condoms, just as Max had demanded, but lingered in the apartment until the early hours of the morning, talking. Not about anything meaningful, more about countries, and food, and films; things that meant nothing, yet meant everything when it came to learning about the other person. I'd been surprised at how enjoyable I found it, given I wasn't one for small talk. But in retrospect, it had been yet another mistake. I couldn't seem to stop myself from making them when it came to Max.

  Then I'd had to weather the subsequent storm from Dmitry, demanding to know where I'd been, and why Igor and Mikhail weren't with me. I'd told him the truth. Or at least a version of it, claiming that for once I'd wanted to spend time at a party without supervision. I'd just left out the key fact that Max had been there too. As long as Dmitry didn't decide to dig any further, it would be fine. I didn't think he would. I doubted that his arrogance would
ever let him believe that Max would have had the courage to come anywhere near me after his veiled threats.

  "Starting places."

  I followed Yakov's instruction, holding my arms aloft and waiting for the first strains of the music to begin. I shifted my balance slightly, almost stumbling as a sharp stab of pain traveled all the way up from my ankle to my thigh. A cold sweat broke out on my forehead, and for the first time, I gave serious thought to whether I could get through the dance. I considered bringing a stop to it, simply walking off the stage and refusing to do it. But then I would have to face Dmitry's wrath, and then what would happen next week when I no longer had a choice? It was better to get on with it and reassure myself that four dances were in fact possible. Painful. But possible.

  The music started, and I let it filter through me, concentrating on my form with each leap and twist. My arms needed to be in a certain position; an inch out and it would look wrong. My neck had to be in perfect alignment with the rest of my body. My breathing had to be regulated in order to take enough oxygen in without it affecting my movements. There were hundreds of things I needed to consider. I may have made it look easy, but it wasn't. It was years of practice. Years of learning exactly what worked and what didn't. Years of working through any small error until I could eradicate it completely. And I wasn't perfect. I still had things I needed to work on. Small margins that would make me an even better dancer.

  I was two-thirds of the way through the dance when I landed and something felt wrong. There was a moment where I thought I'd imagined it and everything was going to be all right, but then it was closely followed by a rush of such excruciating agony, the likes of which I'd never felt before. Then my whole body crumpled, my ankle unable to hold its weight, and I hit the floor, my cheek rebounding off the wooden stage. I lay there stunned, watching the other four dancers continue the steps that I should have been doing. It seemed to take ages until the music slowly died away and all movement around me ceased.

  It seemed strange that none of the other dancers offered any help. I might not have been popular due to my penchant for keeping to myself, but I wasn't hated enough for them to let me lie there like a collapsed and broken doll. The reason for their lack of interference soon became clear as a shadow loomed over me, and I looked up into Dmitry's face. I'd seen him wearing a number of expressions over the years, but I'd never seen him look as furious as he did at that moment. He liked to play the harmless, urbane gentleman too much to let such crass emotions leak through. In public at least. I was so good at hiding mine because I'd learned from the master. Therefore, the fact he was making absolutely no attempt to hide his anger did not bode well. He spat the words, "Get up," at me in Russian.

  Ignoring the pain, I tried to do what he'd asked. I really did. But there was no way I could put even the slightest bit of weight on that ankle. I forced myself almost to a kneeling position before collapsing again, tears of frustration leaking down my face. "I can't. I'm sorry. It's..." I gestured at my ankle. It was already beginning to swell. I didn't need a doctor to tell me that whatever I'd done was serious. There was no way I was going to be capable of dancing in the show. "My ankle. It's not right. I need a doctor." I waited for Dmitry to pull his phone out of his pocket and call someone, but all he did was continue to stare at me.

  "I'm sorry, Dmitry." I was sorry, but not because I'd spoiled his plans. I was sorry that I'd ever let him talk me into dancing in the first place when I'd felt... no, when I'd known that my ankle was getting worse by the day. Now my whole dance career was most likely in jeopardy, and the man who had steered it, molded it, controlled it, didn't have so much as a grain of empathy to spare for me. More tears spilled down my face. I dashed them away, ashamed to be so weak in front of him. Maybe, though, it would be the thing that got through to him, that wiped the fury from his face and got him seeing me as a human being rather than a commodity. "I don't know what you want me to say."

  He leaned closer, his voice ominously low. "You have ruined all my plans with your carelessness." Then he switched to English, projecting his voice so that the whole theater would hear and understand. "What use is a dancer who cannot dance? I will tell you. It is of no use! You are of no use!" His next words went out to the whole theater, the majority of onlookers standing around in stunned silence. "Let him crawl. It will teach him some humility. He will need it, now he is no longer a star." Then he walked away, leaving me in a heap on the stage. Nobody so much as twitched. You'd have thought the theater was empty. I understood their quandary. No one was willing to go against Dmitry's wishes. No one dared to paint a target on their back. Two of the dancers on the stage had attended his parties. They knew how he operated. They'd seen at least some of what lay beneath the smart suits and the friendly demeanor.

  I twisted my head to the side, contemplating the stairs I would need to crawl down in order to get to my dressing room. It would be a long, slow, painful process with every movement jarring my ankle. I psyched myself up to begin, trying to eradicate the pride and superiority that I wore as a defense mechanism. That's what Dmitry wanted. In his head, I'd hurt him, so he was going to hurt me in return. It was the way he'd always been: an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.

  Then strong arms wrapped around me, a thumb reaching out to wipe the tears from my face. I turned my head, mystified as to the identity of my savior. Max's face swam into view, his grim expression changing to a smile when our eyes met. He tugged, trying to get me to rise to my feet. Or one foot anyway. I made a weak and feeble attempt to push him away. "Don't help me!"

  He pulled harder. "Shut up! I'm not leaving you like this. Valentin Bychkov is not crawling anywhere." Then we were both on our feet, the majority of my weight resting on Max as I kept my injured foot from touching the floor. With me hopping, we made our slow way across the stage with Max somehow managing to maneuver both of us down the stairs to the auditorium. I kept waiting for someone to step in and enforce Dmitry's decree by urging Max to leave me be, but there was only an eerie silence as people watched, but made no move to do anything more. Even Mikhail and Igor—who I'd spotted near the exit—said nothing.

  We paused for a moment at the foot of the stairs, neither of us seeming to have a clue what to do next.

  "Can I do anything?"

  My head turned toward the voice, but he wasn't talking to me. He was talking to Max. It was the same boy who'd brought him to the party. Gary? George? No, Glenn. That was his name.

  Max gathered me more tightly against him, the heat from his body soaking into my bare chest. "Can you call a cab? I'm taking him to the hospital."

  Tempting as it was to soak up his mental strength, I forced myself to protest. "Max, don't! I'll be fine." I pointed to the closest chair. "Just... help me get there... and then go."

  Glenn paused with his finger poised on the call button, looking back and forth between us as he tried to work out which one of us he was supposed to listen to.

  Max shook his head, gesturing at Glenn and ignoring me completely. "Make the call."

  Glenn nodded and lifted the phone to his ear, speaking a few words into it before hanging up. "They'll be outside in five minutes. Do you need anything else?" This time the question was aimed at both of us, and I wondered what I'd done to deserve the help of a boy I'd never even spoken to and probably looked straight through on more than one occasion. Yet out of everyone, he was the one prepared to go out on a limb and help. Not the dancers I considered friends. Not the theater manager, who seemed to be trying to melt into the background. I didn't blame them though. I knew they were scared of Dmitry, but it made me wonder why Glenn wasn't. Naïvety maybe. Or maybe he was just that damn nice. I hoped he didn't live to regret it.

  I didn't get a chance to thank him before Max was half pulling, half pushing me toward the exit where Igor and Mikhail stood. We paused in front of them, Max's body almost vibrating with tension beneath my hands. I spoke to them in Russian. "Are you going to stop us from leaving?"

  To my surprise
, it was Igor, who answered. "Dmitry has made it clear that you are of no more use to him. Therefore, until he says differently, you are no longer our responsibility." I nodded. They weren't being kind; they were simply stating a fact. They stepped aside, and by the time we'd made our slow, faltering way to the street, the cab was already waiting. Max helped me into the back of it before climbing in himself and directing the driver to take us to St Thomas' Hospital.

  I grabbed his arm to get his attention. "I have a doctor here. Dr. Chambers. I don't need to go to the hospital."

  Max's look was scathing. "And an absolutely fantastic job he's obviously been doing. Or am I meant to believe that this injury was something that happened today?"

  I shook my head. There was no point in denying it. The secret was well and truly out. "No. I've been struggling with it for a while, but Dmitry, he..." I sat back, a mixture of exhaustion and pain making it so I lacked the strength to explain. I guessed that Max could read between the lines anyway. He already knew how much control Dmitry exerted over my life, so it wasn't a huge leap for him to realize that he'd also control where and when I danced. I closed my eyes, reliving the moment where Max had swooped to my rescue like a knight in shining armor. It was stupid. It was reckless beyond belief, but it was by far the sweetest thing that anyone had ever done for me. If he hadn't already admitted to having feelings for me, it would have been obvious from that action alone. I didn't know what I'd done to deserve it. But without him, I'd probably still be trying to crawl my way to my dressing room.

  By the time I opened my eyes again, we were already outside the hospital. Max helped me out of the cab with the same careful gentleness he'd employed to help me into it, even pausing to remove his jacket and drape it around my shoulders when it dawned on him that I was bare-chested and shivering in the cold London chill. "You're sweet."

  He pulled my arm around his shoulder, steadying me with an arm around my waist and managing to pay the cabbie at the same time. "You must be in an awful lot of pain."