A Dance too Far

by H L Day

  His face, while not softening completely, had at least lost some of its hard edge, so I carried on, scenting a victory of sorts. "Forgive me, please! I hate it when we fight. Max gave me a place to go. Nothing more." A sharp pang pierced my heart as I uttered those words. It felt like the biggest betrayal ever, even bigger than walking out on him that morning had. "He meant nothing." It was a good job my hand was still clasped over my face, or he would have seen my lip quiver.

  Dmitry turned away, flexing his hand as if he was concerned that the contact with my face might have caused an injury. He shook his head. "Go! Igor has a key for your room. Put more suitable clothes on, and we will talk later about what you can do to make it up to me."

  I didn't need to be asked twice, turning around and limping back through the door and down the corridor. I stopped in front of Igor and held out my hand. "Key."

  For a few seconds, curious eyes attempted to peer beneath my hand to discover what it was that I was hiding, and then he held out the keycard. I snatched it from him, swiping it against the door immediately and letting myself into the room, the door closing behind me. I stood for a moment and scanned the room. I'd thought that Dmitry in his fury might have gotten rid of all of my things, but everything was exactly as I'd left it.

  It felt wrong when I was a completely different person. Five days—that's all the time it had been, but it might as well have been a lifetime. The urge to simply sink to the floor and cry was strong, but I forced myself to walk over to the dressing table. I sat down and took my hand away from my face and stared at my reflection. The bruised and bloody face staring back at me wore a haunted expression that was eerily reminiscent of the way Max had looked that morning. I picked up a wet wipe and began to remove the blood. Then I would take off the cheap makeup and ill-fitting clothes and begin the task of making myself into something stronger.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Max

  I'd spent five days with Valentin, and it was only three since he'd left. It was funny how the five days had sped by in a flash, yet the last three may as well have been months. My body was slowly healing. I still looked as if I'd gone ten rounds in the ring with a professional boxer, but at least my movement was much improved and I'd managed on my own, only calling my mum to make up an excuse why I'd had to miss dinner with her. That was, if managing was classed as lying in bed until midday, spending most of the day huddled on the sofa, living on toast and soup.

  Noel kept calling, at least three times a day. I assumed it was fueled by guilt, but I ignored him anyway. I understood why he'd done what he did. But forgiving him for his actions was going to take considerably longer. Everything was still too raw for me to even be able to contemplate it.

  Most of all, I thought about Valentin. I recalled every moment we'd spent together from our initial meeting on the street to the look on his face when he'd left. I remembered all his expressions: the way his lips quirked, the way he smelled. I remembered how it felt to hold him, to go to sleep next to him with the knowledge of waking up and finding him still there. I remembered his sarcastic wit. I remembered the way he'd slowly revealed more and more aspects of himself the longer we'd spent together. What killed me most of all though was not knowing where he was. Was he still in London? Or was he already thousands of miles away, back in Russia?

  Yesterday, I'd spent an hour staring at a bottle of whiskey that I'd found tucked in the back of a cupboard. But every time I reached out to pour a glass, I'd see Valentin's face in my mind, bluntly stating that I had an alcohol problem, or giving me the choice between kissing him or having a beer. In the end, I'd poured it down the sink. He'd gone back to live with a sadistic son of a bitch so that I'd stay safe. The least I could do in return was stay sober.

  I boiled the kettle to make a cup of tea, contemplating how long it would be before I could think about finding another job. There was no way I could walk into anywhere at the moment with my face looking the way it did, so I'd been forced to take a sabbatical until it settled down. Either that or I needed to learn how to cover it with makeup. Makeup of course made me think of Valentin again. Anger built at the memory of him feeling that he had to wear it before he could return to Dmitry. As if he somehow wasn't good enough without it.

  I unscrewed the canister where I kept the teabags, swearing loudly when I realized it was empty. That meant either I went without, or I ventured outside for the first time since the beating to go to the supermarket. Adrenaline kicked in at the thought of having to step outside my front door.

  I leaned against the kitchen counter, my heart attempting to jump out of my chest, as I tried to convince myself that I was being ridiculous. Dmitry had zero interest in me now. He had his prized possession back. I'd done what he'd said, and I'd passed the message on. And like Dmitry had always known he would, Valentin had run straight back to him to keep me safe. I took a deep breath, almost ready to laugh at myself for my irrational panic.

  There I was, thinking about going back to work, and I couldn't even step outside my door to walk ten minutes to the local supermarket. I stood tall and sucked in another lungful of air. There was no way I was going to allow Dmitry to keep me a prisoner in my home. He'd already taken enough from me, including the man I loved. I grabbed my wallet and keys, pausing by the mirror in the hallway to inspect my face: one side was a mass of yellow and purple, interspersed with grazes that had now scabbed over, while the other had escaped virtually unscathed, apart from a black eye. I must have been lying on that side while Dmitry's goons beat me. I forced myself out the door before I could change my mind.

  Ten minutes later, I grabbed a basket in the supermarket, figuring that while I was here, I may as well stock up on a few things. At least then I'd be able to hide away for a few more days. I wound my way around the shelves, throwing in a few things such as bread and milk and ignoring the curious stares directed my way. I could hardly blame them. I'd probably have done the same in their position. It was only natural to speculate about the origin of someone's bruises. Especially when they were as extensive as mine were.

  The line to pay was blessedly short. I averted my eyes from the display of cigarettes behind the counter, attempting to push even more memories of Valentin out of my head: the way he looked when he smoked, the way he'd tasted when I kissed him after he'd had a cigarette. I'd made a fuss, pretended to hate it, told him he tasted like an ashtray, but in truth, I hadn't minded at all. It was all part and parcel of him.

  I was only five minutes from home when I caught the movement behind me: two men, both dressed in smart-looking suits, one speaking into a phone. It was the suits and their build that made me look twice. They were different men, but you could have put them in a lineup with Igor, Mikhail, and the two from the other day, and they wouldn't have looked out of place. I quickened my pace, the shopping bag full of groceries banging against my thigh.

  I turned a corner, pretending to look back at something else as I tried to gauge whether they were actually following me or if it was my paranoia taking over. They were still behind me, and they were closer. And worse still, their eyes were fixed on me.

  There was no doubt in my mind that Dmitry, for whatever reason, had sent someone to finish the job. I rounded another corner and broke into a run, my bruised body protesting the motion loudly. I had two options: head straight for home and leave myself in plain sight, with the risk of another car drawing up next to me, or try and hide somewhere in the hope that they would lose me. I didn't want to be bundled into another car so I ducked down an alleyway before they rounded the corner. If I was lucky, they'd walk straight past, or assume I'd run to someone's house. I ran past bags of rubbish and a startled ginger cat, my gaze darting from left to right as I desperately searched for a good hiding place.

  In the middle of the alley, backing onto a restaurant, were two industrial-sized bins. I eyed the back of the restaurant speculatively, my brain racing to try and come up with the best possible solution. The door was closed though and quite possibly locked, gi
ven that I didn't think the restaurant opened until the evening. I settled for slipping between the bins, wedging myself between one of them and the wall, my nostrils burning with the pungent smell of rotting food. I stayed as still as I could, praying that the men who had been following me would keep walking. But then what? I already knew that Dmitry had my address. I'd need to go and stay somewhere else. My mum’s house was no good. I couldn't risk bringing trouble to her front door. A hotel, maybe? I fumbled for my phone in my pocket before realizing that in my preoccupation to give myself a pep talk before I'd left the house, I'd left it sitting on the kitchen table. Who would I call anyway? I couldn't call the police. Dmitry had made sure I was fully aware of that fact. Who else was there? I could hardly drag friends and family into it. Maybe I could leave London? How far could Dmitry's connections in this country possibly stretch? I had a sneaking suspicion that I knew the answer to that one, and it certainly wasn't going to provide any reassurance.

  Then there were voices coming closer, voices with a distinct Russian accent. I loved Valentin's, but I'd quickly learned to associate all others with pain and fear. I leaned my head back against the wall, desperately trying to control my breathing and keeping the bag of groceries from brushing the wall so that the rustle didn't give me away. Sweat soaked through my clothes as the footsteps came closer. I wished I knew what they were saying. An "I don't think he came down here” or “this is a waste of time" would have meant a lot to me right then, but there was only a language that I couldn't understand a word of. I closed my eyes. The footsteps came to a halt, and the voices paused. Were they going away? Had they given up?

  When I dared to open my eyes, one of the men stood directly in front of me, less than five feet away. He tilted his head to the side, a mocking smile playing on his lips. "Well, hello there."

  My heart did a somersault, and the shopping bag slipped from my suddenly nerveless fingers, spilling its contents, the carton of milk bursting on impact with the ground, creating a pool of white liquid. I should have gone home. I could have gotten there before them and barricaded myself in. At least at home, there would have been neighbors who might have seen or heard something. I'd put myself in a deserted alley with no one around. I was an idiot, and soon, I was probably going to be a dead idiot.

  The man in my eyeline reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a gun. He waved it in a clear gesture that I should come out. Was it good, that he wasn't going to shoot me where I stood, or was I desperately searching for positives that weren't there? On trembling legs, I did as he asked, his accomplice coming into sight as soon as I stepped away from the bin. I looked between them. "How's Valentin? Is he okay?"

  The man farthest away, currently unarmed, shrugged. "No idea. I've never met him."

  I swallowed with difficulty, given the lack of saliva. "What happens now?"

  The man in front of me pulled something else from his jacket. It was a long metal cylinder. He looked down as he began to screw it onto the end of the gun. "Do you know what this is?"

  I shook my head, even though his head was still down and he couldn't see. I suspected it was a rhetorical question anyway.

  He raised his head, a wide smile on his face. But his eyes were the deadest I'd ever seen. There was no negotiating with this man. He had the look of a stone-cold killer. "It's a silencer. It will mean that no one can hear the shot."

  "W-why? I'm nobody. I'm nothing. And I did what Dmitry asked me to do."

  The second man walked toward me, stopping on my right-hand side. He looked bored, his face demonstrating nothing more than he wanted to get this over and done with so that he could get on with doing something far more interesting. He said something in Russian and then laughed, his foul breath wafting in my face.

  I shook my head again. "I don't understand."

  The man with the gun sighed. "He said that you should probably have thought about that before you went against Dmitry. Now you're a loose end that he wants tying up. We would have come to your home, but"—he shrugged—"forensic evidence is so much more preserved in the house. All those fibers. All those blood spatters on perfectly clean walls." He surveyed the alley, my gaze automatically following as he scanned the bins, the rubbish-strewn floor, and the moss-covered brickwork of the surrounding walls.

  The words loose end reverberated in my skull. I wondered if that was the case, or this was more about my rebellion of going against his wishes when I'd helped Valentin off the stage. I'd done nothing except fall in love with the wrong man, but even standing looking down the barrel of the gun and facing impending death, I couldn't bring myself to regret it. Valentin and I had had something special, and it might have only been for a few short days, but that didn't make it any less real. I just hoped that he'd find happiness at some point in the future. I raised my chin and looked the man holding the gun straight in the eye.

  Unfortunately, my newfound fortitude lasted only a few seconds as a fist was planted in my already bruised abdomen. I went straight down, the pain so excruciating I didn't even register the rivulets of milk soaking into my clothes. Like some sick sort of action replay of a few days ago, a boot thudded into my chest. Only this time, I heard something crack. But then what did a broken rib matter when I was going to die anyway? More kicks followed, the fact that they were already landing on bruised skin surpassing the pain of the first beating. It lasted less time than the first, and it was only carried out by one man, but it was decidedly more vicious.

  The armed man crouched next to me, his hand reaching into my pocket and extracting my wallet. "Excuse the beating and the fact that I need to take your wallet. But we need to make this look like a mugging. Another reason that we waited for you to leave the house. I'm sure you understand." Then there was cold metal against my temple, and I was faced with the reality of only having seconds left on this earth. "Any last words?"

  I lifted my head from the ground, giving the coldest glare I could muster. "Go to hell!"

  He laughed, and his hand tightened on the gun, his finger ready to squeeze the trigger. Would it hurt? Or would the world simply be there one minute and cease to exist the next? I guessed I was about to find out. Shame that I wouldn't be able to share that knowledge with anyone.

  "Hey! What's going on over there? What are you doing?"

  The shout had come from the back of the restaurant. Someone must have come out to put rubbish in the bin. I waited for pain. I waited for oblivion. Neither came. Both the armed man and his companion had disappeared. The next thing I knew someone was standing over me with a phone clutched to his ear. The poor guy only looked to be about eighteen, his face ashen as he called for an ambulance. I lost consciousness before he’d finished the call.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Valentin

  I glanced up at Mikhail, the man looking even more disagreeable than he usually did, which was saying something. He'd been even quieter than usual that morning, including back at the hotel and all through the trip to the airport. He was restless though and it was starting to get irritating. "Can't you sit down? You're making the place look untidy."

  He shook his head, his gaze moving to Igor, who sat on a plastic chair to the right of mine. Something passed between the two of them that I wasn't privy to. Whatever it was, I didn't like it, but we were hardly friends so it wasn't as if I could politely enquire whether something was bothering them or even strike up a conversation. In a few hours, I would be back in Russia, the walls of Dmitry's estate becoming my prison once more, and wasn't that a happy thought. In the past, I'd had dance to keep me sane while I was there, Dmitry having had a special studio built for that purpose. But this time, I wouldn't even have that. There'd be nothing except boredom and parties.

  And there'd be no Max. No Max ever again.

  My fingers itched for a cigarette, but it would mean going outside the building. I'd smoked so much in the last few days that my voice even sounded scratchy. And I never had gotten that chance to fuck Max in exchange for giving up smoking. I'd never kn
ow what it would have been like. I could fantasize all I liked, and I had, but the truth remained that I would never know what his ass wrapped around my cock would have felt like. Maybe it was just as well. It would have added another thing to the long list of things that I would miss for the rest of my life.

  "I didn't know that you had feelings."

  "What?" My gaze shot to Mikhail, embarrassed that I'd let my guard down to the extent that my face had been broadcasting my emotions.

  He stared at me for the longest time, and I was the first to look away. "You actually liked him?"

  I forced myself to meet the steely gray eyes once again, my fingers digging into my thighs. "And you beat him up. Both of you."

  I was surprised to see Mikhail look uncomfortable. "We had orders. We all follow Dmitry's orders. You included."

  I let out a snort. "Isn't that the truth."

  Mikhail stepped closer, his gaze showing an intensity I wasn't used to seeing. He glanced around the busy airport before switching to Russian. "How long have you been with Dmitry, Valentin?"

  My eyes narrowed at the use of my name. I was used to being addressed by both of them without it. What was his game? I played along, responding in Russian. "Ten years."

  Mikhail folded his brawny arms across his chest as he digested the information. "You are sly. You are manipulative. You—"

  "Wow, thanks!" I injected as much saccharine sweetness into my tone as I could. "That is so nice of you to say. I never had any idea that you felt like that about me."

  He ignored me. "I do not understand why you have never implemented some sort of escape plan, a way to extricate yourself from Dmitry?"

  My whole body went rigid. I could think of only one reason why Mikhail might have broached this subject, and it meant that all of the groveling, sweet-talking, and stroking of Dmitry's ego for the last few days had been for nothing. "He put you up to this?" Cogs started turning over and over in my head. What did Dmitry suspect? What had I done that had led him to believe that I had secrets?