Slave to the Rhythm (The Rhythm #1)

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  “I don’t think she speaks English.” Yveta shrugged. “Or Russian.”

  I shoved my suitcase into the only free space and settled into a seat.

  “Is that where you’re from?”

  Yveta smiled. She really was stunning.

  “Yes, and Galina. But Marta is from Ukraine. Where are you from?”

  “Slovenia.”

  “You are dancer?” Her eyes drifted over my body appreciatively, but her next remark stopped my thoughts as they slid toward the gutter. “Exotic?”

  Was that her idea of a joke? I shook my head.

  “No. Latin, ballroom, contemporary.”

  Yveta seemed amused. “I think we dance what they tell us.”

  I wondered if something had gotten lost in translation.

  “No, I have a contract.”

  Then Conan climbed into the minivan and everyone fell silent. He leaned across the narrow aisle, glaring at us.

  “Passports,” he growled.

  I hesitated as the guy loomed over Yveta. I really didn’t want to give him my passport, but I didn’t want to make enemies on my first day either. Especially when he looked as if he could crush my skull with one hand.

  I’m not a small guy at 6’ 2”, and dancing professionally isn’t for weaklings—not when you’re supporting or lifting your partner all day long. Plus, I worked construction when I wasn’t competing. But Conan must have weighed close to 300 pounds, and looked mean with it, the long scar on his cheek adding to the air of menace.

  I told myself that he wanted my passport so my new bosses could get the longer-term visa they’d talked about, but still . . . I wasn’t happy.

  No one wanted to argue with him, although the girls looked at each other, huddling closer together. Their gazes shifted to me, and I knew that they were waiting to see if I was going to do or say something. I shrugged and handed over my passport.

  Conan snatched it, tucking it into his jacket pocket as he collected the others.

  Then he squeezed into the driver’s seat and the minivan rumbled to life. Yveta frowned with disappointment, then stared out the window, completely ignoring me for the rest of the ride. It left me feeling irritated and uneasy. Not a great start to my new life.

  But as we drove from the airport toward the glowing mecca of Las Vegas, I couldn’t help smiling. Russian women were moody—everyone knew that. Not like my people, who were hard-working, honest and passionate, in a country so small it was a common joke that everybody knew everyone.

  Both my parents were from the old Yugoslavia, although my mama grew up in London. She returned when Slovenia won independence in ’91. I was born nine months later.

  I think she would have liked to go back to Britain to live but never got the chance. So instead, she made a point of speaking English to me. It had been a while.

  She’d loved dancing, so I guess that’s where I got it from because I was nothing like my father. Thank God.

  Las Vegas was a river of colored lights as we swept past. From my window, I saw the exotically named hotels: the Monte Carlo, Aria, Bellagio with its famous fountains; Caesar’s Palace, the Mirage, Palazzo—old European names in a new world of loud, bold colors and 24/7 energy. I was home. That’s how it felt.

  But when Conan finally slowed the minivan, it was at an ugly concrete tower—definitely one of the cheaper hotels—which was a real letdown. I hoped their theater was as good as they’d promised. That was all I cared about.

  Conan pulled into a service entrance lined with dumpsters and empty crates, and I could see the disappointment on the girls’ faces, as well. Watching our arrival were two men in chefs’ uniforms who stamped out their cigarettes as soon as they saw the minivan and slunk inside, the heavy kitchen door slamming behind them. It looked like they didn’t want to be seen by Conan. A bad feeling began to brew inside me.

  Conan heaved his bulk from the front seat and left without a word.

  When he didn’t return immediately, Yveta and Galina whispered to each other anxiously.

  “What do we do?” Yveta asked.

  “Looks like we’ve arrived,” I shrugged, smiling with a reassurance that I didn’t feel.

  The girls seemed relieved and smiled back, including the one who hadn’t spoken yet. Even in the unlit minivan, I could see that she was much younger than the others—maybe only 15 or 16. That was young to be away from home in a foreign country. It happened, especially with dancers, because you started early and your career was short.

  I was about to speak to her when a door in the hotel opened, sending a path of light toward us. Our cue.

  I slid open the minivan door and jumped out, happy to stretch after 24 hours of traveling.

  The air was warm and dry, and if I craned my head back, I could see stars beginning to appear in the sky.

  Conan arrived back, following another guy in a suit.

  The new guy walked toward me, his hand outstretched, and spoke with a Russian accent as we shook hands.

  “Welcome to Hotel Royale.”

  “Thank you.”

  Then he turned to the girls still sitting in the minivan, their faces drained of color in the gloomy parking lot.

  “Come, ladies,” he laughed. “Don’t be shy.”

  The four girls climbed out and stood behind me, peering anxiously at our new boss.

  “Do you all have cell phones?” he asked. “Please let your families know that you have safely arrived. For security reasons, I’ll have to collect your cells, but they will be returned to you later.”

  I paused, halfway through an email to Luka, even though I knew he didn’t check his messages that much when he was on tour.

  “You want our phones?”

  The man scanned me quickly, then gave a cold smile. “It will be returned once it’s been processed.”

  First my passport, now my phone? I really didn’t like that idea. But I didn’t have any choice, so I finished the email and handed it over.

  He tossed it to Conan who dropped it into a plastic bag with the others. I really hoped that the screen hadn’t been damaged. It was a new iPhone.

  Silently, we followed them inside. It was creepy, and I felt Yveta close behind me. I reached out to hold her hand. She clung on, her skin cold and clammy even though the night air was warm.

  We trudged through the hotel along a series of service corridors until we arrived at a battered elevator and crowded inside. I was surprised when the car started moving downwards, stopping three floors underground. It really felt like we were trapped. Yveta was holding on tightly and I wanted to say it was going to be okay . . .

  When the doors opened, there were two more heavies in suits waiting for us. That was a lot of muscle to escort five dancers.

  “Women that way.”

  Yveta hesitated, then gave me a small unhappy wave as she trailed after the others.

  Conan jerked his head at me to follow him.

  I hoped that I wouldn’t have to be around him too much, he was a scary dude. I’d been expecting to meet the artistic director, Elaine something. But having that asshole’s cold stare on me felt like insects crawling across my skin.

  I followed him through more corridors until we ended up at a large kitchen. Two Asian guys were sitting at a table playing Poker, but when they saw Conan, they scooped up their cards and slunk out. That was definitely weird. They acted like they had a reason to be scared of him, and it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  Conan pointed at a chair and left.

  Welcome to America.

  When no one came to get me, I wandered around the kitchen, searching for something to eat, but other than an apple and some cheese, there were only things that needed cooking.

  I must have fallen asleep at the table because I was woken by the sound of high heels tapping across the floor.

  “Are you Mr. Novak?”

  I sat up straight and looked over my shoulder.

  The woman was tiny, perhaps fifty years old, with bleach-blo
nde hair and false eyelashes edged with miniature rhinestones that caught the light. Even from ten feet, I could smell the acrid scent of fake tan that she’d tried to hide under a heavy dose of perfume.

  She huffed impatiently. “Are you Mr. Novak?”

  I nodded slowly, replying with a croak. “Yes.”

  “Finally! We’ve been waiting for you. You were expected at the theater.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. A big guy with a scar on his cheek brought me here.”

  The blonde woman shuddered.

  “Oleg! Ugh, don’t mention that creep’s name.”

  She jerked her chin at my suitcase.

  “Well, come on then.”

  I followed her out of the kitchen, still hungry and feeling jetlagged.

  “I was a dancer,” she said cheerfully, strutting along the corridor. “Exotic—I’m too short to be a real Las Vegas showgirl. Now, I work backstage and look after the boys and girls.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  She shrugged. “A while. I’m Trixie Morell.” She grinned at me. “I was born Doris Wazacki, but that’s showbiz for ya!”

  She marched ahead, leading me through an unmarked door with air conditioning ducts humming overhead.

  Finally she stopped at a numbered keypad and punched in a code.

  “This is the staff wing,” she threw over her shoulder. “The long-timers have their own apartments, but we get a lot of people on short-term contracts. As well as us show folk, it’s where the kitchen and wait staff live. It’s safe.”

  Safe? Why would it be unsafe?

  After another corridor, she pushed open the door to a small bedroom with a tiny attached bathroom.

  Half of the room was plastered with posters of Hollywood icons from Greta Garbo to Judy Garland, and one of the twin beds was covered in men’s dance clothes.

  So my new roommate was a dancer.

  “You’ll meet Gary later,” Trixie said, ignoring my silence. “He’s very possessive about his things, so don’t borrow anything without asking. In fact, don’t touch anything at all. He can be a bit of a bitch, but you’ll get used to him.”

  I almost smiled. After my last fight with my father, it was the least of my worries.

  “Leave your things here. Oh, bring your dance shoes—something you can audition in.”

  “Audition? I thought I had the job?”

  She shrugged. “Elaine told me you were auditioning.”

  I was worried. I’d spent a lot of money on my flight here—no one had said anything about an audition.

  I dropped my suitcase on the spare bed and dug out a pair of Latin shoes and dance pants. Trixie watched the whole time while I dropped my jeans and changed. She didn’t even bother to look away. I’m not shy about my body, it was just off-putting.

  I took one last look at the room, then followed Trixie as the door closed behind me with a soft click.

  She led me to the wings of a large stage and I could smell sweat and greasepaint, hear the sounds of rehearsals as we drew closer.

  “Not too shabby, eh?” said Trixie proudly.

  I had to agree. It would be the largest stage that I’d ever danced on. I could tell that it was professionally designed and had a sprung floor that looked new.

  This was what I’d come for.

  “Ash!”

  A woman in towering heels and a clinging leotard strode toward me, her breasts bouncing, and an enormous set of ostrich feathers fixed to her hair.

  “Yveta?”

  I smiled as she kissed me on both cheeks.

  Trixie interrupted, frowning, and shooed Yveta back to the stage.

  “Friend of yours?”

  I shrugged. “We’ve met.”

  “And?”

  “We arrived at the same time.”

  Trixie pressed her lips together but I wasn’t sure what was bothering her.

  “Hmm. Come and meet Elaine—she’s the Artistic Director. She’ll be pleased to see you. She’s one man down since Erik left . . .”

  I glanced at her, but Trixie didn’t finish her sentence.

  “Elaine! I’ve got your new boy at last!”

  The Artistic Director was a tall, thin woman with the hard body of a dancer and a face that could chisel granite.

  Her eyes were raking up and down the rest of my body, professionally assessing me.

  “What’s your experience?”

  “Two time finalist in Slovenian All-Stars International Ten Dance,” I spoke clearly, proud of my achievements.

  “Anything else?”

  I blinked, nonplussed by her lack of interest—I’d already given her my best result in a prestigious national competition.

  “I can dance anything—whatever you need. I’ve been dancing since I was five.”

  “How old are you now?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  Elaine sighed. “Right, let’s see what you can do.”

  I wanted to laugh. I was jetlagged, I’d hardly eaten for 12 hours, hadn’t slept for 24, and I was stiff from sitting for the best part of a day. I had nothing prepared and had no idea what sort of routine she wanted to see. And from the look on her face, I was already pissing her off. I’d never been less ready for an audition.

  Elaine shouted to a technician standing by the mixing board.

  “Joe, set him up with something.” Then she looked at me impatiently. “What are you waiting for? Go do your warm up.”

  I knew she wasn’t going to give me a second chance. I had to nail this audition or I was out of chances, and I didn’t know what that would mean. Would they just put me on the first flight back?

  I talked to the technician quickly, Elaine’s impatience filling the room while I jogged on the spot, then did some arm swings, sways, trunk rotation, rumba walks and spot turns, stretching my muscles then finishing with some balance exercises. A full warm-up took 15 minutes minimum: Elaine gave me less than ten.

  I should be far more prepared than this to dance—Elaine knew it. Which probably meant she didn’t want me in her troupe.

  I rubbed my throbbing temples—I had to nail this audition.

  I nodded at the technician, then pulled off my t-shirt, holding it out like a matador’s cape, and strode onto the stage with the sultry, dragging steps of the Paso Doble.

  Florence and the Machine poured from the speakers, filling the empty cavern of the theater.

  And I became the dance. I was a matador, facing a pitiless enemy.

  ‘But I’m not giving up . . .

  I stepped forward with my heels, strong and proud, arms sweeping up from my sides, the t-shirt whirling around my head and tossed away.

  ‘I can’t count on anyone but myself . . .

  Apel: the Flamenco stamp.

  The movements were quick and sharp, staccato, chest and head held high, feet directly underneath my body.

  I felt it. I felt it all. Anger and frustration, the drama of the music: sur place, separation, attack, the open promenade, the Spanish line—the formal steps flowed through me, but it was emotion, owning the music, feeling the music, living it. I danced and the world stopped. All the pain, all the bitterness, lost in the music.

  I leapt through the air, my body shouting the aggression that was sealed inside. Movements proud and strong.

  Then the music changed abruptly and Public Enemy’s ‘Rebel Without a Pause’ blasted out. My whole body shifted. From tall and proud, I got low down and earthy, limbs loose and flowing, masculine and raw, unpolished. Smooth transitions were edged with hard finishes, taut arms and angry eyes. Then I threw myself into a handless cartwheel, landing with soft knees and a ton of attitude, finishing with a helicopter spin on my back, ignoring the bite of the wooden floor on my bare skin, then leaping to my feet, almost glaring at Elaine.

  The music died away and I stood panting on the stage, sweat pouring down my chest.

  Yveta cheered from the wings and I turned my head to grin at her.

  Against her will, Elaine wa
s impressed. She jerked her head in a quick nod.

  “You can dance.”

  Elaine led me to the rest of the cast, and I could see right away that there was a clear separation between the girls who were Las Vegas regulars and the people like me who’d been brought in recently. Elaine would have her work cut out turning us into a team.

  We were opening in the refurbished theater in four weeks—not an overly long rehearsal period for a two-hour show. There were also singers, a magician and a cool guy who juggled stuff, but still, the core of it was the Vegas showgirls.

  Elaine introduced me to the other male dancer, an older guy whose eyes narrowed when he saw me.

  “Gary, this is Ash. He’s also your new roommate.”

  So this was the guy with all the posters. He definitely didn’t look happy to meet me, resting his hands on his hips and staring without speaking.

  Elaine ignored his unfriendliness and told him to walk me through elements of the men’s role. There were only two of us, and it seemed we were just there to ‘present’ the girls, showing them off. Elaine mentioned that she was considering giving one of us a dance duet, which would be far more noticeable than boring chorus-line work. I guess it was too much to hope for a prestigious solo dance. Gary kept throwing me dirty looks, which I ignored. I was going to get that duet.

  Rehearsals lasted late into the evening, and it was nearly 1AM local time when Elaine dismissed us, tired and sweaty. I followed Gary back to our room.

  “So, you’re the new flavor of the month.”

  I ignored Gary’s tone. Jealous dancers . . . I was used to that. It came with the territory. I’d even known one guy who’d sabotaged a competitor’s dance shoes. Shit happens.

  “I’m just new.”

  “Hmm, well, I have seniority, so don’t forget that, showboat.”

  His comment pissed me off. “I don’t showboat.”

  Gary sneered out a laugh.

  “And I’m not a friend of Dorothy.”

  It had been a few years since I’d spoken English, and I didn’t get the reference right away. But then I noticed the Judy Garland poster on Gary’s side of the room.