Slave to the Rhythm (The Rhythm #1)

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  I could care less that Gary was gay, but I wasn’t going to put up with being accused of showing off.

  “It was an audition,” I said flatly. “If I didn’t get in, I’d be sent . . . home.”

  Gary’s frigid stance softened slightly.

  “Where are you from? You speak really good English.”

  “Koper in Slovenia. It’s about 100 km from Ljubljana.”

  “I have no idea what you just said, sugar lips.”

  Twenty-four hours ago, I would have been irritated by the nickname—now I didn’t give a shit. Perspective is everything.

  “Slovenia. It was part of Yugoslavia until 1991.” I saw the blank look on Gary’s face. “In Europe.”

  “Right. Do you have a King and Queen?”

  I shook my head. “No, we’re a Republic.”

  Gary looked disappointed. “No queens? Pity. So, where did you learn English? Or is that what you speak in . . . wherever it is you come from?”

  I raised an eyebrow at him.

  “Nope, no queens. And we speak Slovene in Slovenia.”

  “Whatever. I’m going to take a shower and get some sleep,” he said, without much interest.

  I nodded. Sounded good to me.

  I stared out of my bedroom window, trying to see the stars. But the only view was of concrete.

  Ash

  AS DAWN FILTERED through the window, I woke, having slept only a few hours, still tired and sluggish.

  I stumbled to the bathroom, turning the shower to scalding hot. Some of the tension in my body eased as I enjoyed my first hot shower in two days.

  I’d just finished and was staring into the steamed-up mirror, trying to decide whether or not to shave, when Gary breezed into the bathroom.

  “Damn! You’re wearing a towel. Don’t give me that look, Mr. Hot-pants. There have got to be some perks to rooming with a prima donna.”

  “Whatever you say, Toto.”

  “Are you saying I’m a little bitch?”

  I stared at him coldly, but was surprised when he grinned at me and winked.

  Then Gary flapped his hands, shooing me out of the bathroom. “By the way, nice tat.”

  I automatically glanced down at the tattoo covering the top of my left arm. The dark, swirling lines were decorative but meaningless, unless you knew how to read them.

  The tattoo was just something else that my dad hated about me. To older people like him, tattoos were seen in terms of permanence and regret, but to me it was a map of my life and experiences; memories inked into skin.

  I’d be adding to it soon. I didn’t know what yet, but when I did, yeah . . .

  Changing into a clean t-shirt and cheap sweatpants, I sat on the bed, wondering what the day would bring.

  I looked up to find Gary staring at me, an odd expression on his face.

  “How’s the jetlag?”

  I shrugged. “Won’t stop me dancing.”

  Gary grinned. “I hear ya! I danced the whole of the Harlequin in the Nutcracker with a metatarsal fracture.”

  “You dance ballet?”

  Gary’s chest inflated. “Since I was four years old. I’m just waiting for my genius to be recognized,” and he sighed.

  I dropped my gaze. Gary was the wrong side of 30—there was no big break around the corner for him now. A dancer’s life was short—ballet dancers especially. Like top athletes, optimum potential was reached early. After that, you could coach, teach, or go do something else and dream about your glory days. Gary knew this.

  “And you’re a ballroom boy,” Gary continued.

  I nodded.

  “How did a guy like you get into that?”

  “A guy like me?”

  “You know? All brooding alpha; all dark looks and oozing testosterone—which is a total turn on, by the way, especially with your bubble butt.”

  I blinked, still a little slow at catching Gary’s rapid fire words, then a grin spread across my face.

  “You’re crazy, man.”

  “Crazy for you!” Gary screeched, clutching his chest. “You have no idea what a relief it is to have a hunk to look at,” his voice dropping back an octave. “Erik had a face that said ‘spank me’ . . . you know, total butt face.”

  “I thought I was a showboating prima donna?” I reminded him.

  “Psh! I’m over it. Come on, let’s eat—I’m starving.”

  I hadn’t eaten for nearly two days, but I didn’t mention that.

  The hotel’s staff dining room was the place I’d been taken to the night before. It was small and basic, with narrow benches under metal tables. But the food looked and smelled fantastic, with piles of bacon, scrambled eggs and the weird stuff Americans called ‘biscuits’, bowls of fresh fruit and yogurt.

  I was tempted to eat everything in sight, but I knew that was a sure way to end up puking during rehearsals.

  Reluctantly, I made up a small plate with two pieces of bacon and a spoonful of eggs, as well as some fresh fruit and a glass of water.

  I also took a couple of bananas for fuel later.

  Gary introduced me to two other showgirls who were living at the hotel: Grace and Honey, friends from California. Both were attractive, with the same build—very tall and thin with medium-size tits that looked natural.

  I was enjoying some low-level flirting until Yveta and Galina arrived, staking a claim by sliding into the empty places either side and kissing both cheeks in the European way.

  “Dobroe utro! Sleep good?”

  I nodded and smiled. “Hey, Yveta, Galina! This is my roommate, Gary.”

  “We’ve met,” Gary said waspishly.

  Yveta nodded curtly and Galina ignored him altogether. I wondered what the story was between them. They hardly knew each other.

  The girls left the table briefly to grab some fruit to eat later, but their breakfast was a glass of hot water with a slice of lemon in it.

  They were already thin and I wondered if they were anorexic—it was common in the dance world for men and women.

  Instead, Yveta watched everyone else eat, her eyes hungry, while she sipped her hot water.

  There were other hotel staff eating at the same time, but they kept to themselves.

  After many coffees, we all headed to the theater for rehearsals.

  The other showgirls arrived, the ones who didn’t live in the hotel, complaining about the early hour. Gary told me that most of them had more than one job, and worked until two or three in the morning. A 10AM start was almost unheard of in Vegas.

  Elaine’s assistant ran us through some basic warm-up exercises until our muscles were loose. I was surprised to learn that I was one of only two people in the troupe who didn’t have a background in ballet. It didn’t bother me, but it made me think that someone other than Elaine had initiated my travel here.

  The warm-ups weren’t that different from ones I was used to, and I was confident that I could do the job I’d been hired for. I’d nailed my audition, I knew that much.

  Neal, the assistant, had me and Gary do some upper body strengthening, push-ups and planks to help with core training to protect our backs when we lifted the girls.

  Classical ballroom doesn’t have lifts, but I’d always enjoyed the showdances where ‘illegal lifts’ were allowed. Even before my balls dropped, I’d wanted to be strong enough to do lifts. I was a big guy for a dancer, but even a girl who weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet could take a toll on your body if you didn’t stay strong and have great balance.

  The showgirls here were all more than averagely tall—over 5’10” as a minimum. And although their costumes were almost non-existent, their headdresses could weigh up to 30 pounds. Either way, that was a lot to lift and I wasn’t used to it. The theater arts girls I’d worked with before were all under 5’2”. This was going to kill me.

  I pushed hard, trying to make sense of the crazy world I’d been dropped into. This I understood—dancing, working to appear effortless on stage.

  “Ash, take five,�
� said Neal, throwing me a towel.

  Surprised, I glanced past Neal and saw Trixie heading in my direction, her hard face unreadable.

  “Boss wants to see you, Yveta and Galina this evening after rehearsals,” she said, pointing a sharp fingernail at the three of us.

  I grit my teeth. “Oleg?”

  Trixie gave a delicate shudder. “No, the big boss. Mr. Volkov wants you in his suite at ten. I’ll meet you in the lobby to take you up.”

  As she strode away she called out, “Dress nice!”

  Yveta threw me a look. “What do you think he wants?”

  “To meet his new staff, I guess.”

  “Maybe we’ll get our phones back,” she said hopefully.

  The thought cheered me up, and I concentrated on finishing my workout, then followed Elaine’s instructions as we began preparations for the show.

  As one of only two guys among 14 women in the troupe, my role was simple: present seven girls, which meant leading them onto the stage so they could do their showgirls routine, while Gary presented the other seven. Easy. Boring.

  All that Elaine wanted was a samba promenade. I’d been doing that since I was six. But when Yveta reached for me and smiled, I couldn’t help throwing in a couple of sexy botafogos that made her giggle.

  “Stop! Stop! Stop!” Elaine yelled. “What are you doing?”

  My grin dropped. Fuck! This was no time to mess around.

  “Sorry, Madam Director,” I said formally.

  “Hmm, no, I liked it,” she said thoughtfully. “It’s cheeky. Keep it in. Gary, show me your contra botafogo with . . . new girl . . . Galina!”

  Gary looked taken aback, but then gripped Galina’s hand and led her into the dance, cocking an eyebrow at me. I knew what he was saying: Anything you can do . . .

  “Yes, I think we’ve got something here,” Elaine said to herself. “Ash, solo spot volta with a reverse turn, whisk, and side samba walk. Yveta—keep up.”

  And she did.

  By the end of the rehearsal, the four of us had developed a kind of dance-off, with each of us competing against the other couple to pull off increasingly intricate and difficult steps. Elaine was delighted and things were looking up. Not as boring as I thought it was going to be.

  “The audience will eat this up. Good work people.”

  My gray t-shirt was dark with sweat and Yveta’s make-up was smudged, but we grinned at each other. Even Gary didn’t seem unhappy, although he found something to bitch about.

  “Four years,” he griped. “Four years, and I’ve never even had a sniff of a duet or solo spot until you come along, showboating your tight ass.”

  I winked at him, and Gary had to look away to stop the smile that was threatening to break out.

  Honey strolled over, patting at her damp chest with a towel.

  “Grace and I are going for drinks at the Venetian. It’s happy hour—draft beer for three bucks, margaritas for five. Wanna come?”

  “Are you asking all of us or just Mr. Hot-pants?” sniped Gary.

  Honey sighed then gave a wide smile. “All of you, of course.”

  I was surprised, but pleased. “I’m in.”

  After showering and taking my workout clothes to the staff laundry, I went with Gary to meet the girls for drinks. It looked as though they were several margaritas in already.

  Yveta poured herself onto my lap as soon as I sat down, while Honey and Grace exchanged amused glances. Gary sighed loudly and rolled his eyes.

  I had to hold Yveta’s hips firmly to stop her grinding on me. The attention was fun and she was hot, so I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it. Affairs between dance partners were common, but I also knew how they could negatively affect the dynamics of a performance if the relationship went bad, and Elaine had hinted at a larger role for us in the future. I couldn’t fuck this up just because I had a chance of getting laid.

  Yveta sighed into my neck, her warm breath bathing my skin. I shook my head, reminding myself that life was complicated enough right now.

  Unfortunately, my dick wasn’t paying attention to anything except the sexy woman snuggling against my chest and sitting with her hot pussy over my crotch. It had been a while.

  Carefully, I shifted Yveta from my lap and gratefully took a sip of the cold beer that a waitress brought.

  “Fine,” huffed Gary. “I’ll pay for one beer, Mr. Hot-pants, then the bitches can buy your drinks.”

  “You’re the biggest bitch,” laughed Honey.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Gary said, raising his glass.

  It was so damn easy to sit in a bar and have a few drinks and talk about dance. It made the easy hours pass too quickly and it was time to go and meet Volkov. My mellow mood slipped when Yveta told me that the new boss’s surname translated as ‘Wolf’.

  Gary raised his eyebrows.

  “I’ve worked here four years and I’ve only met the boss once. I wonder why he wants to meet you?”

  His glance was speculative, but I saw concern there, too.

  I shrugged, trying to hide the fact that my heartrate had kicked up a couple of beats.

  “I don’t know. But as long it’s not that creepy bastard Oleg, I don’t care.”

  Gary pressed his lips together but didn’t say anything else.

  Yveta was a happy drunk, but at nearly six foot, she wasn’t the lightest weight to prop up. She sobered slightly when Galina reminded her that we had an appointment, but giggled all the way back to our hotel, wobbling dangerously in her high heels, until I clamped my arm around her waist and steered her through the early evening crowds with Galina’s help.

  Galina’s English wasn’t as good as Yveta’s, but she told me that they’d met at a dance academy in St. Petersburg and had been friends ever since. It was Yveta’s dream to be a Las Vegas showgirl.

  She was silent for a moment, glancing at me nervously.

  “I don’t like it here.”

  Then she lowered her voice, even though we were on a noisy, crowded street.

  “Where are those other girls, the ones who arrived with us?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But it’s strange, yes?”

  I didn’t know what to say to that.

  Her lips trembled and she looked as if she might cry.

  When we arrived back at the hotel, I waited outside the ladies’ bathroom while Galina tried to sober up her friend some more.

  Trixie saw me leaning against the wall and hurried across, her high heels click-clacking on the marble floor.

  She stared critically at my chinos and plain white shirt, then gave a sharp nod. Her eyes narrowed as Yveta and Galina exited the bathroom.

  Yveta seemed a lot more sober when she saw Trixie’s grim expression, throwing a nervous glance at Galina, who looked as if she was about to pass out.

  Without a word spoken, we followed Trixie to the elevator, watching in silence as she keyed in a private code for the Penthouse.

  “Don’t speak unless Mr. Volkov asks you a question, give yes and no answers, and smile.”

  She’d missed her calling as a cheerleader.

  When the elevator doors swept open with a soft thwump, we were facing two heavy-set men with dark suits and emotionless faces, guarding a pair of thick oak doors with ornate handles.

  They ignored the wide smile that Trixie sent their way.

  “Mr. Volkov is expecting them,” she said, sweeping her arm toward us.

  The bodyguard with pale icy eyes held the door open so we could pass inside. He could have been Oleg’s twin: not a reassuring thought.

  I’d been expecting an office for a business meeting, but instead we were standing in an expensive suite with thick carpet and muted lighting.

  The air was heavy with cigar smoke and I could smell weed, too.

  Squinting through the clouds, I counted three men and a woman, all lounging on the wide Italian sectionals, drinking champagne.

  One of the men was out of place in the classy room. He was heavil
y tatted and bearded, with a leather vest over a black t-shirt, and heavy biker boots on his feet. He also had a massive hunting knife in a sheath at his waist.

  The other two men wore suits. I was no judge, but they looked expensive.

  Then beside me, Yveta gave a soft gasp and I turned to look at her.

  “Marta,” she whispered.

  The woman sitting on the couch was dressed in a plunging tank top and short skirt, heavily made up, and wearing stripper heels. I wouldn’t have recognized her if Yveta hadn’t said anything.

  But then the biker guy laughed and clapped his hand on Marta’s thigh, making her jump and spill her drink. That made him laugh harder as he gripped her leg.

  Yveta’s smile froze and she bit her lip as she glanced at me worriedly.

  “Ah, my young dancers,” said the man in the center of the room.

  I didn’t need to have ESP to know that this was Volkov—the Wolf.

  He was well named, with thick gray hair like a mane around his large head and yellow-hazel eyes. He was lean and rangy like a wolf, but it was the way he exuded power that told me he was the man in charge.

  “Sit, please,” he said, but it was an order.

  I sat on the section furthest away from him, trying to ignore Volkov’s amused expression.

  He waited until the girls were seated before he showed his teeth in a wide smile.

  “Sit a little closer. You’re so far away over there.”

  So we all had to stand and shuffle forward awkwardly until we were seated next to our host.

  “That’s better,” he laughed. “Shy showgirls—and boy—who would have thought it?” And he laughed again.

  “Now, you must be Yveta,” he said to Galina, although I suspected he knew exactly who was who.

  It was obvious that he was enjoying playing games with us. The thought put me even more on edge, although I tried to hide it. But at least Oleg wasn’t in the room. The relief was short lived.

  “And you are Aljaž, of course. I believe you like to be called Ash.”

  I nodded, and thanked Marta as she handed me a drink without looking at me.

  Yveta and Galina were worried, exchanging nervous glances.

  “I’ve heard good things about you,” Volkov said, directing his eerie gaze to me. “Elaine is very pleased with rehearsals. She says you’ll be an asset.”