He placed the plastic cap over the empty needle and left it on my bedside table without a word.
It was an oddly intimate moment.
Laney
THE FRONT DOOR crashed open, making me jump. I dropped the knife I’d been holding, glad I hadn’t lost a finger while slicing onions. I looked over my shoulder, ready to hand Ash his ass, but the smile on his face stopped me in my tracks.
I’d become so used to seeing him devoid of expression, that my heart jolted with pleasure and a warm feeling filled me.
His dark eyes sparkled, and I saw the dimples in his cheeks for the first time in so long. Too long. He strode toward me, happiness flowing around him.
Without pausing, he yanked me into his arms and twirled me around, making me feel graceful and giddy all at the same time.
“What’s going on?” I gasped, half laughing.
“We’re celebrating!” he shouted, waltzing around the tiny kitchen as my feet dangled above the ground.
His joy was infectious and soon I was shrieking with laughter as we whirled in circles.
“W-what are we laughing about?” I hiccupped.
“I have an audition,” he shouted happily. “A real audition in a real theater—to dance!”
“Oh my God! How did that happen? When? Where? How? Did I say when? What is it? Ash, put me down, I can’t breathe!”
I slid down Ash’s chest, my cheeks reddening as I felt every hard ridge and plane of his body, until my face was pressed against his heart, listening to the wild pounding begin to ease as he rocked me gently, his hips undulating in a slow rumba.
“This is what I’ve been waiting for,” he whispered, his breath blowing across my neck as he buried his face in my hair. “Let’s go out and celebrate—anything you want, anywhere you want to go.”
I started to remind him that he was saving his money and couldn’t afford to treat me, but I bit the words back. Ash was a proud man, and being reminded of how little he had would only annoy him. I wouldn’t spoil this moment.
“That sounds wonderful!”
Ash grabbed my hand and started tugging me toward the door.
“Wait!” I laughed. “I need a few minutes to get changed and you’re still in your work clothes.”
Ash looked down at his filthy jeans and boots with steel toecaps, and gave a rueful smile.
“I guess I’d better shower.”
He bent over to unlace his boots, and don’t judge me, but I couldn’t help checking out his ass. I knew I shouldn’t, but he had such a great ass: tight and round and squeezable as he filled out his jeans deliciously.
I glanced away quickly as he stood up again.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you—you’ve got mail,” and I pointed at the coffee table in the living room.
Ash frowned, glaring at the brown envelope as if it would bite him.
“It’s from the Embassy,” I said.
He ripped open the envelope, pulling out several pieces of paper, then swore in his own language.
“What’s wrong?”
“They won’t send me a passport yet. It’s still being investigated.”
My heart flip-flopped uncomfortably.
“I have temporary ID, but I don’t know if that will be enough to get access to my bank account,” and he scowled.
“We’ll work on that tomorrow,” I said quickly. “We’re celebrating tonight, remember?”
Ash smiled, his good mood instantly restored. Then he headed toward the shower in my bedroom, shedding clothes as he went.
“You are so messy!” I yelled after him, not really caring. “And you’re going to tell me everything about the audition!”
Happy laughter was his only reply and I found myself grinning inanely at the bedroom door. Happy Ash was a beautiful thing, and it had been so long.
We’d gotten a rhythm going when it came to sharing the small space of my apartment. Being in the bathroom meant you had run of the bedroom, too. It worked, kind of, avoiding embarrassing moments of nudity.
But because Ash was in a hurry to go out, while he showered I rifled through my closet to find something to wear.
I’d just pulled out a pair of skinny jeans and silky tank-top when the bathroom door opened, a cloud of steam following Ash as he stepped out buck naked, his towel still in his hand.
It was several seconds before my brain kicked into gear and I turned away, Ash winding the towel around his waist, hiding an endowment that was still generous, even in the resting position.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “I just . . . um, I’ll be outside.”
I hurried from the room, my cheeks glowing.
A moment later, my bedroom door opened and Ash walked out wearing a pair of clean jeans and tugging a plain black t-shirt over his head. He was head-to-toe in thrift store clothes and he looked like a million dollars.
I scuttled past him, ignoring the amused, questioning glance he sent my way.
“I’ll be ten minutes.”
I took twenty, taking the time to curl and style my boring straight hair, as well as recover from my embarrassment.
When I re-emerged, Ash had put away his dirty work clothes and cleaned up the kitchen, putting the half-chopped onion in some Tupperware. Someone had trained him well.
I was surprised by the pinprick of jealousy I felt at that thought.
“Let’s go!” he said, tossing my heavy winter coat across the room.
He wore an old army surplus coat that reached down to his calves, and a woolen beanie pulled low over his forehead. I blinked at the transformation. He looked dangerous, like the kind of guy you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley. Gorgeous, of course.
Bundled up against the cold, we slogged down the icy streets. It was just five weeks before Thanksgiving and the stores were brightly lit and jammed with shoppers.
The cold wind whipped my hair into my eyes and I slipped on the slick sidewalk. Ash put his arm around my shoulders and tugged me into his side.
My hand crept around his waist and I felt guilty for enjoying it too much. Was Collin right? Was it impossible for men and women to be just friends? Or just impossible for Ash and me to be friends?
Without needing to discuss it, we headed toward a small, family-run pub with an Irish theme near the lake. The food was cheapish, and it had a warm, laid back atmosphere.
It was packed, being a Friday night, but Ash found us a couple of low stools near the fire. I was sweating before I managed to take off my coat. So much for trying to look nice.
Ash shrugged out of his coat and immediately attracted the attention of several women and a couple of gay guys. If he noticed, he ignored them, and headed for the bar.
The waitress had already taken my order for two Shepherds Pies, something that I knew was Ash’s favorite, before he returned with two pints of beer.
Collin would have bought champagne and insisted on a French restaurant for a celebration.
“Cheers!”
“Na zdravje!”
“Now will you tell me everything?” I asked impatiently as our glasses clinked against each other.
Ash’s excitement was contagious, and by the end of his story, I was on the edge of my seat, my drink in danger of tipping over.
“Tomorrow?! The audition is tomorrow? Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, preparing?”
Ash smiled. “I’m thinking about it all. I need to use your iPhone. Is that okay?”
“Of course you can. What song are you going to use?”
“I’m not sure. Can I borrow it tonight, to listen while I sleep?”
Ash
I’d miss work for the audition, and I knew it meant that I’d be fired. And I got the impression that Viktor knew a lot of people, so it might not be easy getting hired on another construction job. I didn’t care. I fucking hated it, and every day I was reminded that my dad’s blood ran in my veins was a fucking miserable one.
I passed this old theater on my way home . . . I mean to Laney’s home. It was usually close
d, but tonight it had been brightly lit and a poster outside said ‘open auditions’. I nearly walked past, assuming it was for actors, when I saw a girl with a huge bag over one shoulder and a pair of salsa shoes in her hand.
It was like seeing a rainbow, or drinking freshly ground coffee. It was seeing a beautiful woman, smelling a favorite perfume and following the scent because even if you tried not to, you couldn’t help yourself.
I walked close behind the dancer, following her inside and scaring the woman checking names at the door.
“Can I help you?” she sniffed, looking me up and down.
I must have seemed ridiculous in my Army surplus coat, steel toecap boots and baggy jeans covered in demolition dust. I’d never looked less like a dancer.
“The open audition is for dancers?” I asked politely.
“Yes, and we’re very busy,” she huffed, trying to shoo me away with her hands.
I doubt if she was a day under 80, stood five-foot nothing, and weighed less than half my body weight. But she wasn’t intimidated, just annoyed. It was kind of funny.
“Guys, or just girls?”
“Really, young man! I’m very busy!”
“I’m a dancer,” I said, giving her my best smile, the one that usually worked on women.
“This isn’t some Hip Hop club,” she snapped. “This is for trained dancers.”
“Yes, ma’am. I am two time finalist in All-Stars International Ten Dance . . . in my own country.”
She blinked, then tapped her pen against the thick pad of paper, narrowing her eyes at me.
“Hmm, very well. Then tell me, in which dance would you see a syncopated separation?”
I smiled.
“Paso Doble—my favorite dance.”
Her eyebrows shot up and I grinned at her as she thought of another question.
“Well, well indeed! And what is an ocho?”
“It’s a tango step—the Argentine tango—the name coming from the figure eights women tango dancers make.”
And I demonstrated for her, which wasn’t easy in heavy work boots.
A thin smile passed her lips.
“Name?”
“Ash Novak.”
“Well, Mr. Novak, all our auditions slots are filled for tonight . . .”
My face must have shown how I felt, because her own expression softened.
“However, I will put you down for 10am tomorrow. Come with your music and a prepared piece of dance for us. And please, don’t wear those monstrosities on your feet.”
I leaned forward and kissed her papery cheek.
“No, ma’am!”
I’d run the rest of the way home. Home to Laney.
I spent most of the night listening to music and planning a routine. I tossed out several ideas before I was passably happy with the result, then slept for two restless hours until I heard Laney moving around in her bedroom.
She opened the door slowly, and peered cautiously into the living room. She’d been doing that ever since she saw me jerking off.
“Do you know what you’re going to dance?” she asked.
Not ‘good morning’ as usual, or even ‘hi’. She’d woken up thinking about my audition—same as me. I scooped her up and swung her around.
“Yes! I think so!”
She laughed, tugging on my t-shirt so I’d put her down.
“What music did you choose?”
“Either Raise Your Glass by Pink for a Cha-cha—Paso combo, or . . .”
“Or . . . ?” she asked, her voice excited.
“Hunter by Pharrell Williams: a samba—hip hop mash up.”
Her face fell slightly.
“What? You don’t like that?”
I’d been so sure. Laney’s lukewarm response affected me more than I wanted to think about.
“No, it sounds fine,” she said, with a weak smile.
“Laney!” I gripped my hair. “Please, what is it?”
“I’m not the dance expert, Ash.”
“But you have an opinion!”
“Okay, fine, but if it’s a bad idea, promise me you won’t do anything dumb.”
I stared at her impatiently, and she sighed.
“You should do a rumba.”
I didn’t reply and she bit her lip.
“Why should I do rumba? It’s . . . not showy.”
“That’s exactly why!” she said, wringing her hands together. “Whenever I watch ‘Dancing With the Stars’, it’s the one dance male celebrities never do well. But you’re so . . .”
I wasn’t following her thinking. What did a show about amateur dancers have to do with, well, anything?
“I’m so . . . ?”
“Macho!” she said, her cheeks turning pink.
I broke into a smile at her answer.
“Thank you,” and I winked at her.
“Stop it!” she laughed. “I’m being serious. A super-macho rumba would be . . . sexy.”
Her cheeks were glowing now, and I was sure that if I reached out and touched her, I’d feel the heat.
She snapped her fingers.
“James Bay, Let It Go.”
“Play it for me,” I said quickly.
She plugged in her iPhone and scrolled through while I waited impatiently. Then the first guitar chords flooded through the room and I knew she was right.
I will be me . . .
I could see it in my mind, how my body would move, the emotion I could show through my face, my arms, the tips of my fingers.
“It’s perfect, Laney! Thank you!”
I cupped my hands around her soft cheeks and kissed her full on the lips.
She gasped slightly and wobbled.
“Okay?”
“Yup,” she nodded breathlessly.
“I’ll go shower,” I said, jogging to the bathroom. “Then I need to practice.”
“Ash!”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t shave.”
I turned to look at her.
“Just . . . the woman yesterday—she thought you were a construction worker, right?”
“Sure, I guess.”
“Remember what we said about stereotypes? A construction worker who dances a rumba—they’ll definitely remember you.”
My eyebrows shot up and I grinned at her.
“No shaving.”
I spent the next hour using Laney’s living room as a rehearsal space. I even asked her to video me on her phone. I was used to rehearsing in dance studios that had mirrors so I could check my technique—it was frustrating not being able to see how I looked. The filming helped.
Itching to get to the theater, I ran through a checklist in my head: big bottle of water, check; towel, check; ballroom shoes, check; bananas—I’d buy some on the way. Laney had typed out a résumé for me and took a photo on her phone that she printed out. It looked professional by the time she finished. I didn’t have kneepads or Latin shoes or any sheet music, so I had to hope they didn’t penalize me for being unprepared. I’d just have to blow them away with my show piece.
But when I came out of the shower, Laney was sitting on the couch. Usually, she was in the kitchen making breakfast or already at her computer working.
“Are you okay?”
“Just a bit stiff. I’m fine.”
I stared at her. She’d been well for weeks.
“Ash, I’m fine! Go! Or you’ll be late.”
She made shooing motions with her hands, so I grabbed one and kissed her knuckles.
“Wish me luck!”
“Luck!” She laughed. “But you don’t need it. You’re amazing!”
“Moj sonček!”
“What does that mean?” she called after me, as I jogged to the front door.
But I didn’t answer. I knew it would frustrate the hell out of her—she was so cute when she was annoyed. Her smile lit the dark corners inside me.
I’d been too wired to eat breakfast, even though that was a big no-no for auditions. It could be a long day, with mayb
e as many as four call backs.
I stopped at a convenience store and bought six tired-looking bananas: sugar and carbs. Can’t beat it.
The line at the theater was as long as the day before, which was kind of depressing. Quite a few people were in pairs, and there was also a bunch of six guys who were practicing some street dance moves. They looked good, but unless they had technique to go with it, they probably wouldn’t get through the audition. No technique usually means injuries, and no dance director will want that when you’ve got eight shows a week.
I’d worn a tight t-shirt to show off my pecs and abs—something working construction had actually helped.
The theater was heated, but I kept my sweatshirt on while I did warm-up exercises. They were taking people through in batches of 30 which meant for a fairly over-crowded stage. When my name was called, everyone in my group had the same idea—get to the front so you can see what’s being taught by the choreographer, and the casting director can see you. Several short girls used their elbows to push past me. Yep, the dance world is competitive.
I hung at the back, knowing that they’d probably switch lines during the audition so everyone gets a chance to see and be seen. I was tall—it wasn’t a problem.
I pulled off my sweatshirt and tossed it to the side. This was it. I needed to buckle up and focus. Pay attention, look, listen, learn—get the style, so the choreographer would know I could do the show, whatever it was going to be.
The run was a mash-up of various Latin styles with some jazz thrown in. It was immediately obvious who was trained and who wasn’t, not that I spent a lot of time watching other people—that was a sure way to make a mistake. And if you’re not thinking about the music, about the dance, you’ll end up with a blank expression.
Four of the street dance guys had no clue how to follow steps—the others weren’t bad, but I didn’t think they’d get called back. I was the only guy in my group who did the run all the way through. You don’t stop in an audition, even if you’re all over the place. What are you going to do in a live show? Walk off? No, you’ve got to keep going unless you’re physically unable.
And then I remembered Gary telling me about dancing through the pain of a broken foot. I lost focus, wondering if he was okay, and earned a frown from the choreographer.
Slave to the Rhythm (The Rhythm #1) Page 18
