January 2012
At the end of three hours, Michelle was sitting on a folding chair and rubbing her foot. On the floor in front of her sat Dmitri. He had to be as tired as she was, but you would never know. “Do you really think I can do this?”
“I would not have suggested otherwise.”
“It’s just so much.” Their first tryout, in December, hadn’t been too technical. Rather, Michelle hadn’t realized how technical it was; much of the movement Dmitri gave her then was similar to what she’d done in contemporary, jazz, and ballet. Ten days in, he was teaching figures and breaking down the footwork and leg action. It was clear that she couldn’t simply learn the choreography and fake the rest.
“I do not expect to win. It is too much, in not enough time. But is politics. The more we are seen on the floor, the more serious the judges look at us. And the more we dance, the more quickly you improve.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Also, I die to enter show dance with you, and you need vocabulary.” He smiled a little.
She sat back in the chair, pulling her bent leg up across her body in a stretch. “Jazz, tap, ballet, and pole isn’t enough, huh.”
“No. You have beautiful body, beautiful line, beautiful feet. Your lift technique is superb. But ballroom technique is different.”
“That’s for sure. What style is this called again? So I can study on YouTube?”
“American Smooth. Here, I give you inspirations.” He uncurled himself and stood up, walking into his small office, then returning with a notepad and pen. “Obviously, you look me up.” He wrote down his name, in case she didn’t know how to spell it.
Michelle smiled. “Obviously.”
He was writing more names. “Michael Mead and Toni Redpath. World Champions, four years. Ben and Shalene Ermis. World Champions, two years. Slawek Sochacki and Marzena Stachura. World Champions, two years.”
“And we have four dances to learn.” He’d already given her a grounding in slow waltz, foxtrot, tango, and Viennese waltz. The latter was the closest to what Michelle had done in ballet; foxtrot was the closest to jazz. They were all blowing her mind.
“Ninety seconds each. Next session, we do choreography.”
“For all four?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I guess I’m used to doing numbers that are three or four minutes. Am I going to regret this?”
“You will hate me, little while. But no regret.”
Michelle laughed, stretching her other leg. “I already hate you! And what division are we doing?”
“Rising Star.”
She knew enough now to be worried. When Dmitri had first proposed she train with him, she hadn’t really grasped what a professional partnership meant in ballroom. “What if I’m terrible? Won’t that hurt you?”
“My last partner, she is terrible. I am still in business.” She was speechless. Dmitri said, more gently, “Michelle, if you feel you cannot, at any time, we scratch. But I am confident. I have danced with you, yes? I see what you can do. You will … you will fly.”
He did look confident. And he ought to know. She nodded slowly. “Okay.”
“Again on Wednesday?”
“I’ll be here.”
Dmitri went home that night more certain than ever that Michelle was the one. He’d thrown everything at her, a year’s worth of training in less than three weeks. He rarely had to repeat himself. She never lost her temper. Never even appeared to get frustrated. “Maybe she feels,” he said later to Patrick, since they were home and both awake, “that this is a gift. As I do. A last chance to achieve,” he didn’t want to say the last word; it felt conceited.
Patrick said it for him. “Greatness?”
“Mmm.” Dmitri gazed at him across the pillow. “Je t’aime toujours.”
“Je t’aime aussi.” Patrick didn’t want to make any assumptions about how much energy Dmitri might have left, so when he moved in it was only for a kiss. But maybe the prospect of greatness was inspiring. The next thing he knew he was on his back, Dmitri was on top of him, and they were on their way to their own kind of greatness.
Right up to the California Open, Patrick hardly saw Dmitri at all in daylight. Michelle worked full-time, so whenever she could be at the studio, that was when Dmitri worked with her. It was almost every day, after her office closed. She’d be there for group classes, then stay to work with Dmitri. He’d get home at ten or eleven or midnight, having started at the studio at eight in the morning. He would eat whatever Patrick had left for him, shower, and fall into bed. “I am sorry, mon cheri,” he said once, well aware that this schedule was as difficult for Patrick as it was for him.
“Ne regrette rien,” said Patrick. “Just win the fucking thing.” Dmitri huffed out a laugh, threw an arm over Patrick, and went to sleep.
They went into competition barely two months after the first discussion. Michelle had learned the four American-style Smooth dances to competition standard, and wore a second-hand ballgown furnished by Dmitri’s friend Kenji. They made the final. Patrick was there. He knew that Dmitri’s public persona did not permit open celebration, but the look of vindicated satisfaction in his eyes was enough.
On the drive back to West Hollywood from Orange County, Dmitri was almost silent. Michelle chattered with Patrick all the way. “I’m sorry, I’m out of my head, I’m so excited,” she said as they got close to her apartment. “I never thought we could make the final first time out.”
“I told you,” Dmitri said, before he could stop himself. Patrick pulled up to the curb. Dmitri got out of the car and opened the back door for Michelle. “I told you,” he said again. “You will fly.” Michelle got out, hissing at her aching feet. “Again?”
“Yes,” she said. “Again.” She threw her arms around him and cried on his shoulder. He patted her back, glancing over at Patrick. After a minute he walked her to her door, half-carrying her up the stairs, and saw her inside. When he came back to the car he looked ten years younger.
Patrick said, “You were right. This is the one.” Dmitri nodded, speechless.
It was every bit as difficult as Patrick expected. The schedule was never quite as punishing as those first two months, but with all the usual work, plus travel for competitions and continual refinement of the four Smooth dances, he mostly saw Dmitri in bed. Asleep. Their sex life was a disaster. And he couldn’t complain about it, because this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The window would close eventually. Patrick was not about to do or say anything that would disrupt Dmitri’s focus. They could get back to fun and games once this was over. Or maybe (he hoped) once the show dance was ready. He didn’t want to think about his life for the next three years otherwise.
He saw Michelle occasionally. Sometimes when he couldn’t stand it anymore, he’d get takeout and deliver it to the studio. At least he and Dmitri could eat together. He always called first. If Michelle was there, he brought food for her too. She apologized once. He thanked her. There was something more to say, but he waited to say it until Dmitri went to the bathroom. “Michelle.” She looked over from her position (flat on her back) on the floor. Patrick spoke softly. “Dmitri is the love of my life. The Smooth championship has been his dream for a very long time. You are his best chance of getting there. So you don’t have to apologize. And if there’s something you need that he can’t give you, you tell me.” She looked like she might be about to cry, so he added, “Believe me, I bitch about it. But not here, and not at home. My friends all run when they see me coming. Do you bitch to Kenji?” He knew she and the costume designer were seeing each other.
“Maybe,” she said shiftily. They were both laughing when Dmitri joined them again.
Michelle and Dmitri competed twice in May; once in Los Angeles and once in Las Vegas. They placed third in Las Vegas. “I predict we win by November,” said Dmitri, when they met back at the studio to review their video.
“What happens now?”
“We travel more. My strategy, we
place or win at least three times in different regions. Then we are ready to advance to Open Professional.”
“I can’t believe it. So soon!”
“You are very talented. I am lucky to dance with you.”
“I’m honored, really, Dmitri. I would never have even known this was possible.”
“Ballroom, it is dark secret of dance world.” Michelle laughed. “And we enter show dance this fall. You are ready. We do California Star Ball to end our season. I show you piece I have developed last year.”
He cued up a recording. It was just Dmitri dancing alone in the studio, but Michelle loved it. She knew the music, had always thought ‘gee that would be great to dance to,’ but had never imagined something like this. Jazzy but Latin-inflected, strong but lyrical, dizzyingly fast. “Wow, boss. Even as a solo, that’s fantastic.”
He knew if anybody could imagine the full piece, it would be Michelle. A show dance would let her bring all her other training to the floor. “There will be nothing else like it.”
She said hesitantly, “I have a thing I’d like to work on with you for the Cabaret’s December show. Can I send you the music?”
“Of course.” She hadn’t asked for much. At this point, Dmitri would have said yes to nearly anything.
On Labor Day weekend, Dmitri and Michelle placed second at Embassy Ball, this time with three out of seven first places in three of their dances. “You see?” said Dmitri. “November, we win.”
“I still can’t believe it. Remember how in January I didn’t even know what a heel lead was?”
“You have best teacher.”
Michelle laughed at the glint in Dmitri’s eye. “Well, obviously!”
“But also … you have talent, and you work very hard. Best teacher cannot make good dancer out of lazy student.”
“And let me guess what that means.” She bent over, stretching.
“Yes. Show dance. We work.”
“It’s already pretty good.” That was an understatement. The show dance was basically Michelle’s idea of ‘why I am a dancer.’
“Will be perfect. Perfect music, perfect costume, perfect partner.”
Michelle gazed fondly at Dmitri. She knew him pretty well by now. “I love you, too.” Dmitri nodded, smiling ever so faintly, and cued the music.
Patrick was hanging on to his patience by his teeth sometimes. He understood – he truly did – what it must be like to find this perfect partnership. He was absolutely one hundred percent behind Dmitri and Michelle. Maybe it was the intensity of this, after a few years off to forget how bad it was. Maybe it was watching his beloved finding such passionate fulfillment with someone else. He couldn’t hate Michelle, because she was adorable. He couldn’t hate the dances, because they were beautiful. The show dance was a killer. Then Michelle – who never stopped working with the Underground Cabaret; he had no idea when the woman slept – wanted to do a number with Dmitri for their December show. This one was set to Leonard Cohen’s ‘Anthem.’ And it was going to bring down the house again, it was even better than the first one, but God he was tired of sharing his partner.
It occurred to him that maybe Dmitri was waiting for Patrick to say something. To say ‘Let’s take a minute’ or ‘I miss you’ or ‘I need you.’ Maybe he thought lack of complaint actually meant lack of complaint. If so, that was a misconception Patrick should correct. Soon.
He waited for the week after a competition. The travel was, as usual, trouble-free. The weekend away with Dmitri was, as usual, nothing like a vacation, but at least it was a weekend with Dmitri. There was even, glory be, some sex of the not-half-asleep variety. He listened to Dmitri and Michelle on the flight back, discussing the rest of their competition year. It sounded like, glory be, there was not a whole hell of a lot of it left. He plotted.
Once home, he put in a request for a dinner at home with Dmitri. At seven o’clock in the evening, he specified, saying, “There’s something I want to ask you.”
Dmitri was no longer in tunnel-vision mode. He and Michelle were ready for the biggest competition of the year. They were going to debut their ‘Bolero’ show dance at the Ohio Star Ball. A week after that would be their last event of the year, and then they wouldn’t compete again until February. So he was alert to all the possible subtext of Patrick’s request. He was amenable to leaving the studio in Julia’s more-than-capable hands for an evening. He hoped an early dinner would translate to an early bedtime, because he wanted to make love to his partner. His real partner, the partner of his heart, the one who made all this possible. “Of course, mon amour,” he said.
Patrick had no intention of cooking on that particular night. It was takeout again, this time from the Italian restaurant down the block from Shall We Dance. He decanted a bottle of Bardolino, put on some music in the den, opened a book, and waited for Dmitri to get home.
“My dear love.”
Patrick turned his head. There he was, handsome as ever, looking remarkably fresh. Holding a vase full of roses, in every color. “Oh. Wow. Hi honey.” He watched Dmitri bring in the flowers, placing the vase on that red-lacquered chest. “You must be in the same kind of mood I’m in.”
“The mood to make love?” Dmitri was beside the reading chair, then on his knees. Patrick set the book aside. “Will dinner be ruined?”
“Not a chance. Lasagna. Keeping warm in the oven.” Patrick leaned forward for a kiss. They took their time over it. After a while Dmitri stood up and pulled Patrick to his feet. They went upstairs to the bedroom. Patrick let Dmitri undress him, let him take control again. “If people could see you like this they’d be demanding a ballroom-dancing workout video,” he commented when Dmitri was naked.
“There is one already.” Dmitri was smiling against Patrick’s skin. Kissing, licking, sucking. Taking little bites here and there on his way from the erogenous zone below Patrick’s ear to the one on his ankle, missing none of the others along the way. Listening to his lover’s breath change, growing short, growing vocal as Dmitri’s mouth closed in on his groin.
“Oh God.” Dmitri had him now, that clever mouth closed on his cock, one hand cupping his balls and the other pushing his thigh up. Patrick didn’t even have to ask if he was going first. That was more foreplay than they’d taken time for in months. He was full and throbbing in Dmitri’s mouth, panting and swearing. Then “Oh Jesus Christ!” Penetrated by Dmitri’s finger, slick with lube, when the hell did he get that out. Another, and the dual stimulation was too much. Dmitri closed his mouth tight, sucking, and Patrick lost it. Surging up with a cry, coming in waves of blinding pleasure. He heard a sound from Dmitri, low and satisfied. Patrick’s body jerked again as Dmitri swallowed. Then there was more lube, and Dmitri let go of his cock. “You’d better be getting in me,” Patrick said faintly.
“Mmm.” Amused, heated, almost a growl. Fitting himself between Patrick’s legs, braced on one hand, bending for a kiss as he engaged. The other hand down, Patrick’s feet up, and that deep, hot rhythm. He was gripping Dmitri’s arms, taking in every detail. Muscles working, back flexing, a soft Ukrainian oath. Then Dmitri dropped to his elbows, rhythm breaking, faster and shallower with his mouth on Patrick’s again. A loud sound as he froze. Patrick felt him come. Shifted his own hips, contracted, won another stifled curse. Dmitri slowly disengaged, pushing up to get his weight off Patrick’s chest. “My perfect love.”
“You too.” They lay there side by side for a few minutes, resting. A shower was clearly indicated, so they did that next. Fast and efficient, no nonsense, because they were both hungry now. Into their robes and down to the kitchen to eat at the breakfast bar. Talking about their respective days, feeling like lovers again.
Dmitri put their dishes in the sink, topped up their glasses, and stood beside his true love with an arm around his back. “What did you want to ask me.”
“Is your passport up to date?”
That was not the question Dmitri was expecting. “Yes.” He knew it sounded like a question.
&
nbsp; “Good. I want to book us a trip for after the Cabaret holiday show closes. Is possible?”
Dmitri didn’t ask why, or for how long, or even where. It might have been counter-intuitive to think of taking a trip together when they’d been doing that for years. But most of their trips had been for him. For competition. God knew Patrick had earned some uninterrupted time with Dmitri. And God knew Michelle had earned a break. By the time they finished out the year, she would be exhausted. So would he. They wouldn’t be re-working their routines between November and February. “Yes.”
“Do you want to know where?” Patrick was smiling now. Dmitri shook his head. “Three weeks? Julia could watch things for you, right?” Eyebrows up in surprise, then a nod. “I love you.”
“Toujours, mon amour.”
November 2012
Dmitri and Michelle placed second in the Rising Star Smooth event at the Ohio Star Ball, and first with the show dance. Kenji and Patrick were both there, and both had to conceal disappointment at the group final result. “You should have placed first,” Patrick said to Dmitri later, in their room.
“Was a new panel,” Dmitri said, amused. “All judges have preference.” It was unspoken, but a truth universally acknowledged, and probably unavoidable: nearly every Dance Sport judge was also a coach. Every one of the competing couples had worked with at least one of the judges on the panel, except Dmitri and Michelle. Every professional dancer knew that judges did their best to be completely objective, and a bias in favor of a given couple rarely persisted. Such biases also rarely affected the eventual placement more than once. Dmitri was confident that the next time any of these judges saw him dance with Michelle, they would place first. “I told her at beginning, we win by November. Next time out.”
“California Star Ball?” The competitions were barely a week apart; most professional couples didn’t do both. Patrick thought it was a good strategy, though. Dmitri and Michelle would face different competitors, and probably a smaller field. If they won Rising Star next time out, he knew Dmitri intended to advance them to the Open Professional division in the new season. And they’ll win that, he thought, with prophetic certainty. The next time they went to Ohio, they would win it all.
Change Partners (The L.A. Stories) Page 9
