“I remember playing here on the Chicks, Chicks, Chicks, tour,” he says. “Man, I was so fucked up.” He rubs my back and looks around the wings nervously.
“Aww. Does someone miss their groupies?” ‘Cause the only groupies Tony would have at this show would be men.
“Naw. I’m totally stoked just to have you.” He leans in for a kiss and the stage manager interrupts us.
“You’re on in five minutes.” The guy runs up the black stairs leading to the stage. Tony and I follow him and see Dolla and Salomé doing their samba. They look awesome together. She’s already given Genya and me some brilliant routines for our first competition. And Salomé made a perfect call in partnering the two of us up: Genya’s dark and sultry, and I’m blonde and seductive. It’s my dream partnership. We’re both madly in love with other people, so it’s just about the dancing, which has got to be a first in this biz.
Tony’s twisty and twitchy next to me.
“Antoshka, what’s wrong? Come on, you’ve been on stage more times than anyone. Did you forget your lines?” The show has this lame scripted comedy bit that is supposed to entertain the audience.
“Uhm, yeah. That’s it, Vika. The lines.”
I don’t understand. He’s being weird. The stage manager beckons us.
“And now, the winners of the eighteenth season of Dancing under the Stars. Tony Zave and Vika Brooks,” the announcer says.
We walk on holding hands. I look at the ten thousand screaming fans. Uh oh. Some of Tony’s groupies are in the audience. I spy a topless girl in the front row holding a sign that says, “Tony, fuck dancing. Let’s fuck.” Bitch. That’s the shirt he wore for me when we first met.
Shakira’s song “Whenever, Wherever” starts and we jump into our first dance—samba. We start with samba walks in shadow around the stage and the crowd loses it. But Tony is a little off the music. This is his best dance. I save the day and back lead myself into the routine. In the middle of the floor, I plant him then dance around him, shaking my cucarachas and rolling my hips. He recovers and does our signature butt bongo routine. Finally the song ends.
“Are you okay?” I whisper.
He nods. We glide into our hustle routine. We just do the exact number from Saturday Night Fever. I love that movie. I used to watch it with my mama back in Odessa. Tony spins me to the right and then back to the left. He lifts me above his head and then slides me into his arms. Our lips melt together and he kisses me even longer than usual.
The music dies and Tony walks over to the microphone stand to say his lines for our skit. “So, Vika, you’ve won this show three times. I know everyone’s curious. First you took a hockey player to the top, then a member of a boy band, now a rock star. What’s your secret, girl?”
“Well, I just like being on top!” The crowd busts out laughing.
“I know you do, babe. And I love you being on top.”
What the hell is he doing? This is not part of the script. He must be confused. I’ll just start dancing again. I try to take his hand to start our waltz but he’s rummaging through his pocket. Before I can rip his hand out, he drops down on one knee. The audience flips out.
What—oh my God . . .
“Vika, you’ve completely changed my life,” he starts. Nickelback’s song “Far Away” plays over the sound system. A montage of Dancing under the Stars clips of Tony and me are showing on the Jumbotron. I can see Salomé watching from the side of the stage.
“Vika, ti viydesh za menya?” He opens the ring box and pulls out the biggest ring I’ve ever laid eyes on. Twice the size of my ring with Benny. It’s a square cushion cut set in pink and black pave diamonds. I can’t tell how many carats, but it looks like it’s at least four.
Yes, Tony, yes! Out loud, you idiot, poor boy’s still on his knees—“Da, Antoshka. Yes. I love you. I’ll marry you.”
“Yeah!!!” Tony jumps to his feet as thousands of rose petals rain on the stage. He slips the ring on my finger and lifts me into his arms. “I love you, baby,” he breathes into my ear. Then he starts spinning me around but slips on some rose petals and we go crashing to the ground. “Oh, geeze, babe, sorry . . .” I scoop up a handful of petals and blow them at his face.
He laughs then smashes my lips with a big, sloppy, happy dog kiss. Helping me up, he grabs the microphone off the rosy floor.
“Meet the future Mrs. Tony Zave,” he yells into the mic. “Can I get a hell yeah?”
I give Tony a big kiss that lasts an eternity. When I pull away, I hold his sweaty, grinning face between my hands.
“This is happiest day of my life,” I tell him. “Antoshka, you really are my prince.”
Samba
¡Carnival! It was time to party! She grabbed her favorite feathered headdress, shimmied into a sequined skirt, threw on some beads, and shook her cucarachas! Responding to the rhythm of the night, she gyrated to the music, enticing him to join her. Their bodies sprung together: her hips, abs, and shoulders rolled in synch with his. They alternated between innocent playfulness and lusty flirtation. Their movements become frenzied until the music fell silent. She anxiously anticipated the next beat, when she can begin her celebration again. All night long! Fiesta! Forever!
Epilogue
Salomé-Six Months Later
THE LIMO PULLS up to the curb. Our driver opens our door and Genya and I step out. Cameras flash, the starry explosions of light following us as we walk down the red carpet. My first ever. Genya’s in a custom-made Armani tuxedo and I’m rocking Versace.
I nearly squeeze Genya’s bicep right off him. “Oh my God!” I whisper. “Is that Jennifer Aniston?” She is even more gorgeous in person. Wow—I’m actually here with all these stars. I grab Genya’s hand and try to get out of the way of the big celebrities.
Ryan Seacrest waves me over. Are you kidding me? “Hey, everyone, it’s Salomé Sanchez from Dancing under the Stars,” he says to the E! cameras. “How does it feel to be nominated for an Emmy?”
Freakin’ fantastic, chico! “It’s just such an honor. I’m so happy to be nominated.”
“And who are you wearing? You look gorgeous,” he says.
“Thanks, Ryan. I’m wearing Versace and Genya is wearing Armani. Now don’t put us on your worst dressed list.”
He laughs. “No chance of that. Good luck, Salomé.”
It’s so loud I can barely think—all the fans are screaming and the noise of limousines circling the block is louder than I ever guessed when I was watching this thing from my couch. Our limo was in line for the red carpet for an hour. My face was plastered against the window trying to spot celebrities. I saw Tina Fey and Eva Longoria, and I even saw a silver Hummer limo with studs all over it. I wonder who was in that one.
We walk through the throngs of reporters and lean over the rails to sign autographs for the fans. They’re all corralled behind a steel gate. One guy is holding a sign that reads, Baila conmigo, Salomé. He’s cute, too. My first groupie. I blow him a kiss.
Shit, is that the cast of Walking Dead? I love that show. Would it be totally lame if I got an autograph?
“Excuse me, honey, I think you’re coming undone,” I hear a voice say. I look up and Ellen DeGeneres is shielding me from the photographers. Oh damn, I think my breast tape came loose. I rub my chest on Genya to readjust. Cool. Wardrobe malfunction avoided.
“Thanks, Ellen. I love your show.”
She leans on her gorgeous wife, Portia. “And I love yours. I can’t wait to have you on.”
Me on Ellen! I’ve totally arrived.
We head to the auditorium and are escorted to the reality television section.
Jenny’s already in her seat, looking stunning in a Vera Wang gown. She is holding hands with Tim.
“Good evening, Salomé,” Tim says. “You must be honored that as a Latina you were nominated for choreographing a dance from your culture.”
“My culture? Christ, Tim, you’ve been hanging around Jenny too long. She got you writing a dissertation on
Mulan, yet?” Damn boy is totally whipped.
Jenny leans in to me as I sit next to her. “Can you believe this?” she whispers. “Remember what we were doing last year?”
Who could forget? “Yeah. But I could totally go for some margaritas now.”
Jenny starts to get up but quickly sits back down. Benny and Diana, newly engaged, walk down the aisle and sit in their seats two rows in front of us. Jenny gives me The Look. We don’t even recognize Diana anymore. She got tacky implants last month, and her golden hair is now a bright platinum shade.
“Jesus,” Jenny mutters. “Next she’ll carry around a crazed Chihuahua with a diamond-studded collar.”
“Oh, stop. Vika says it’s lonely in that mansion, so if she needs a dog . . .”
“She doesn’t need a dog, she needs her friends.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, Jen.” I jab my thumb Diana’s way. “It’s Miss-I-Don’t-Answer-My-Own-Phone-Anymore who needs the lecture.”
“Hey, guys,” a sexy male voice says. I shift my gaze over Jen’s shoulder. Tony and Vika have finally strolled in.
“It’s about time,” I say as Jenny and Tim stand to let them through to their seats. “I thought you two were going to blow the whole thing off.”
“Never,” Vika replies. One of her curls has escaped the up-do that probably took her hairdresser hours to do. Of course it looks perfect hanging there. “Did you see that E! reporter out there? The guy practically tackled me and wouldn’t let go. Antoshka finally had to give him Vulcan mind meld.”
“The Vulcan nerve pinch,” Tim corrects.
“That’s what I said. Move your legs, Saloméichka, I gotta squeeze by. Hey, Christian Louboutin. Nice.”
“Thank you.” A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. The lights dim as we settle into our seats, with Vika at my left elbow and Tony on her far side. I lean in toward Vika then point my freshly manicured nail forward. “Hey, did you see—”
“Shh. Dimming lights means show time.” Vika swats my hand down with her diamond-studded clutch. “You have to get with program, my child.”
“I’ll show you program . . .” I settle in and smile like the freakin’ Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland.
I’m at the Emmys. The Emmys!
Two hours later they finally get to our category.
Ellen DeGeneres reads the nominees. “And the nominees for Outstanding Choreography are . . .” Genya grabs my hand and I squeeze like I’m getting blood drawn. “ . . .Wade Robson for I Know I Can Dance . . . Jason Gilkison for Champions of Dance . . . Judy Trammel for Dallas CowBelles: I Made the Squad . . . Salomé Sanchez for Dancing under the Stars . . . and Viktoria Zave for Dancing under the Stars.” The audience claps politely for all the nominees.
A cameraman has swooped down the aisle and is sticking the camera right in my face. Smile, dammit, don’t let them see you cry. I’ve been practicing my loser face since the day I was nominated. I shoot a quick glance at Vika next to me. You’d think she was sunning on the beach, as calm as she looks.
The drum rolls. “And the winner is . . .” Genya lets out a little yelp as I squeeze even harder. “. . . Salomé Sanchez for the samba to De Donde Soy on Dancing under the Stars!”
Salomé Sanchez? That’s me! I won!
My pledge goes right out the window as I start balling like a baby. Genya kisses me and Vika gets up and gives me a hug. Jenny is crying just as hard as I am. I even get a thumbs up from Diana, who has twisted in the seat. I flash her a thumbs up back. She’s not so far gone, Jen.
“Go, Sal.” Genya pushes me up the aisle. Oh no! I didn’t practice a speech. Just my loser face.
I walk up on stage and the Emmy girl hands me my trophy. Damn, the thing is heavy. I look into the bright lights. “Uhm. Wow. Wow. I can’t believe this. Thank you. Yeah ...” I look at the audience. The biggest names in Hollywood are looking up at me. Damn. “I’d like to thank Dolla, who was the best partner I could ask for. And my best friend Jennifer Ming, for being there for me, and Diana Young for convincing me to go on this show in the first place. And my boyfriend Dmitri Pavlov,” I air kiss at him where he’s standing at the foot of the stairs, “you let me follow my dream. I love you, babe. To my parents and my abuela, I love you. Thank you for giving me dance lessons!” I wave the trophy at the camera. I swear I can hear Abuelita balling from here. “And to my good friend, Viktoria Zave. For forgiving me for a mistake I made long ago. And finally, to all my fans—I love you.” I raise the Emmy with one hand, as if somehow everyone who voted for me could touch it. “See you next season!”
Flash bulbs go off all over the room. The orchestra strikes the music as some gorgeous model escorts me off the stage, where Genya is waiting for me. I run into his arms, almost slugging him with my Emmy. He gives me a kiss, takes my hand and glides me toward the waiting press, my partner now in my biggest adventure of all.
Author’s Note
Thank you for reading my book. If you liked it, would you please consider leaving a review on your favorite ebook retailer’s site?
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Swing Excerpt
STAFF SERGEANT BRET Lord sat on the dirty floor of his tent, going through the day’s mail: the latest Men’s Fitness magazine from his sister, a care package from his mom. He ripped open the package—socks, lip balm, sunflower seeds, and a thin letter that contained an old magazine clipping.
Dear Bret,
I miss you very much. Benny asked me to send you this article. I really wish you would consider his offer. Please stay safe.
Love, Mom
He swallowed hard. A neon sticky pressed on the wrinkled page had a note scrawled on it from his former master dance coach.
Bret, m’boy,
We’ll make it worth your time.
Cheers, Benny.
Thumbing the edge of the article, Bret stared at the sixteen-year-old boy in the picture and could barely recognize himself. His shoulder length, wavy blond hair was slicked back, not shorn in a “high and tight” like his current haircut. No signs of the tattoos or muscles that currently defined his body. Golden skin stained from a bottle, not the harsh sun of Iraq. His arms were wrapped around a gorgeous, curvy young girl with long jet-black hair. The jade Latin gown she wore matched the color of her almond-shaped eyes.
Bret tossed the article aside and removed his nine-mil pistol from his holster to clean it.
Lance Corporal Hernandez walked by Bret and snatched the article off his cot. After staring at it, Hernandez’s face brightened.
“Hey, St
aff Sergeant, this you?”
“No, it’s my clone who’s also named Bret Lord.” Bret slid the rail back on his weapon and began disassembling it.
“Staff Sergeant, you know Selena Marcil? Did you hit that?”
“Shut up, Hernandez, or the one getting hit will be you—with the butt stock of my rifle.” Bret grabbed the paper out of Hernandez’s hands, and smacked him on the side of the head. The kid didn’t flinch.
“Staff Sergeant Twinkle Toes. Hey—can you hook me up with Selena? I’ll be her boy toy. I love her. Man, she’s smoking. Has the nicest ass. Not like all those skinny, Russian chicks on that show.” He nodded to himself with an eyebrow dancing. “Selena’s on my list. She’s Latina, too. We’d be perfect together. What was she doing with a gringo like you?”
“Hernandez, you’re way out of line.” Bret reassembled his pistol.
“My bad, Staff Sergeant.”
Bret grabbed the article, his pack, and his rifle. It was impossible to get some privacy in the tent. His only option was to sit outside in a sandstorm but even that sounded like a welcome retreat from his immature men. He walked about five hundred feet, then plopped down in the hot sand.
The red sky hung above him, thick from smoke from the nearby town. Bret struggled to catch a glimpse of the distant mountains. Sand seemed to pelt down from the heavens, blinding him and settling into every crevice in his body. He closed his eyes against the sting of the sand, and turned his thoughts to Selena. Was she the diva the tabloids made her out to be? Even after ten years, he could almost smell her buttery-coconut scent. A welcome change from the overflowing shitters, toxic diesel, and stench of his fellow Marines who hadn’t bathed in three weeks.
Sway Page 19
