by Tonya Plank
“Oh, this is my good friend Arabelle. She’s a dancer in L.A. I brought her here to help her celebrate her twenty-fifth birthday!” Lucia chirped. “And I thought this most amazing show would be a perfect way to do that!”
“You thought right.” I extended my hand to Arabelle. “I’m Jett. Pleased to meet you.”
She didn’t smile but her cheeks began to redden. Was that a blush? I thought so, but then she looked at my hand as if unsure of whether she should take it. I didn’t get it. Did she think I was poisonous? After a hesitation, she clasped my hand and gave me a single shake.
“Nice to meet you too.” Her voice was so soft I had to strain to hear her. Her eye contact lasted all of a tenth of a second. Now it seemed like she was trying hard to be polite. Cocky as it sounds, I hadn’t often been given the cold shoulder. Not here, anyway. I noticed her free hand was gripping the stem of her champagne glass as if for dear life. My presence made her very ill at ease, to put it mildly.
“Jett?” called a woman’s flirty voice behind me. I turned to see the waitress—one of my many so-called friends with benefits here—holding a tray of champagne glasses. “Wouldn’t you like to partake?” She shot me a very sexually-laced lift of the brow. I glanced back at Arabelle. She continued looking off in the distance, searching for whatever. Shit, Cassandra’s timing would normally be just dandy, but not now. “Sure. Thanks, Cassie.” I politely took a glass from her, making sure my voice contained no sexual innuendo at all.
“Happy twenty-fifth,” I said, holding my glass up to Arabelle. Despite her cold treatment, I couldn’t help myself. I was too intrigued, and needed to know what was up with her.
Finally, she cracked an ever so slight smile. I extended my glass to hers and gave it a light clink.
“Thanks, I appreciate it.” Again, her voice was nearly a whisper. She lifted her eyes but still didn’t look directly into mine.
“Mandi loves the show. Loves performing with you. She says you’re the best partner a new girl could ever hope for,” Lucia squealed.
“Well, thank you. That’s what I’ve been told.” A slight frown crossed Arabelle’s beautiful face and I realized how cocky I sounded. “I mean, I haven’t dropped a girl yet.” Arabelle’s frown deepened. No, that wasn’t right either. What was wrong with me? I was usually pretty suave. Lucia and Mandi cracked up into a fit of giggles apparently at my mess-ups. Arabelle’s mouth turned into a thin, flat line. Once again, she looked into her champagne glass as if for help.
I cleared my throat. “Well, here’s to a great show, a great partnership, and a fantastic quarter of a century.” I raised my glass. Everyone clinked but Arabelle.
Normally I would have given up by now, but something about this girl just wasn’t letting me. “So, you’re a dancer in L.A.?” I tried again.
She considered the question, and after a few seconds, gave a slight nod and glanced up at me, her irises finally connecting with mine.
“Ha! She’s so modest!” Lucia laughed. “She’s a champion ballroom dancer. She placed in the finals last year at Blackpool!”
“Blackpool?” I asked. I hadn’t heard of it.
“The most prestigious ballroom championship in the world!” Lucia hooted. “In England. And she’s a favorite for the first-place championship at the U.S. Nationals this year!”
Arabelle pursed her lips and looked once again into her champagne. Her expression was unreadable, but she certainly didn’t look happy. She looked quite sad actually. Why? Lucia looked at her friend, reading her the same way as I did. “Oh come on, honey. You’re doing awesome. Own it!” She wrapped her arm around Arabelle and side hugged her.
The edges of Arabelle’s lips curved up, ever so slightly. But she still looked sad. She nodded and closed her eyes.
“I was a ballet dancer,” she began, eyes still closed. “Then a showdancer. And then…” She took a breath, opened her eyes and continued. “I switched to regular competitive ballroom. Latin. Which I like a lot.” She nodded rapidly, as if trying to convince herself.
“It sounds like it if you’re doing so well,” I said. “I mean, I have to admit, I know next to nothing about Blackpool and these ballroom competitions.” I laughed and shrugged. “But you said you were a showgirl? In L.A.?” I didn’t think they had showgirls in L.A., but I really didn’t know. And I was surprised. She didn’t seem the type.
A frown slowly overtook her face. “What?” she said, now looking at me square in the eye. Her tone was a combination of bewildered and accusing.
“Didn’t you say you were a showgirl?”
“No!” both Arabelle and Lucia said at once.
“Okay, sorry, I misheard.” I held my hands up in surrender and chuckled nervously.
“I was a showdance champion at Blackpool,” Arabelle said, her words like small barbs. I’d really insulted her. “Showdance is the central part of a ballroom competition.”
“Oh. Okay. Cool.” But apparently my confusion was obvious.
“Instead of, like, the regular ballroom dancing competitions where everyone’s dancing on the floor at once, they’re showcased individually because the routines are a performance in themselves,” Lucia explained, realizing her friend wasn’t going to. “They’re like a combination of ballroom dancing with ballet, with lots of lifts and beautiful things you can’t do during the regular competitions. They’re a lot more fun to watch than regular ballroom, in my humble opinion,” she finished. But then she looked at her friend. “Oh, I mean, now I love the regular ballroom competitions! Especially the Latin. Latin’s so rhythmic. It’s awesome!” Lucia was now jabbering a mile a second, obviously nervous about saying the wrong thing to her friend. Arabelle seemed quite fragile.
Just then, Bobbi, a friend of mine—really, another friend with whom I’d enjoyed many “benefits”—passed by. “Hey sweets,” she said, giving me a peck on the cheek. She was a showgirl, and wore a matching rhinestone-studded, candy-red lacey bra and a G-string, black fishnet hose, and high-heeled red dance shoes. “Awesome job out there, honey.” She cupped my chin with her hand.
“Thanks, Bobs.” I chuckled.
“Keep it up!” She raised her eyebrow and turned to Arabelle, whom she eyed up and down. “Hello, dear,” she said to Arabelle in a low voice.
Arabelle gave her the same judgmental up and down, then raised her chin and looked away.
“Okay then!” Bobbi laughed, patted me on the shoulder, and walked off.
Now this girl was starting to piss me off. Bobbi was a nice person. Who did she think she was? God’s gift to the dance world? So she’d been a ballerina and was now some ballroom star, whatever that was. I’d been a ballet dancer too, back in New York, before I came here. And I was with a good company. All that classical shit? Please. This was so much more thrilling, and far more fulfilling. I’d met more than my share of ballerinas who thought they were superior because ballet was supposedly the hardest dance. Well, this was a hell of a lot harder. Screw that pompous shit.
“Hey, are you Tarzan?” I turned to see an attractive, well-groomed older woman smiling at me in wonderment. I was tired of this haughty girl. And ready for someone who appreciated real dance.
“That would be me.” I flashed her my usual sexy smile.
“Oh my God, you were brilliant! You were just amazing!” she squealed. “You took my breath away!”
I turned back to elitist Arabelle. “Excuse me,” I said to her. Her eyes widened and her face reddened again. She didn’t smile. She simply looked back into her champagne glass. I walked away with the excited woman.
But as I stood in the center of the room—where I belonged as the star of the show after all—I was increasingly surrounded by appreciative women. But I couldn’t stop looking back at Arabelle. She was participating in a conversation with Mandi and Lucia but she didn’t seem completely engaged. Her eyes kept wandering. At one point—well, several points—our gazes connected. She’d blink and swallow, and look back into her glass.
At o
ne point, she actually brought the glass to her lips and took a sip. Or, tried to take a sip. When the rim reached her mouth, the glass began shaking. I looked at her hand holding the stem and noticed it was trembling. She pulled the glass from her lips and took a breath. But the glass continued to shake. The tremble seemed uncontrollable. She took her other hand and clasped it over the trembling one, trying to still it. That managed to stop the quaking. She sighed, momentarily looking relieved. Then she took her attention away from her wrist and looked back up, connecting with my gaze immediately. She gasped, blinked hard, and looked away. She looked both embarrassed and horrified that I’d caught her.
As I returned to my conversation with the show’s female fans, I thought about that shaking. There was no way you could do difficult lifts and tricks with that kind of tremor. There was no way you could even hold a line. It would be so noticeable. Especially in ballet. She was a broken ballerina. That’s why she’d introduced herself as a former showdancer.
Chapter 3
Arabelle
For the rest of the night I couldn’t get that pompous ass, Jett, out of my mind. What a jerk. “Yeah, I hear that a lot,” he’d said when Mandi told him he’s good partner. Who says something like that? And “I haven’t dropped a girl yet?” He’d have killed her if he had. How nonchalant could you be over something like that? And then, those two women who passed by offering him drinks – that cocktail waitress and that showgirl? They’d obviously slept with him. They’d made that more than clear. Definitely a ladies man, and not afraid to show it.
And then he’d seen my tremor. How embarrassing. At least, I think he did. But he’s so into himself and so into all the attention he gets from his female fans, he probably didn’t even notice me. Yeah, what am I thinking? It’s just my imagination that he was even looking at me. And why do I even care?
I pulled the plush covers up and tried to sleep. It was hard. I was really wound up. Lucia had meant well when she invited me to come with her to Vegas for the weekend. It was my twenty-fifth birthday and she knew I’d spend it at home, alone, if she didn’t drag me out.
But it also happened to be our third wedding anniversary. Or what would have been, anyway. Willem passed away almost two years ago now. Motorcycle accident. He was only twenty-three. My best friend and soul mate. We were childhood friends, together since ballet school. Our partnership started very young. We’d begun competing together in junior ballet championships, and then went on to the showdance circuit. We ended up doing very well. We were champions, many years in a row. Anyway, suffice it to say, my birthdays were no longer reason for celebration.
I was also in the middle of training for the Blackpool Latin ballroom championships with my partner, Drew. After Willem passed, I couldn’t do showdance anymore. I tried to find another partner, but I just couldn’t dance what had been our dance with anyone else. Then I developed the nervous tremor. That made showdance all but impossible. There were too many dangerous lifts where our connection, our balance, would have been destroyed by my shaking wrist.
When I first developed the tremor, I was terrified, thinking it was some horrible disease or neurological disorder. But after several tests, my doctor said it was a psychosomatic—a physical manifestation of a psychological state. She believed it was likely caused by anxiety. Made perfect sense. The severe stress of losing the love of my life. But how to overcome it? That, the doc didn’t know. She sent me to a therapist, who was helping, but slowly. And she was hard to afford on my salary.
Dance was my life. And I wasn’t rich; I had to support myself. I couldn’t mourn forever. Because I couldn’t dance showdance, I switched to Latin ballroom. It was fun, and a good change for me. At least, it had been. Lately, it wasn’t going so well. My tremor had begun rearing its ugly head, causing problems again. Even if it didn’t present the danger it did for showdance, it still wreaked havoc on my Latin dancing. There were lots of stops and poses, and I couldn’t hold the line out well. Plus, Drew would feel it in my connection and it would mess him up. Drew was so nice that he denied sensing it, but I knew he could. And it was throwing off our balance.
I think the tremor had returned because of my accident last year at Blackpool. Drew and I were dancing in the last round, having made the final cuts. Someone meant to sabotage another dance couple, so they actually threw a water balloon out onto the floor, expecting it to explode and make the other dancer fall. But it was during a Paso Doble, a traveling dance. The idiot didn’t realize the dancer he was trying to hit was first-rate Sasha. That man moved so fast, seemingly at the speed of light. He was the current champ for obvious reasons, and by the time the jerk’s water grenade landed, Sasha was far from the spot he’d aimed at. It hit me instead, right in the face, and then burst on the floor right where I was doing a difficult back arch. I slipped on the water and fell, and ended up splitting my lip and busting my nose. Fortunately, nothing was broken, but I certainly felt like it was. And I had to dance the rest of the competition with a lovely bloody face. The judges may very well have placed us so high because they felt sorry for us.
The more serious damage was emotional. Every time we rehearsed Paso, I’d think about something hitting me in the face, slipping and twisting, and the sound of my face hitting the ground. My hand would start to shake. Soon, it happened with the other four dances too. I was getting the tremor all the time when I was dancing. Then it began to come on even when I wasn’t dancing, just at odd times. It happened when I was reaching into my bag for something, when I was typing on the computer, or even like last night, when I was simply holding the stem of a champagne glass.
The fall wasn’t at all Drew’s fault, of course. And they did catch and punish the culprit, thankfully. But I couldn’t help but think if I was dancing with Willem he never would have let it happen. He would have saved me. I knew that wasn’t true; Willem was human after all, and vulnerable. His motorcycle accident was proof.
So here I was in Vegas trying not to think about these things, trying to get away from them. And I hadn’t had the tremor from the time we got in the car to drive through the desert until last night. Until I met Jett.
I got no sleep. I kept being awakened by strange dreams. I was at the show sitting next to Lucia when Jett flew down from the ceiling via that bar. Except it wasn’t Jett. It was Willem. He swung back and forth from Mandi to our side performing the same tricks as Jett, and every time he flew back to our side, he’d look at me. He smiled serenely. I smiled back. On his next rotation back he blew me a kiss. It was totally normal in the dream, like nothing was off at all. It was like he was still alive.
Then suddenly the show changed. It was now a ballet performance, like something I’d see in New York on a regular proscenium stage. There were ballerinas all in light blue tulle tutus, bourré-ing on their toes across the floor. It was very angelic, very sweet. Then suddenly, the roar of a motorcycle engine sounded. I remembered seeing something similar in a ballet movie I couldn’t remember the name of. Suddenly, fog encompassed the stage and when it evaporated, the motorcycle was center stage, all the ballerinas surrounding it. On the motorcycle was Willem. But then it was Jett. And then Willem again. It was actually the same person. You know how in a dream sometimes things that can never happen in real life are completely possible? And normal? Somehow the motorcyclist was both of them at once.
Then the motorcyclist stopped revving the engine and climbed off of the vehicle, stepping away. He did a crazy series of pirouettes, with some whipped turn fouettés thrown in. Then he began doing these great big bravura jetés all around the floor. The ballerinas swooned over him, and he’d take them one by one and twirl them into a frenzy. He was a show-off and a womanizing flirt. That’s what Jett was for sure, and now that I remembered, what Willem had been before meeting me. But between each woman, the Willem/Jett character always looked out at me, eyes connecting with mine in the audience, giving me that devilish smile that made me tingle from head to toe. After the final spin with the last ballerina, he lo
oked out at me, and reached toward me, saying, “Belle…” I couldn’t hear the rest. The fog began encompassing the stage again. It was beautiful and dreamy, but suddenly became something haunting and horrible. I had a sense that something awful was about to happen. The engine started again, and then there was a bright burst of light.
I awoke in a sweat. I sat up in bed, ripped off the lavender eye mask I wore to help me sleep. I was shivering and shaking all over, not just my hand. After my eyes adjusted to the bright lights outside, I got up and walked to the bathroom where I splashed ice cold water on my face. Several times. The water was so cold and the splash so harsh that it began to hurt. But it also felt good. I needed to forget that dream.
“Honey, you okay?” Lucia was standing in the doorway of our suite.
I took a breath, then nodded. “Yeah, just a bad dream.”
“Oh no, not again, hon. You want to talk about it?”
“No, this one was different. It started out good. It was… weird. Totally nonsensical.” I didn’t really want to explain. I just wanted to go back to my bed and get under the covers. “But I’m okay. You go back to sleep.”
“You sure?”
“Totally. I’m fine now.”
* * *
I tried to go back to sleep but couldn’t. So I got up and showered and dressed, all by 7:00am. I tried to be quiet for Lucia. We had one more full day here before we headed back to L.A. Vegas had to be the noisiest, least relaxing place on earth. So, even though it was supposed to be a vacation, I was looking forward to going back and maybe winding down at the beach. The beach was always nice in winter.
Vegas in the early morning wasn’t too bad. Especially in winter, when it was quite cool. It was actually nice to walk along the Strip. I sauntered around the pond in front of our hotel, Caesar’s Palace, and up to Serendipity, the ice cream parlor. I bought a small latte at their outside stand, and then crossed the street to the Flamingo, the hotel with all the history. I walked around inside, looking at the black and white pictures of old time Vegas.
