Sasha: Book One

by Tonya Plank

  “Sasha! I can’t believe you!”

  Then, finally, someone answered. They spoke Japanese.

  “Hello, you called this number? Do you speak English? You called this number?”

  The person spoke more Japanese, then hung up.

  No, no, no, I said to myself, dialing again. Again, they picked up, and said more words in Japanese.

  “Do you speak English? English?” I asked, nearly screaming.

  The man’s voice was rising, getting excited. Mine was already as loud as it would go. He yelled things in Japanese, while I repeated, “English, English.”

  Finally he said, in very broken English, “Wrong number. No call more,” and hung up.

  “Sasha, are you serious? What the fuck are you doing? Returning your friend’s fucking phone call is seriously more important than this?” Xenia said.

  But all I could think about was, how could it be something as simple as a wrong number? Perhaps the international codes had gotten confused. Could that happen? How do such things happen? How could my sister just vanish out of thin air? How could the agency not keep records about someone under their care, whom they’d brought over from another country, practically as a child? Where was my sister, who I couldn’t help but still see as a child?

  I turned back to Xenia, toward the hall. The emcee was announcing our return. There was no way I could dance right now. No way. I was way too worked up. I shook my head at her. Her eyes widened, her nostrils flared.

  “I, I can’t. You have to tell them I’m sick, Xenia. It wouldn’t be a lie. I am sick.”

  “Sasha, they paid us a lot of money for this. We can’t just—”

  I shook my head and ran in the other direction.

  I had no idea where I was going when I got outside. I just walked and walked. After a while, a couple hours maybe, I took out Tatiana’s photo and started showing it again. But I didn’t go into any strip clubs this time.

  I looked at my cell phone. Xenia had called several times but no one else. I didn’t want to see her, to have to deal with her.

  I ended up booking myself into another hotel for the night, and didn’t return to the first hotel until I knew she’d left for her flight back to the U.S. I’d already booked myself a few more nights than she did so I could stay a few extra days to search for Tatiana.

  Though my uncle had told me not to, I went to the police. I told them everything I knew—which was ridiculously little—and said I wished to file a missing person report.

  The detective shook his head, regarding me with a mixture of pity and suspicion. “From everything you’ve told us, sir, I’m sorry but it sounds like she paid her debts and left. There’s no evidence of a kidnapping. She’s twenty-two years old.”

  I walked around in a daze for the next two days. I don’t even know if I made much sense, babbling to people, clutching a now smudged, crinkled photo.

  As I made my way back to LAX, I tried to put it all behind me. I had to focus on Blackpool. I couldn’t do anything for my sister anyway. I could control my preparation for the championship; I couldn’t control whatever was going on with her.

  On the cab ride home, I called Greta. I needed to take my mind off things; refocus on sweet Rory.

  “I think she will be very good for you,” she said. “She’s a tabula rasa. Too new to Latin to have developed bad habits. And yet she has enough basic dance background that she picks things up quickly and is a very natural mover. Plus, she has that extra something special that just captures your attention. Like you,” she said with a laugh. “I think the judges are going to like her, Sasha. I think you have a winner.”

  I so needed to hear this right now. That Rory was good, that Rory was safe. My sweet, sweet Rory. My love. My American. Whom no one would ever hurt.

  “Yes, she’s quite brilliant,” Greta continued, as if knowing I needed to hear more. “So she now knows the syllabi. I took care of that for you. You just have to work your magic, make her into your partner. But Sasha,” she said, her voice indicating a warning was coming.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Be easy on her. There’s something going on inside. Not sure what yet. She doubts herself. And something may be going on with her eating.”

  I took a breath. “Yeah, I noticed that too.”

  “Sasha, you don’t want to lose her like you have others. Let her shine. Let her be her own artist. Guide her but don’t stifle her.” She took a breath, then said, “Sasha, I think it is better if I give all the corrections. For now at least. I am the coach. If you can’t correct, then you can’t be too hard on her, and push her away.”

  I squinted, trying to make sense of her words. I didn’t stifle my partners. Did I?

  “I have to go. Just think about what I’m saying, Sasha.”

  I knew I was hard on Arabelle. I was hard on all my partners. But I didn’t stifle their artistry. I wanted to ask her more, but she’d hung up.

  Chapter 18

  On the way to pick up Rory for our evening, after-work coaching, I felt my boiling blood pressure rising again. I’d lost so much time away from her, and all for what? My trip to Tokyo had once again been an abject failure. But the second I looked into those soft, green eyes after she opened the door, my blood cooled and a soothing feeling of relief washed all over me.

  “How was your trip?” she asked. She was more beautiful, more angelic-looking than ever. Somehow she instantly made me feel like it would all be okay.

  “It was fine,” I said, lying. Of course the performance had not gone fine at all.

  “Good,” she said.

  “How were your lessons with Greta and Bronislava? Have you finished all the syllabi?” I knew the answer. But I wanted her to know that’s where my mind was focused, how important it was.

  “Yes, we did,” she said, a nervous tinge of squeakiness in her voice.

  “Good, I’m glad.”

  “Are you okay?” she asked, once we were in my car. She placed her hand on my shoulder.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” I said, wondering why she was asking since I now felt much calmer than before I saw her. I liked the feel of her hand on me. “I’m very fine,” I said with a smile, eyeing her hand. She smiled back.

  “Good evening, Rory,” Greta sang out when we walked into the living room.

  “Hi!” she squealed. She liked Greta as much as Greta liked her.

  I turned the ceiling track lights to the brightest mode possible. We had work to do. We needed to be awake.

  “Wow,” Greta teased, shielding her face with her fanned hand. “Talk about back to harsh reality. What happened to the rosy hue?”

  “That’s for nighttime,” I said.

  “Ah, this is nighttime.” She looked out the window, into the dark.

  “Yes, but it’s the start of our practice. The rosy is for cooling down.”

  They both looked at me like I was some kind of crazed dictator. We were in the studio now. We’d wasted a lot of time. I’d wasted a lot of time. I turned the lights down a notch, then looked at the women, placing my hands on my hips, indicating it wasn’t going to get any dimmer.

  “Okay, okay,” Greta said, waving about. “Let’s start with rumba.”

  Our first go was shaky. I could tell Rory was nervous. I managed to get through the whole routine without saying anything. When it was over, I opened my mouth, but Greta spoke over me.

  “Okay, let’s do it again. This time with corrections, which I will give, since I am the coach.” She looked directly at me, raising her eyebrows when she said the last part.

  Ah yes, our conversation. Well, it wasn’t really a conversation since she hadn’t given me time to respond. But fine, I thought, we would try it her way. For now. She was a ten-time world champ, after all; I trusted that she knew what she was doing.

  “Don’t worry, it will only get better,” Greta insisted. She looked back and forth between Rory and me.

  On the next go, Greta really went to work, stopping us repeatedly to give Rory c
orrections. She shot me her raised brow every time she did.

  It took us nearly an hour to get through one routine. I just hoped Rory could remember everything. It seemed like she was taking it all in. She didn’t seem that daunted by Greta, strangely.

  After we got through three of the five dances, Rory eyed the clock. “I have work tomorrow?” she said more as a question than statement.

  “Okay, instead of going through paso and jive, let me just see the first three again, straight through. No corrections this time. Then we’re done for the night,” Greta said.

  Rory looked pale. “Okay,” she said after a hesitation.

  But she made many of the same mistakes again. She had improved. Definitely. But my body tensed at each mistake, which she felt, and which made her body tense. I could tell, through the connection. I kept myself from saying anything, but she didn’t. “Sorry,” she said so many times I lost count. I managed not to respond.

  “Stop apologizing,” Greta said. “You’re actually remembering where I corrected you, and you’re trying to right yourself. That’s a big step.”

  That’s one way to look at it, I thought.

  “Just keep concentrating,” she continued. “Apologizing takes you away from your attention to details.”

  About halfway through the second routine, I could tell she was getting tired. Her movement was getting sloppy and she was making simple mistakes. We were in the middle of a side-swaying cucaracha when she was so off time and off center her hips knocked into mine. She stopped, began to say sorry, then stopped herself, rolling her eyes at herself instead.

  “It’s okay, you’re new at this. You won’t be much longer,” Greta said, shooting her raised brow at me, as if warning me to hold any frustration I had inside me.

  We tried again, but this time she stepped on my toe.

  “I’m s— I mean, I’m tired and I really have to go or I won’t get to work on time tomorrow. I need to get in early so I can get here on time,” Rory said, her voice becoming an overtired whine.

  I took several deep breaths. I knew she needed to leave. I knew she had her job. But when would we work? I released her and walked out onto the patio. But I kept the door open and listened to their conversation inside as I looked out over the canyon.

  “You’re doing fine. Better than fine,” Greta told her. “Just remember what I told you—you just need to think more with your body. I still see your brain thinking things through. I see it in your eyes. I know you’re a lawyer, and you’re used to thinking with your head. But it’s got to be in the muscles. You’ll get it into your bones. I know you will. You’re already conscious when something doesn’t feel right. I see you try to correct it.”

  I was so glad I had Greta. She explained everything perfectly. I’d get flustered and my intensity would lace my words too much for them to make sense.

  “You’re on your way, Rory. You’ve taken the first steps. I’m quite confident you will get it,” Greta finished, her voice full of just that—genuine confidence. Another reason I loved Greta. There was no way she was wrong.

  Greta joined me outside while Rory changed her shoes. “Good,” she said, caressing my elbow. “You didn’t let anything get to you. You let me be the big bad bear. I think it’s working well that way. Capiche?”

  I nodded. It would be hard for me to keep my mouth shut, but she was right. “I just worry about the little time we have. And this job of hers. It seems overwhelming.”

  “I know. I wish we’d had a few more hours tonight. But she’s a newcomer and could only take so much instruction at once anyway. She’s very good, Sasha. She’s going to get it. It’s going to work,” she said, rubbing my back.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I said softly to Rory during our drive back to her place. Now that Greta was no longer present, her nervous energy had returned. “We’ll resume where we left off tomorrow. It will get better. I know it will.”

  She breathed deeply. I took my eyes from the winding road for a split second to see tears watering the outer corners of her eyes.

  And suddenly, it broke my heart to see her so sad. I didn’t know if she was overcome with worry she wouldn’t live up. But was it to me or to her job? I realized how hard she had it. She was a beginning lawyer with a pain-in-the-ass boss, and a beginner dancer, working with two champions. I wanted her to be a perfect dancer, and we would make her into one. But I wanted so much more. Seeing her eyes well up with tears made me want her, as so much more than a dance partner.

  “Don’t worry, Greta won’t always be there,” I whispered, placing my hand gently on her knee. Her breath caught. I didn’t take my eyes from the road again but I could feel her pulse quicken, her eyes dry.

  She looked at me but my eyes remained on the road ahead.

  “Okay,” she finally whispered back. I could sense her smile.

  “It is good you are no longer my student, Rrrrory,” I said, tracing my index finger ever so lightly over her kneecap, where my hand continued to rest when it wasn’t needed to shift gears. I could feel her body heat. We rode in simmering tension the rest of the way.

  ***

  The next night, I picked her up at nine o’clock on the dot. We were getting a late start, thanks both to Rory’s having to work an hour late and to Svetlana having to reschedule her private lesson. As usual, I was anxious about the lost time. But I was determined to remain calm, to focus on how quickly she was improving, not how little time we had. Not to let myself get panicked about imperfections. The second I laid eyes on her, I realized that wouldn’t be hard tonight. She wore a deep red leotard with sexy thin straps that was more low-cut than her usual, with a hot pink ballet skirt and a matching pink sweater. Her hair was tied back in a loose ponytail with tendrils sexily framing her beautiful face.

  “How are you tonight?” I said after I’d closed her door and we were both seated.

  “Fine.” She squirmed in the plush leather seat that I couldn’t help but notice perfectly cupped the contours of her lovely behind. “How are you?”

  “Very well, thank you,” I said, meaning it for the first time in a long time. Tonight was going to be good.

  When we walked through the front door, I tossed my leather jacket onto one of the lounge chairs and headed straight toward the studio. She followed me, stopping first at the window to look out. She loved that window. I’d have to take her out there some night, after we finished practice and it was warm. The lights outside glittered from the canyon below. I hated to do it, but I had to turn on the studio lights and obscure the view by producing a reflection of the inside.

  “We will go out there soon. For now, work,” I said in self-defense.

  She didn’t object. Instead, she immediately straightened and took a dancerly posture, turning her feet outward in third position and rounding her arms into a beautifully full port de bras. She remained looking at her reflection in the now mirror-like window. She pulled in her abdominal muscles and tucked her pelvis. It was correct dancerly posture but she seemed to look at herself with dissatisfaction. Now I worried I’d caused her to fixate on herself by producing a mirrored effect. She’d lost more weight, I could tell. I was going to get this girl over her distorted body image if it was the last thing I did.

  “Rory,” I called, filling a champagne glass with juice. “I have made a new juice. Come here.” I motioned toward her with my index finger in a sexy come-hither fashion, trying to make myself, and the drink, impossible to resist. She slowly walked toward me. “It’s very light. See.” I handed it to her.

  She held it by the stem and contemplated it.

  “Drink,” I said in my sexiest commanding tone. “You’ll need the energy.” I raised my eyebrows, which caused her to hiccup. She took a sip. “Greta won’t be here tonight. I figured we could use some time to work on our own.” I shot her my most devilish grin. We would work. Of course. But we might do more as well. After we worked. I raised my champagne glass to my lips and took a slow, sultry sip. “Come on, I made that for y
ou to drink, not for you to stand there holding like you’re at a fancy cocktail party. You look like Audrey Hepburn in ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s.’”

  She laughed, then glanced at the drink again. “What did you put in here?” I couldn’t decipher her thoughts from her tone. “Are there cranberries?” She sounded more anxious than intrigued.

  “No, beets. Also lemon and apple and blood-red orange. It should be sweet.”

  She moved it toward her lips. Ever so slowly. And looked up at the ceiling. Like she was contemplating something. Was it calories, sugars? Did she actually think I’d spiked her drink?

  “Rory?”

  Her eyes darted back to me. She still didn’t drink. Was she really that worried about calories? Or was it something more? Some women innately mistrusted Russian men. But certainly not Rory.

  “You don’t think—I mean—Rory, I would never try to hurt you. You know that, right?”

  “No. I mean, yes, of course I know that!” She emitted a short, self-conscious laugh. It was the calories concerning her, which momentarily relieved me.

  I continued to look at her, my gaze shifting between her eyes and the glass so near her beautiful delicious-looking lips. She continued to look at me, her eyes widening. As did mine. I wouldn’t look away. Not until she took a sip. We’d have a staring contest all night if it meant she would ingest some nutrition. Finally, she took a little sip, and swallowed.

  “Good,” I said, finally averting my gaze. I walked toward the iPod, picked it up, and fumbled with the songs.

  She put her glass down on the bar and walked toward me.

  I didn’t want her to do that. We didn’t have time to continue the stare-off all night. “You are getting thin, Rory,” I said, after a breath. I knew from my former partner that people with eating disorders were immune to comments about their thinness. “Weak bones and muscle are much more susceptible to injury, especially when you’ve put so much stress on them in only a few months. We don’t have much time so we have to work hard. I simply want you to have energy and not get hurt,” I said, making it about avoiding injury.