Sasha: Book One

by Tonya Plank

  But I didn’t need to follow his finger. I wasn’t getting anything more out of this girl.

  As I walked back to the hotel, I told myself over and over that she’d said Tatiana was happy, in love. What motive would she have to lie? The agency said someone else paid her debts. That Tatiana had found a man to love her enough to pay her debts made sense. Could I believe it? That she didn’t want to be found by anyone in her family? It saddened me that she wanted nothing to do with me. That she didn’t trust me. I truly had let her down. Assuming the girl was telling the truth.

  I successfully kept my meandering thoughts at bay throughout the performance. The show organizer was very happy, especially given what had happened at the last showcase. Word gets around. It was a fine performance. Not perfect, but for the first time I didn’t care. There were far more important things.

  The audience gave us a standing ovation. Women in the first row had tears in their eyes. At first I was confused; the performance wasn’t that overwhelming. Then I saw the same tears in Xenia’s eyes. It was our last dance. I’d been so focused on what had happened in the park, I’d forgotten. Distracted, once again. And now for the last time, with Xenia. I pulled her into me and she cried into my chest. This was the official end of our partnership. Truly bittersweet.

  Afterward, I returned to the park. It was closed so I walked around its perimeter, exploring every side street no matter how small. The following day I returned to the park, examining every nook and cranny, every bench, every pond, every meadow, for hours. I never saw the Russian girl again.

  The next day, I received a strange, unsettling call from Rory.

  “Sasha?” There was urgency to her voice.

  “What’s wrong, Rory?” My heart took a nosedive straight to my stomach. Had she hurt her knee again?

  “Nothing. I’m fine. I just wanted to hear your voice,” she said. Then paused.

  “Are you sure? Rory?”

  “Yes, yes,” she said, now laughing with relief. “What about you? You sound out of breath.” I’d been circling madly around the park. I was probably walking a good seven or eight miles an hour. “Everything’s fine here. Both show dances went fine. I’ll be flying out on the red-eye tonight. How is training with Greta coming along?”

  “Really well,” she said, excitement now returning to her voice, the urgency gone. Thankfully. “We’ve made so much progress. We’re through all the routines and I love the choreography. She gave me things to do that I’m good at, but she kept all the basic steps we need. I’m learning so much through her, Sasha. She’s awesome!”

  “Good. Good. I’m very glad to hear that.”

  “I can’t wait to see you,” she said, her voice now just a note above a whisper.

  “And I can’t wait to see you,” I said, my voice a seductive rasp. “My flight is at nine tonight. I will be home tomorrow evening and we can resume prrrractice.”

  She giggled. “It’s a plan. Have a good flight.”

  “Thank you. I will see you very soon.”

  Chapter 23

  Rory and Greta were in the middle of rehearsing cha-cha when I came home. The music was so loud they obviously hadn’t heard my car and didn’t realize I was watching them until Rory spotted me in the doorway. She stopped mid-cha and sprinted toward me.

  “No, don’t stop. I was enjoying that,” I said with my best cocked smile and raised brow.

  “Sorry, can’t help it.” She wrapped her arms around me.

  I pressed my lips to her cheek, then sought her mouth, giving her a long, full-out kiss, albeit one with solely lips, no tongue. Greta didn’t need too much PDA. “I’m going to change. I’ll be back down in ten minutes max.” I squeezed her shoulder and gave her another peck on the forehead before flying up the stairs.

  I listened to Rory’s laughter from my bedroom. It had never sounded more beautiful. It momentarily made my heart sink. I could only pray Tatiana was as happy as she was. I’d have to believe that Russian girl. How I wanted to see the laughter light up her eyes the way Rory’s did. But I had to focus on training now, the one thing I could control.

  Rory excitedly showed me the routines Greta had choreographed. They’d finished every dance.

  “Damn, you women work fast without me,” I said in mock surprise.

  “Not going to comment on that one,” Greta said.

  “Everything’s so sexy and sassy!” Rory squealed. “I love Greta!”

  Greta smiled and shrugged. “What can I say? Sexy and sassy is just me.”

  Rory was right. The jive was filled with schoolgirlish toe-heel swivels, hip-swaying jive walks, flirty American spins. Anytime you could throw a spin for Rory into our routines, the dance took on another quality; it became a work of sheer performance art. They were so her thing. The cha-cha was replete with sassy walks around me, almost using me as a kind of stripper pole; our samba was full of the beautiful samba rolls in deep shadow position that Rory so loved. And that I so loved because of her. In the paso doble Greta choreographed a stunning multiple pirouette in response to my hot, high-jumping turn in the air, along with lots of soulful flamenco taps, Rory’s favorite part of that dance. The rumba was nothing short of mouthwatering. Greta used Rory’s balletic abilities to the fullest—slow, sultry arabesques, sensual, graceful développés of the leg, beautiful swanlike port de bras of the arms, and deep lunging splits that showed off her tantalizingly sexy flexibility.

  “See, she’s a genius. Every single dance, packed with my favorites, my strengths!” Rory squealed again. Her happiness warmed my soul. And she was right, to boot.

  Rory saw Greta wink at me and frowned. Greta shrugged, knowing she was caught. “Okay, Rory, I knew what your favorite steps were because Sasha told me. He told me what to put in. I just worked it all out on you. But yes, I’m still a genius.”

  “Oooh,” Rory laughed, and hugged me.

  It felt so good to be in her arms again. She took all the bad in the world away with her beauty and innocence. Everything would be okay, if I made at least this one woman happy. I didn’t know if I could help Tatiana anymore. I’d keep trying, of course. I’d never stop. But Rory I could. I could take care of her, I could rid her of her confidence issues, I could love her.

  Rory had learned the footwork so well. There would be no problems with that. She’d even started to create her own style, her own little sassy attitude, with Greta’s guidance.

  I glanced at her knee.

  “Totally healed! I’ve been bathing every day, soaking in Epsom salts, swimming laps in the pool, and using the leg lifts in your weight room. So much better. Life is so good when you can afford to have a gym at your home that you can use any time!”

  I nodded. Rory was happy. And even somewhat at peace with herself. That was all I could ask for. That was all I needed.

  We cursorily went through the routines. I was pleased with the way they felt when I danced, though I did have several tweaks, which she didn’t seem to mind.

  But there was a moment of crisis. Fortunately, only a moment. During cha-cha, I pushed her out so she could do her beautiful ronde de jambe en l’air, but I was too strong and she went too far and lost her balance. She couldn’t do the leg lift, and almost lost contact with me—a huge no-no in ballroom.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” Greta said, trying to clear the air before it had even been sullied. “It’s only the first time you two are dancing the choreography together. It will take some time to work out the kinks.”

  I felt Rory’s anxious energy return and saw that proverbial doe-in-headlights look flash across her face. Panic surged through me. Rory danced wonderfully well with Greta but was a tangle of nerves with me. But I shook it off and breathed deeply, forcing a relaxed smile to replace my panicked look. Rory laughed. Good. All was well.

  But now she eyed the clock. “I’m sorry. Work,” she said.

  I took another breath, and nodded. We’d focused on familiarizing me with the routines and had hardly gotten a chance to practice.
But I was the one who’d had to go to Japan again. It was my fault. Her job beckoned and that couldn’t be helped.

  I pulled her aside, put my arm around her. Greta got the hint and walked out onto the patio to give us some privacy. “You know you are more than welcome to stay over.” Suddenly, I felt myself badly wanting her not to leave, even if we didn’t touch. I just needed to have her near me. I held her arms in mine, rubbing her elbows. “You always are. Not just tonight. You can use the bath, the pool, the gym, anything. Don’t worry, I give you my assurance when I am here I will leave you unmolested.” I was serious. I just wanted her here with me.

  “Unmolested! Could you be more frigging tempting?” she cried.

  “I can try?” I joked, shooting her a mischievous grin.

  “I will take you up on all that, or at least some of that, this weekend. Starting Friday night.” She had a sad smile. “I need to return to my regular pattern, at least early in the work week. I’ll never sleep, never get up in time to be at work at a decent hour if I stay tonight.”

  “Do what you feel is necessary,” I said, hoping I sounded more understanding than disappointed.

  ***

  The following night, Rory was on time. No Gunther issues, miraculously.

  Greta had a prior engagement and we were on our own. “Control yourself, Sasha,” she’d warned me. I tried to. Hard.

  We began with rumba. Rory knew the footwork like the back of her hand. But just as I noticed, she’d regressed to thinking too hard. She immediately closed her eyes to let my body guide her, reading my mind. I could feel her trying to sense my strength and return it with equal strength of her own, so that I wouldn’t be pushing and pulling her around. You really can read the thoughts of your dance partner through the feel of their body.

  When we got about halfway into the series of spins, I whipped her around faster than I knew Greta had. I knew she could do it. And I knew she wanted to. I also knew she was expecting me to do so because she was forward-weighted on the balls of her feet, ready to turn fast on her toes. She kept her center tight, her shoulders down and her posture upright so as to avoid losing her balance. She read me. It worked. It worked well.

  “Good,” I said.

  But my pronouncement jinxed us. As I took her down into a deep, one-legged dip, I apparently went faster than she was expecting, making her dizzy and off-center. I felt her gripping the floor with the toes of her standing leg to regain balance. But her arms, fanned out beautifully behind her, were getting close to the floor, as if she was about to catch herself.

  “No touching the floor,” I said. “The judges will know that’s a mistake. You need to keep your arms straight out, over your head.”

  “I know, I know,” she said, head still upside down in the dip. “You took me into it faster than I’ve been going with Greta and I got dizzy and had to use the floor for—”

  “Keep going,” I said, not wanting excuses. I lunged toward her while she did one of her high leg lifts. My lunge was far deeper than Greta’s and I really had to stretch to keep my fingers interlaced with hers. But the deeper my stretch, the more impressive it looked. She needed as solid a connection as possible with my hand while she balanced her entire weight on one stiletto and did the splits in the air. I would give that solid connection to her, but I also needed to do the deep lunge. The judges knew how hard all this was. They would give us major points for it. I could feel her spreading her toes inside the tight-fitting shoes to find solid footing on the ground while slowly lifting her other leg. The imagery was so sensual, so gorgeous. But the panic in her eyes completely undermined that. Part of the trick was to let everything look like it was the easiest thing in the world for us.

  When her leg was fully extended, I rose and came toward her. She was supposed to hook her foot around my shoulder so I could whisk her forward in a slide. Again, I was faster than she expected. She leaned back to maintain balance, forcing me to take an awkwardly large step to reach her airborne leg and wrap it around my shoulder.

  I sighed to let out some steam, but continued, saying nothing, trying hard not to criticize.

  When I tried to pull her toward me, she was too tense, too weighted to glide lightly over the floor. I pulled but the left foot stuck.

  “Stop,” she cried. “I’m already in a split. I can’t stretch much farther.”

  I closed my eyes, breathed deeply, and unhooked her right foot from my shoulder. When both of her feet were on the floor, I put my hands on my hips, and looked at her.

  “I was nervous and so had my foot too weighted…”

  I held my palm toward her. It took every effort to alter my expression, raising my eyebrows out of their furrowed frown and pulling the corners of my lips upward into an ever-so-slight smile. “Let’s just continue,” I managed to say, nodding and politely extending my arm to her.

  She blinked hard and walked toward me. She could obviously still sense my frustration. My boxed-in anger was making her all the more on-edge, making her all the more inclined to screw up, making me all the more likely to get angry. It was a vicious circle. One that had to be stopped, for the sake of our Blackpool chances. For the sake of our relationship.

  We both shook it off and continued where we’d left off. She gently pulled her leg off my shoulder and swept it back in a lovely arabesque penchée. I kneeled. This was such a beautiful move. Executed properly, it should look like I was on my knees, ready to propose, and she was bowing down graciously. But her standing leg was wobbling because of her nerves and she didn’t do the full extension. I didn’t want that. She couldn’t adjust the routine out of fear. Right before she got the leg down, I held her hand more tightly in an effort to stabilize her, but my pressure was too much; instead I caused her to slide back and land flat on her behind.

  “Why did you do that?” she said, looking a bit stunned.

  It freaked me out that she had no idea how the mistake happened. I blew out more steam, paced around in a circle before answering. “Rory, you need to resist me. That’s how we maintain balance. You didn’t push back against me at all. You can’t just let me push you around.”

  “I…” she began, then stopped for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “Okay, again, I wasn’t used to your force. But now I am. So now I’m ready for you.” She nodded as if trying to convince herself.

  I opened my mouth, then closed it, realizing there was actually nothing to protest. She was telling me what I wanted to hear. At first, I didn’t know how to respond. No one had ever done that before. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s continue, shall we?”

  She lowered herself down on top of me, into my outstretched arms, as I raised her above me, still on my knees, with her toes pointed beautifully behind her. Another stunningly gorgeous move, if we could look at each other with love in our eyes instead of terror.

  “Pull up through your center,” I said. “Your body is not in a straight line and looks awkward.”

  She looked at herself in the mirror. She squeezed her ass tighter.

  “No, your shoulders. They are hunched over. Pull up.”

  “Oh.” She held her shoulders back, and raised her arms behind her like a bird as I pushed her out.

  “Good! Now look back at me but keep your upper body arched.”

  She did exactly as I said, gazing down at me when I pulled her back toward me. “Excellent!” I exclaimed, applauding both the beautiful movement and her trying what I said without objecting.

  I led her into a fan, lowering my arm so she could shift her weight by twisting her hips sharply. It was one of her favorite moves because the hip twist was snappy and flirty.

  But she was too slow and it lacked sharpness. “No, it needs to be quicker.” I stopped.

  “What?”

  “The twist, it needs to be faster, sharper.”

  “But this is the way Greta…” She stopped herself. “Okay,” she said under her breath.

  Next was another hot move. Facing away from me, she lifted her leg and began to circl
e it in the air. Suddenly, she fell backward, on top of me.

  “What was that?” I was losing my battle to remain calm.

  I wrapped my arms around her waist and tried to turn her around so I could look at her. But she stopped me. She held her hands firmly over mine and leaned her head back to cradle on my shoulder, closing her eyes. This way she didn’t have to see my frustration, which was swiftly turning to anger. As we both breathed, I realized how smart it was for her to do this. It felt good to hold her, to be without confrontation for a time. I sighed in resignation, then cradled her, rocking back and forth.

  “Okay,” I said after a few moments. I tried to turn around to face her again, but her hands remained firmly over mine. “Rory, we need… We don’t have much…” I began. But I found myself hoping she wanted to continue just embracing like this, and would stop me.

  “Before we continue, we need to talk this out, Sasha,” she finally said, moving forward, releasing my hands, and turning toward me but standing a few feet from me. Her voice was assertive, insisting. “I’ve been doing this with Greta and everything’s been great,” she continued. “I have to get used to your strength and power. You push or pull or whiplash me around and I’m just not ready. You have to give me time to get used to you so I can give you proper resistance. Otherwise I’m going to be falling all over you.”

  We didn’t have a lot more time. “Rory, we have been dancing together for a while now. That’s what we are doing. That’s why we’re going over this.”

  “No, we haven’t been dancing like this, Sasha. We’ve been doing lead and follow, not a Blackpool routine.”

  I shook my head, ran my fingers through my hair. “It’s the same. We have choreography but you still need to follow me. You still need to sense my weight, my position, do as I lead you. You are still dancing on your own right now. You are not dancing with me.”

  “Shhh,” she said, putting her finger to my lips.

  The softness of her skin against mine, her sweet breath on my neck—I breathed her in. I was getting too worked up. She was right to silence me.