Slave to the Rhythm (25 page)

I smiled.

“Paso Doble—my favorite dance.”

Her eyebrows shot up and I grinned at her as she thought of another question.

“Well, well indeed! And what is an
ocho
?”

“It’s a tango step—the Argentine tango—the name coming from the figure eights women tango dancers make.”

And I demonstrated for her, which wasn’t easy in heavy work boots.

A thin smile passed her lips.

“Name?”

“Ash Novak.”

“Well, Mr. Novak, all our auditions slots are filled for tonight . . .”

My face must have shown how I felt, because her own expression softened.

“However, I will put you down for 10am tomorrow. Come with your music and a prepared piece of dance for us. And please, don’t wear those monstrosities on your feet.”

I leaned forward and kissed her papery cheek.

“No, ma’am!”

I’d run the rest of the way home. Home to Laney.

I spent most of the night listening to music and planning a routine. I tossed out several ideas before I was passably happy with the result, then slept for two restless hours until I heard Laney moving around in her bedroom.

She opened the door slowly, and peered cautiously into the living room. She’d been doing that ever since she saw me jerking off.

“Do you know what you’re going to dance?” she asked.

Not ‘good morning’ as usual, or even ‘hi’. She’d woken up thinking about my audition—same as me. I scooped her up and swung her around.

“Yes! I think so!”

She laughed, tugging on my t-shirt so I’d put her down.

“What music did you choose?”

“Either
Raise Your Glass
by Pink for a Cha-cha—Paso combo, or . . .”

“Or . . . ?” she asked, her voice excited.

“
Hunter by Pharrell Williams
: a samba—hip hop mash up.”

Her face fell slightly.

“What? You don’t like that?”

I’d been so sure. Laney’s lukewarm response affected me more than I wanted to think about.

“No, it sounds fine,” she said, with a weak smile.

“Laney!” I gripped my hair. “Please, what is it?”

“I’m not the dance expert, Ash.”

“But you have an opinion!”

“Okay, fine, but if it’s a bad idea, promise me you won’t do anything dumb.”

I stared at her impatiently, and she sighed.

“You should do a rumba.”

I didn’t reply and she bit her lip.

“Why should I do rumba? It’s . . . not showy.”

“That’s exactly why!” she said, wringing her hands together. “Whenever I watch ‘Dancing With the Stars’, it’s the one dance male celebrities
never
do well. But you’re so . . .”

I wasn’t following her thinking. What did a show about amateur dancers have to do with, well, anything?

“I’m so . . . ?”

“Macho!” she said, her cheeks turning pink.

I broke into a smile at her answer.

“Thank you,” and I winked at her.

“Stop it!” she laughed. “I’m being serious. A super-macho rumba would be . . . sexy.”

Her cheeks were glowing now, and I was sure that if I reached out and touched her, I’d feel the heat.

She snapped her fingers.

“James Bay,
Let It Go
.”

“Play it for me,” I said quickly.

She plugged in her iPhone and scrolled through while I waited impatiently. Then the first guitar chords flooded through the room and I knew she was right.

I will be me . . .

I could see it in my mind, how my body would move, the emotion I could show through my face, my arms, the tips of my fingers.

“It’s perfect, Laney! Thank you!”

I cupped my hands around her soft cheeks and kissed her full on the lips.

She gasped slightly and wobbled.

“Okay?”

“Yup,” she nodded breathlessly.

“I’ll go shower,” I said, jogging to the bathroom. “Then I need to practice.”

“Ash!”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t shave.”

I turned to look at her.

“Just . . . the woman yesterday—she thought you were a construction worker, right?”

“Sure, I guess.”

“Remember what we said about stereotypes? A construction worker who dances a rumba—they’ll definitely remember you.”

My eyebrows shot up and I grinned at her.

“No shaving.”

I spent the next hour using Laney’s living room as a rehearsal space. I even asked her to video me on her phone. I was used to rehearsing in dance studios that had mirrors so I could check my technique—it was frustrating not being able to see how I looked. The filming helped.

Itching to get to the theater, I ran through a checklist in my head: big bottle of water, check; towel, check; ballroom shoes, check; bananas—I’d buy some on the way. Laney had typed out a résumé for me and took a photo on her phone that she printed out. It looked professional by the time she finished. I didn’t have kneepads or Latin shoes or any sheet music, so I had to hope they didn’t penalize me for being unprepared. I’d just have to blow them away with my show piece.

But when I came out of the shower, Laney was sitting on the couch. Usually, she was in the kitchen making breakfast or already at her computer working.

“Are you okay?”

“Just a bit stiff. I’m fine.”

I stared at her. She’d been well for weeks.

“Ash, I’m fine! Go! Or you’ll be late.”

She made shooing motions with her hands, so I grabbed one and kissed her knuckles.

“Wish me luck!”

“Luck!” She laughed. “But you don’t need it. You’re amazing!”

“
Moj sonček!
”

“What does that mean?” she called after me, as I jogged to the front door.

But I didn’t answer. I knew it would frustrate the hell out of her—she was so cute when she was annoyed. Her smile lit the dark corners inside me.

I’d been too wired to eat breakfast, even though that was a big no-no for auditions. It could be a long day, with maybe as many as four call backs.

I stopped at a convenience store and bought six tired-looking bananas: sugar and carbs. Can’t beat it.

The line at the theater was as long as the day before, which was kind of depressing. Quite a few people were in pairs, and there was also a bunch of six guys who were practicing some street dance moves. They looked good, but unless they had technique to go with it, they probably wouldn’t get through the audition. No technique usually means injuries, and no dance director will want that when you’ve got eight shows a week.

I’d worn a tight t-shirt to show off my pecs and abs—something working construction had actually helped.

The theater was heated, but I kept my sweatshirt on while I did warm-up exercises. They were taking people through in batches of 30 which meant for a fairly over-crowded stage. When my name was called, everyone in my group had the same idea—get to the front so you can see what’s being taught by the choreographer, and the casting director can see you. Several short girls used their elbows to push past me. Yep, the dance world is competitive.

I hung at the back, knowing that they’d probably switch lines during the audition so everyone gets a chance to see and be seen. I was tall—it wasn’t a problem.

I pulled off my sweatshirt and tossed it to the side. This was it. I needed to buckle up and focus. Pay attention, look, listen, learn—get the style, so the choreographer would know I could do the show, whatever it was going to be.

The run was a mash-up of various Latin styles with some jazz thrown in. It was immediately obvious who was trained and who wasn’t, not that I spent a lot of time watching other people—that was a sure way to make a mistake. And if you’re not thinking about the music, about the dance, you’ll end up with a blank expression.

Four of the street dance guys had no clue how to follow steps—the others weren’t bad, but I didn’t think they’d get called back. I was the only guy in my group who did the run all the way through. You don’t stop in an audition, even if you’re all over the place. What are you going to do in a live show? Walk off? No, you’ve got to keep going unless you’re physically unable.

And then I remembered Gary telling me about dancing through the pain of a broken foot. I lost focus, wondering if he was okay, and earned a frown from the choreographer.

Even so, my name was called at the end of the round, so I got to stay. For now.

I guessed there’d be maybe three more rounds. It was going to be tough.

I had 20 minutes to go eat my food and hydrate before round two. This time it was a rootsy, Hip Hop style and the guy next to me who’d nailed it in the first round was struggling. I guessed he was classically trained and couldn’t connect with the earthy style and loose, bent knees. No matter what he tried, he was too upright, too straight-legged. He didn’t make the cut.

By now I was sweating freely, and the remaining guys had taken off their shirts. I couldn’t do that. The cuts on my back were healed, but the scars were fresh, and I didn’t feel like answering questions. I wanted to forget.

When that woman I met in the pub had scratched down my chest, I almost knocked her over, pushing her away from me. Too many bad memories to let anyone mark me again. She hadn’t been happy. I wasn’t all that into her anyway. I went back to the pub and stayed until it closed.

I’d started doing that every time the prick came over. I didn’t want to hear him with Laney. At least it never lasted long. Why the hell did she put up with the one-minute wonder?

Round three was pair work and they tried us out with different partners. The music was salsa and we had to get up close and sexy with someone we’d just met. A tiny blonde girl was rubbing herself all over me.

Non-dance friends always ask if I get turned on by that, but if you’re doing this all the time, there’s not much risk of getting a hard-on unintentionally. Maybe for a while when I was a teenager, but mostly there isn’t any energy left to think about anything apart from the dance. It’s running a sprint followed by a marathon, while you’re smiling and making it look effortless at the same time. Plus, she’s sweaty, you’re sweaty, so you’ve got two sweaty, stinky, slippery, grunting people, each depending on the other to do their job.

Yeah, it can happen, but usually with less experienced dancers or if you’ve got a brand new partner. Most pros can control themselves.

We switched again, and I got a tall Asian girl who was heavier than my last partner, but a way better dancer. If I’d been looking for a pro partner, I’d definitely be interested. If I got cut from the audition, I might ask her if she wanted to try out for some ballroom competitions.

But I didn’t get cut. And it was time for my showdance.

I was tired and my body was aching. But I thought of Laney. The first time I saw her, sitting alone at that table, never guessing that she was in a wheelchair. I’d wanted to dance with her then and God knows, I still did. But she was with the prick, so I was dancing solo.

From nervous touch and getting drunk

To staying up and waking up with you.

It said everything I felt, and I was lost in the music. I was home.

Laney

I waited anxiously. I really hoped this audition was everything he’d hoped for. He was late, and I didn’t know if that was good or bad. I didn’t know the first thing about his world, except that when he’d left home this morning, he was happier than I’d ever seen him.

At six o’clock, hours later than I’d expected him, Ash walked through the door wearily.

“Well?” I asked anxiously.

His face broke into a huge smile. “I got it!” he yelled

“Oh my God! Oh my God!”

And he picked me up, hugging me tightly as I was spun around like a doll.

“It was brilliant!” he said, into my hair. “I mean, it was awesome.”

He carried me over to the couch and we slumped down together, his arm automatically going around my shoulder as his head lolled back.

He told me about Rosa, the choreographer; Mark, the director; Dalano, the producer; and various members of the troupe and tech crew.

He was still talking happily when he leaned forward and unzipped the cheap gym bag that I’d loaned him, pulling out his dance shoes and sweaty rehearsal clothes.

“I’m going to put some laundry on,” he said. “Do you have anything that needs washing?”

A large envelope fell to the floor, thickly stuffed with papers.

“What’s that?”

Ash shrugged.

“Contract. I’m supposed to fill it in and take it back on Monday. Will you look through it for me? I hate reading that stuff, especially in English.” Then he smiled. “But I got myself a new cell—you can message me now.”

Then he disappeared toward the basement with his dance clothes and my weeks’ worth of laundry.

I smiled to myself as I picked up the packet of papers and started reading his contract, impressed with the $850 per week wage. But I’d only got a few lines in before I realized that Ash had a serious problem. I’d gotten so carried away, little details like
work visa
and
social security
number had completely slipped my mind.

It was over before it had started: they would never allow Ash to dance. The foreman on a construction site might risk a day laborer, even in Chicago where the unions had things tied up tight, but the Steps Theater Group wouldn’t.