Slave to the Rhythm (36 page)

His eyes were hazy with tiredness, and we were watching the program cuddled up on the couch, a blanket thrown over us. He was tired and a bit moody. On the TV, they were showing some video tape where the actress was saying how much she missed her dad who’d died nine years ago, and this dance was for him. And then she got all weepy. I rolled my eyes.

“What?” Ash asked sharply.

“It’s so manipulative! ‘I’m sad because my daddy died. Vote for me!’ It just bugs me, that’s all.”

Ash’s jaw clamped shut and I could see a muscle ticking by his eye.

“It’s not manipulation. When you dance, you have to feel the emotion. It’s like a . . . a muscle memory, pulling the emotion into the dance.”

“Oh, please! It’s a cheap ploy to get votes. It’s tacky and unpleasant.”

He stood up suddenly, surprising me.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Then he stamped out of the living room and I heard the bedroom door slam behind him.

I blinked. What the hell had just happened? We were fighting over a TV show?

It was hard to dodge his emotional landmines when I didn’t know where they were. It was tiring. I was tired.

He reappeared twenty minutes later, damp from the shower and apologetic.

His way of apologizing was to take me to bed for some more athletic sex. The man was a machine, and if he hadn’t been so exhausted from long days of rehearsing, I’m not sure we’d have gotten to sleep at all. Although Ash rarely slept well. Most of his nights were disturbed. Demons still chased him through the darkness of his dreams.

When the day of the first performance finally arrived, Ash was brimming with nervous energy, despite swearing that the show was going to be a disaster.

I tried to calm him, but he was too on edge.

“You’ll be amazing out there,” I whispered with the low voice only lovers use.

He leaned his forehead against mine.

“I’m amazing when I’m with you. Without you . . .”

I kissed him. Holding his strong jaw cupped in my hands, I kissed him, pouring every emotion, every ounce of love and awe and wonder into that kiss.

“I love you, Ash. We met, we married, we fell in love. We did everything backward. But that’s us, that’s our story. And now you’re leaving, but you’ll be coming back. Because
that’s
our story, as well. I’ll never have the things other people take for granted, my health, children, certainty . . .”

Ash shook his head. “Whatever happens, we’ll have each other always, and we have our love. That makes us as rich as kings.”

“Why do you stay with me when I can’t give you that? I can’t give you children?”

He stared at me, his eyes serious.

“Because I love you. Because I don’t want to dance alone.”

He’d left the apartment after delivering a searing kiss that heated me from tip to toe, with a promise of more.

I met my mom and sisters for cocktails at a bar that was stumbling distance to the theater, even in the fierce freeze that clawed the city.

A decent crowd gathered at the theater, and I was hoping that Ash was wrong about it being a disaster. He was probably just being too hard on himself.

Unwrapping my coat, scarf, hat and gloves, I settled into my seat—really good ones in the third row—between Mom and Bernice. Dad had planned to come but pulled a sudden shift, or so he said. But I was glad it was just a small part of my family.

I drummed my fingers restlessly until Mom took my hand in hers and gave my fingers a reassuring squeeze.

“Thank you for coming, Mom,” I whispered.

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” she smiled.

I wondered how Ash was feeling backstage, waiting in the wings. And I sent up a quick prayer that it would go well.

When the lights dimmed and the pre-recorded music started, my hopes were high. I felt a rush of adrenaline, and I realized that was just a faint reflection of how Ash would be feeling. But despite everything, it was exciting—I was going to see my
husband
on stage, performing for the first time since Las Vegas. It
had
to be special.

I was squirming with anticipation and nerves as the dancers ran and leapt onto the stage, but drop by drop, my happiness drained away.

I didn’t want to believe it, but Ash was right.
Broadway Revisited
was awful. It was a trite mishmash with no coherent theme or storyline. I felt bad for the cast—they’d all worked so hard. The director and producer still seemed to believe that they’d pulled off the show of the century, but they were the only ones. The reviews were going to be brutal.

Muted applause greeted the dancers as they took their bows. There was no encore request, and the half full theater emptied quickly. We were supposed to go for drinks ‘to celebrate’. I wasn’t sure anyone would feel like it.

“Ash was good though,” Bernice said kindly. “And that blonde girl he danced with.”

“That’s Sarah,” I sighed. “She’s really nice.”

“Yeah, they look good together .They should have let them do more than that one tango. That was hot.”

Yes, that was my husband—a man who looked hot when he was dancing. Or standing, or sitting. And very hot laying in my bed.

A warm glow of possession made me smile. Bernice caught my expression and raised her eyebrows in amusement. I didn’t care.

We headed out to the nearest pub, but it was twenty minutes before I saw Ash making his way toward us, freshly showered, his fake tan orange under the unsympathetic lighting.

A hot blast of jealousy shot through me when I saw that he had his arm around Sarah, his head down, talking to her. But it dissipated quickly when I saw that she’d been crying, her pretty blue eyes bloodshot and puffy.

I moved across the booth to make room for her and she plopped down next to me.

Ash gave me a thin smile, nodded at my family while Sarah got acquainted with them, then headed to the bar, soon returning with a bottle Hennessy’s whiskey and six shot glasses.

We clinked them together and downed them in one.

“God, I needed that,” muttered Sarah. “I swear, Laney, if it wasn’t for your fella, I’d have gone off the deep end long ago. He’s always so friggin’ calm. I don’t know how he does it.”

Neither did I. My enduring opinion of Ash was that he was a hothead. It was intriguing hearing this about him, and another flutter of jealousy stung me.

We stayed for a few drinks and some of the other dancers joined us, but no one was in the mood to party and we left soon after.

It was a relief to tumble into our apartment and regain feeling in my fingers and toes. Ash was flexing his right hand and wincing. The fingers that had been broken often ached, but it was worse in the cold.

I was going to suggest making some hot chocolate, but Ash surprised me by pulling me into his arms and kissing me hungrily. He tasted of whiskey and cigarettes, but I was too turned on to take issue with that right now.

He shoved both hands into my jeans and squeezed my ass.

“Aaagh! Your hands are freezing! There’ll be payback, mister!”

He laughed against my lips and I tugged at his belt as we reeled across the apartment, shedding clothes and sharing whispers—all the hot and dirty things we were going to do to each other.

I shuddered slightly as Ash pulled me under the chilly sheets, but then shuddered with pleasure as he warmed me in a wonderfully old fashioned way.

Ash was awake early the next day, throwing on his jeans and coat to run out and buy the early editions of the newspapers.

We’d expected bad news, but hoped for good.

Ash paced up and down the room as I found the entertainment section and scanned through the reviews.

I winced when I read the headline.

This Christmas turkey is one to avoid.

Ouch.

“Read it to me,” Ash asked quietly.

‘Broadway Revisited’ is the type of show that should have stayed a bad idea and never reached the stage. Mark Rumans made his career as a dancer in ‘Forty Second Street’ on Broadway but doesn’t seem to have had an original idea since. Rumor has it of backstage fights with respected choreographer Rosa Hart, who left the production a month ago.

The only bright spot is newcomers Sarah Lintort and Ash Novak. Their Argentine tango from ‘Evita’ was a masterclass in sexual tension, musicality and suppressed longing, as the toothsome twosome dueled their way through the only interesting moment of a long, dreary evening.

One star for Lintort and Novak, but otherwise one to avoid.

“He liked your tango,” I said lamely.

Ash nodded and walked into the kitchen.

He was leaning by the sink, staring out into the gray, overcast morning. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I rested my head on his back. I felt his warm hands cover mine and heard his heavy sigh.

“I’ll be out of a job by Christmas. I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for—you were wonderful—even that reviewer thought so. You’ll find another job, I know you will.”

He didn’t reply.

When he left for the theater that evening, my heart ached for him. It had been a difficult day and he hadn’t spoken much. I could see how hard it was to have to do it all over again, knowing that it wasn’t good, despite the small ray of sunshine the reviewer had shined on him.

Given our unusual circumstances and our original agreement that we’d divorce after two years, despite our ongoing sexual shenanigans, I had an odd sense of wanting to stand by my husband.

“Oh God! Don’t stop, Ash! Don’t stop!”

He thrust harder, less than a minute from his climax, although mine was much closer.

At first I thought the knocking was the headboard slamming against the wall. Ash had moved it away twice, but somehow the bed always crept back, and now there was a dent in the dry walling that Ash had promised to fix.

The day had started so well and my orgasm was beginning to fizz, hot tingles shooting up and down my pelvis. Then I heard it again.

“Ash!”

“Yes, my love!” he gasped, his teeth gritted, hips pistoning against me.

His thumb pressed down on my clit, and despite my distraction, an explosion rushed through me, urgent and relentless, lights exploding behind my eyes as my lids tightly squeezed shut.

Then I heard it for a third time.

Ash was fast approaching loss of control, his movements wilder, sloppier, that perfect rhythm more desperate.

“There’s someone . . . at the door!” I gasped.

Ash growled something that was probably very rude, but as it was in Slovenian, I couldn’t be sure.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

“Mr. Novak! Mrs. Novak! This is Ralph Phillips with the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Service. Please open the door.”

“Oh, my God! Ash! Stop! We have to . . . have to . . .”

With another curse, Ash put his head down and headed for the home straight. It was good ole fucking, hard.

“This is Ralph Phillips with the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Service. I must insist that you open the door.”

Ash swore and pulled out suddenly, stomping toward the front door, his face stormy.

I watched his retreating back and delicious butt stalking away, stopping only to scoop up a towel—a small piece of material that did nothing to hide the fact that he was still hard.

I pulled on a robe and peeped into the living room. Ash’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, his face flushed as he flung open the door to the apartment.

A tall, thin man with round spectacles took a step back, as 170 pounds of angry Slovenian glowered at him.

“Ah, Mr. Aljaž Novak?”

“What?”

“I wonder if we might talk to you and Mrs. Novak. I am Ralph Phillips with the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Service and this is my colleague Moira Walsh.”

“We’re busy!” Ash snarled.

I saw the man glance down at Ash’s towel and his face turned red.

“Even so,” he said, obviously flustered, “I must insist.”

I thought Ash was about to slam the door in their faces, so I hurried out.

“Sorry,” I said, smoothing down my hair. “We, um, I was just about to shower.”

“I do apologize. Mrs. Novak, I’m assuming.”

“Of course,” I said snippily.