Slave to the Rhythm (48 page)

Sergei and Volkov were haunting the stage again, and wherever they went, blood red spotlights followed them. There was something macabre about the way they moved, prowling, gliding—the ghosts at the feast.

I gasped when they suddenly descended on Ash, gripping his arms and tearing him out of the chorus lineup. None of the other dancers noticed and I wanted to scream at them to look, even though I knew it wasn’t real.

While the dancers quickstepped in the background to
Tu Vuo Fa L’Americano
, their smiles transformed to clowns’ grimaces, bathed in a ghoulish green light, Volkov dragged Ash across the floor in a parody of a Paso step.

Two of the backing dancers ran onto the stage, holding Ash’s arms. Then Volkov ripped the shirt from Ash’s back, and Sergei tore the pants, waist to ankle.

Ash stood with his back to the audience, seeming completely naked, although I knew, of course, that he’d be wearing an almost invisible dance belt.

Even so, seeing my husband stripped naked on a stage was horrible to watch. And when Volkov handed Sergei a whip, I couldn’t look. Horrified gasps cut through the horribly upbeat music and I could hear the special effects sound of a whip cracking through the air as Sergei appeared to laugh, his free hand clamped over his own dick.

Behind me, I heard Vanessa swear as Ash collapsed to the floor.

The music died softly, and he was left in a pool of light, alone, beaten and naked—just the way I’d seen him that awful, terrible night. I clamped my hand over my mouth as tears burned my eyes.

For a heartbeat, there was silence, and then a sound like a soft breeze filled the small theater, and from up above, Sarah descended like an angel, still dressed in yellow, the light creating a halo around her.

As she reached the stage, the lights went out and a sudden thunderclap made everyone jump.

Yveta and Gary were dragged center stage while Volkov and Sergei waltzed together, an obscene duet to
Seal
’s haunting lyrics
Kiss from a Rose.

I was his light in the darkness?

I watched between my fingers as they were repeatedly brutalized by a gang of backing dancers dressed as bikers. It was horrific, grotesque, and the moment that Yveta was slashed with a knife was almost unwatchable. And, against that ghastly backdrop, Ash waltzed onto the stage with Sarah in his arms, spinning round and around, a sweet, loving Viennese waltz. Ash was dressed in jeans and a loose white shirt, while Sarah was still in the yellow dress.

I felt a little sick. Was our love really at the cost of his friends? Or maybe that was how Ash felt about it. I didn’t know, but I wanted it to stop.

It didn’t. It went on and on, until Gary and Yveta were dragged away, bloodied and beaten. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who felt a huge sense of relief that I didn’t have to watch their torture any longer, strongly laced with guilt at preferring not to see the truth.

It was too hard to watch.

The strains of a violin filtered softly through the air and I held my breath, wondering what was coming next.

Then I suddenly remembered what Sarah’s costume reminded me of—the yellow sundress that I got married in.

A shiver went through me. And then I recognized the song:
With You I’m Born Again
.

And it was her softness, his gentlenesss . . .

Ash placed her on a chair, then swept onto the floor alone. Slowly, her legs appearing to tremble, Sarah stood. And then she began to dance, echoing his steps until they were moving together in the most achingly beautiful waltz I had ever seen. I’d never known this side of Ash, never realized just how his dancing was so full of passion, of deep emotion. He said he’d felt numb for so long, but he was wrong. It was all there, a deep well of emotion that only dancing brought out. Dancing and, I hoped, me.

Tears trickled from my eyes, imagining for just a second what it would be like to dance with him like that, to be swept away, to float, to glide, to caress his skin, to move with him through the music, the music that enslaved him. Music was in his heart and in his soul, and in that moment, I knew I had to set him free.

This show was going to be a huge success. I’d hoped for it, wanted it, but I’d been afraid to believe it. But now I felt it, knew it in my bones. The two weeks in this small theater was not the end, but just the beginning. I had no doubt that offers would flood in. And when they did, I had to let him do the tour. Without me.

And I had comforted him through the madness . . .

I’d helped him and held him, and for the briefest of moments we’d held each other, but now, like a wild creature, I needed to let him go. And pray he’d come back to me. And tears trickled down my cheeks, because I was losing him, if he’d ever been mine at all, and it was the right thing to do, even if my heart was breaking.

With you I am reborn . . .

And I cried, because it was true. Ash had made me brave and strong. In his arms, I could face anything—anything except the day he left me.

I was exhausted, emotionally wrung out, but it wasn’t over yet.

Volkov and Sergei prowled onto the stage, hunting the two dancers who were spinning through the light, so in love they were blind to the danger surrounding them.

The music morphed into the harsh chords of
El Tango De Roxanne
, and the two loathsome beasts performed a breathtaking and disturbing Argentine tango, cheek to cheek. Sergei/Oliver, performing the most extraordinary assisted jumps in Volkov’s/ Luka’s arms. Then the enganche: hooking, coupling, as the men took turns being the ‘follower’ wrapping their leg around the other, the ‘leader’ displacing the feet from inside.

Ash told me once that the Argentine tango had been a dance for men. The gauchos riding off the range, a dance of immigrants from the poor barrios, all needing a way to impress the few women they met. That’s what he said.

“Jealousy!” yelled Volkov, and gripped Ash’s hair, forcing him to his knees.

“Lust!” yelled Sergei, pulling out a gun and pointing it first at Volkov and then at Ash.

As Volkov slowly prowled away, disappearing into the shadows, I saw the gun in Sergei’s hand, almost falling out of my wheelchair as the gunshot echoed across the stage, as he casually shot Sarah.

She collapsed to the ground, in a pool of yellow satin.

Mom’s nails dug into my arm and she whispered something, but I couldn’t reply, my voice strangled into silence.

The fight, the gun battle in a theater not unlike this one, was brutally painful to watch. It was a duet, it was a duel, and when Ash finally seized the gun and pushed into Sergei’s face, his own twisted with hatred, I couldn’t help letting out a hoarse cry.

Someone in the audience screamed, and I cringed. Mom gripped my hand even more tightly.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “You’re safe here.”

Another gunshot cracked out and the music died away in a crash of discordant noise. Then lights and sirens and shouts filled the theater as the backing dancers were transformed into police officers.

Ash picked up Sarah from the floor, cradling her to his chest, the noise and chaos swirling around them.

She ‘woke’, if that’s the right word, and the eerie, sudden silence made me feel as if I’d gone deaf.

A full moon lit the stage.

A beautiful, magical
moondance

It was a foxtrot American Smooth, danced with every bit of astonishing grace and flair, so lyrical, so touching. And so uncomfortable to watch Ash making love to someone else, no matter how beautiful the dance.

But then something unexpected happened. He pulled a small box out of his pocket, a ring box. But instead of offering it to Sarah, he walked to the front of the stage and jumped off.

The music died away, and from the way all the dancers gathered onto the stage, grins on their faces and barely suppressed excitement, I knew they’d been expecting this.

Voices hushed as Ash walked toward me, the ring box in his hand.

He stood in front of me, then slowly sank to one knee.

“Laney, you are my sunshine,
moj sonček
. I loved you before I knew it. And although you are my wife, today I kneel before you and ask you to take me as your husband forever, in this life and in the next. Never leave me again, my love. Be with me always.”

He opened the box, presenting me with an engagement ring, a stunning yellow diamond that matched the little sundress I’d married him in.

I held out my hand, a glazed expression on my face.

“You shine so brightly,” I whispered.

“You’re the one who shines,
moj sonček
.”

I laughed quietly. “At least I know what that means now. Sneak.”

Ash smiled his beautiful smile, and slipped the ring onto my finger, then leaned forward to give me a searing kiss that broke a hundred hearts, including my own.

“You made me very proud last night,” I said, cupping his cheeks with my hands. “Don’t stop. Dance like the world is watching.”

Mom coughed, and when I glanced at her, she was wiping her eyes.

Ash stood up straight, grinned and winked, then vaulted back onto the stage as the band broke into Beyoncé’s
Crazy
, and the maddest, wildest, craziest, most over the top and life-affirming cha-cha that I’d ever seen. The entire cast was on the stage, giving it their all, saying that life goes on that love goes on and that evil will
never
win.

My feet burned with agony as I struggled to stand.

“What are you doing?” hissed Mom.

But I had to. My arms and legs shook with the effort, but I stood with the rest of the audience, clapping and cheering, our applause raising the roof of this tiny theater. And I sobbed wildly, damn sure that I was ruining my makeup.

Finally, the dancers stood at the front of the stage to take their bows, chests heaving with the strain, sweat glistening on their faces, on their arms, and the biggest smiles on their faces.

And there was my Ash, my love, my husband, shining so brightly.

“I love you,” I whispered.

He saw my lips moving, and he raised his damaged hand to rest it over his heart.

I love you, too.

TORTURED, HORRIFIC, TERRIFIC

I thought I’d seen it all, seen every kind of dramatic trick to manipulate an audience’s emotions. I’ve seen real pigs eyes used during
that
scene in ‘King Lear’. I’ve seen a version of ‘Coriolanus’ so bloody that the front row had to be given raincoats to wear, but last night every emotion was drawn out of me willingly in the freshest, most brutally honest performance it’s been my privilege to experience.

Ash Novak’s ‘Slave—A Love Story’ was not my first choice for a night of entertainment. Ballroom dancing is full of sequins and cheesy grins, or so I thought, but this talented dancer and choreographer suspended then dissolved every crumb of disbelief, in a magical, gut-wrenching, life-altering display of brilliance.

Every step was another piece in a horrific story of modern-day slavery, human trafficking and organized crime.

If this show doesn’t break your heart, then you should see a doctor to check you still have one.

The charismatic lead never put a foot wrong, and was ably support by Sarah Lintort, Yveta Kuznets, Gary Benson and Luka
Kokot.

Chicago’s must-see show. Catch it while you can because it’s going to be the hottest ticket in town.

Five months later

Laney

I JUMPED WHEN
the apartment door swung open without warning.

My heart thudded in my chest as I saw Ash standing there, his suitcase at his feet, his key in his hand.

“What are you doing here?” I gasped, one arm in my coat sleeve.

“The tour finished and I caught a flight from Dallas.”

“Yes, but what are you doing here
now?
”

He cocked his head to one side, staring at me, puzzled.

“I came home.”

I stared back, transfixed. He looked the same, but different. The same long, lean build. The same mahogany hair and feline eyes the color of Irish whiskey. The same sharp cheekbones, the same strong, unshaven jaw. But there was a new confidence in the way he held himself, a new certainty that he was doing what he needed, and standing where he belonged.

“I was supposed to meet you at the airport.”

“You’re not happy to see me,” he said, his voice flat.

“Are you nuts?” I shrieked. “I’ve missed you so damn much!” And I threw myself at him.

Ash staggered, catching me before his back thudded against the wall. He grabbed me around the waist, his lips sucking on my neck as I tackled his belt buckle.

“We don’t have time for this,” I muttered, ripping open his shirt to expose his smooth chest, ignoring the buttons that ping-ponged across the wooden floor. “We’re having dinner with my family.”

“What sort of world is it where I don’t have time to make love with my wife?” he asked, his words finishing with a groan as I wrapped my hands around his hot, hard dick.