Slave to the Rhythm (9 page)

The next morning, we carried on as if nothing had happened. Gary’s nose was a little swollen, but he didn’t mention it.

At breakfast, no one spoke to me and no one wanted to sit near me. Even Gary was unusually quiet.

Then Trixie appeared, and the muted conversation died away.

“Mr. Volkov wants to see you,” she said, snapping her fingers.

No one would look at me, although I saw Gary darting a worried glance before his eyes lowered quickly.

I didn’t even know how I felt. I didn’t know if I expected to live.

This time, Trixie led me to Volkov’s office where he sat like at king on his throne.

“Such a shame about that little misunderstanding with Sergei,” he said, inclining his head to my damaged hand. “He just can’t help himself when he sees a handsome face, although I can’t say you do much for me . . . no offense.”

“None taken,” I ground out after slightly too long a pause that made Volkov’s forehead wrinkle in a frown.

“Hmm, so there’s an end to it, no?”

If I was going to say anything, now was the time, but my tongue felt paralyzed.

“Sergei says you owe him money?”

Volkov’s voice was even, pleasant, the odor of violence hidden behind expensive cologne.

“I . . . my clothes were damaged.”

“Maybe you’d like to repay him personally?” Volkov asked.

I knew what he was suggesting, and for a moment I thought that I was going to puke, so I said nothing.

“Or perhaps I’ll pay him what you owe, and you can pay me. It’s possible to get good tips working in my nightclub.”

I frowned, confused.

“Tips . . . for dancing?”

Volkov smiled. “Go have a few drinks in the bar after the show. Let the ladies from the audience buy them for you. Entertain them, make them happy, you know?”

He paused, his yellow eyes cutting into me.

“You don’t want to be in Sergei’s debt any longer than you have to be. Or mine. But it’s your choice.”

Now I understood.

I was in Hell.

Thirty-six days later . . .

Laney

“IT’S RIDICULOUS! YOU’RE
not in a fit state to go anywhere!”

Collin was furious, the tendons standing out on his thick neck, a vein throbbing in his forehead as he stood puffing like an angry bull.

“For God’s sake, Laney! Just phone them and cancel. It’s only Vegas—it’s not like it’s anything important.”

I stared at him, fury making my lips tremble. I hated looking weak when I was so damn angry.

“No, it’s not important! I know that! It’s just my life. Ordinary life.”

Collin jeered. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“I’m not. I’m really not, but what difference would it make if I stay here? I’ll be the same wherever I go. I may as well enjoy myself. And I’ve been planning this with Vanessa and Jo for eight months. I
want
to go.”

“It’s ridiculous,” Collin said again, aggravated that I wouldn’t agree with him. “I can’t just take off and go to Vegas with you. I have work. I have responsibilities. It’s selfish of you to take risks with your health.”

My mouth dropped open. “Selfish? You think I’m being selfish?”

I was hurt he could think that. Didn’t he know me at all?

“Yes, I think you’re being selfish. I can’t look after you if you go there and . . .”

“I’m not
asking
you to look after me and I don’t
need
you to look after me.”

“Of course you do!” he snapped.

We glared at each other across the kitchen table.

That damn wheelchair. It too often defined me.

I took a deep breath. Keeping calm would reassure him, or at least strengthen my argument.

I hated talking about my health. It was all so
boring.

“I’m not a child. I can manage perfectly well.”

Collin dismissed my words with a wave of his hand.

“How? How will you manage getting your wheelchair to the airport? How will you manage your luggage? Have you thought about
any
of this?”

I stared at him, insulted that he thought so little of me, assuming I couldn’t organize anything without him. Collin shook his head.

“I’m just thinking of you,” he said in a milder tone.

“Stop trying to control me and let me get on with my life,” I said quietly.

Collin’s knuckles turned white, gripping the coffee cup as if it was a life-preserver.

“Is that what you think? That I’m trying to control you?”

I sighed. “Sometimes, yes. I know you don’t mean to be like that . . . but I’m going to Vegas.”

“Fine,” he snapped, slamming the cup onto the table so that coffee slopped over his hand. “You don’t want me ‘controlling’ you?”

He made air quotes with his fingers.

“You know what? No problem. I’m done, Laney. I’m so done. All I’ve ever tried to do is help you and I get shot down every time.”

He stood up, his bulky frame towering over me.

“I’m done trying to look after you.”

Then he scooped up his jacket and stormed out of the room.

I heard the door to my apartment slam and the silence washed over me.

“I don’t want you to look after me,” I said to the empty room.

Lame Laney—that’s what they called me at school. I wanted a boyfriend, not a babysitter.

Collin was right in one way. There’s nothing simple about traveling with a wheelchair. I had to be organized, planning ahead for every eventuality. How many other people pack a puncture repair kit when they travel? Other than cyclists, obviously.

I had to pay for my general practitioner to issue a ‘fit to travel’ letter because I was having to change my travel plans. I had to hire a cab that could accommodate my chair, one with a ramp or a pneumatic lift. I needed to organize assistance at the airport—and then hope that it was in the right place at the right time. I could have asked my friends or family to help me, but that wasn’t the point. I was 29 years old, an independent woman. I didn’t want to be reliant on others if I could avoid.

But it helped to choose an airline that would be sympathetic—laws and legislation were often inadequate, no matter what anyone tells you. Goodwill means as much, if not more.

I had to notify the airline service team about the nature of my disability and the kind of wheelchair I used. Hand-propelled ones were simpler than electric chairs, where batteries caused the carrier a headache. Each part of the wheelchair had to be marked with my name in case anything went missing, although I hoped to take the cushion onto the plane with me. And at least I could request a gate check whereby my wheelchair could be directly loaded to the plane’s fuselage.

I spent two hours changing my travel arrangements, wincing at the cost even though I had insurance. And I’d learned by experience not to rely on emails; talking to a human being usually produced better results, although not always.

“Ma’am, are you able to walk a short distance?”

The airline’s employee was polite, going through her checklist of questions.

“Not today,” I sighed.

“That’s fine, ma’am. We’ll pre-board you. If you could be at the airport three hours before your flight.”

I hoped that the airline would upgrade me. Sometimes they did. But if they didn’t, I’d requested a window seat. It might seem easier to have an aisle seat . . . right up to the moment the person by the window needs to get up to visit the bathroom and has to climb over you.

I’d also learned that a window seat gives you something extra to brace against during the landing.

Next, I contacted the hotel to check if a disabled room was available.

“On the lowest floor possible, please.”

Elevators are shut down in the event of a fire.

And because I was careful, prepared, I asked the hotel about the width of the doors on their disabled rooms, including the bathroom. There was no point checking in and finding your chair didn’t fit through the door.

So far, so good. But although they had a roll-in shower, they weren’t sure if a shower wheelchair was available. I politely requested that they enquire, then packed several garbage bags in my suitcase. If necessary, I could wrap my seat cushion and chair back in plastic and make do. It wasn’t ideal: garbage bags are slippery to sit on. You might even call it an accident waiting to happen.

And finally, I packed a spare pair of pushing gloves; it’s surprising how quickly they wear out from all the extra work.

With my suitcase half full already, I thought about the clothes that a Vegas trip required.

I’d planned to wear my favorite skinny jeans, but loose clothing is far more comfortable when you’re sitting all day.

It got boring being sensible.

I didn’t always have to use a wheelchair, only on the days (or weeks, or sometimes months) when I had a flare-up. On those days I couldn’t walk. On those days, it could hurt to breathe.

Today, I was somewhere in the middle: walking was painful. Even rising to my feet took several minutes while tears streamed down my cheeks, and I gasped in oxygen, willing the burning in my joints to recede, praying for the meds to work and the piercing pain to ebb.

Some days I only needed a walking cane, moving slowly like an old lady, grimacing as I tried—and failed—to pull my shoulders back from the safety of a hunched position.

But other days—most days, in fact—I was just like every other 29 year old, albeit one who wore comfortable shoes and took her meds with an almost religious fervor.

Sitting at my desk, at a table in a restaurant, I could feel normal.

I’d planned to dance with Vanessa and Jo wearing my sneakers, the ones with the special gel insoles. High-heeled pumps had no place in my world most of the time, but this weekend, I’d be able to wear them again.

I glanced at my Louboutins, discarded under the bedroom chair, and smiled, their irreverent red soles flirting with me. I couldn’t walk, but I could show off my fabulous shoes.

The irony was not lost on me.

There are certain indignities associated with disability, I thought bitterly. Apart from the doors you can’t reach, or the ones that are too heavy to open from a sitting position, apart from the shops you can’t enter or move around if you do enter, apart from the ramps that are too steep or badly positioned, apart from the pitying glances, or the irritated looks from people who stumble over and around you, apart from the well-meaning but ill-informed people who talk to whoever is with you but not to you, apart from all of that, there is the horror of the disabled toilet.

Distant, dirty and dire.

There are the bathrooms that defy belief: with steps, with too-steep ramps, with doors that can’t be opened from a chair, with no handrails, or handrails that are too high, or . . . I could go on, but do you care?

I was red in the face and sweating hard by the time I reached my gate at O’Hare. My arm muscles burned from the exercise, and my neck and back ached. My thighs trembled from the tension of trying to keep my small suitcase balanced on my knees. I was close to admitting that Collin was right—but that meant admitting defeat.

A stubborn streak told me it would all be worth it—Las Vegas would be amazing.

“Are you traveling alone, ma’am?”

The gate stewardess didn’t seem unduly concerned, although a little surprised by my lone status.

“Yes,” I smiled. “I left my boyfriend at home. It’s a girls-only weekend.”

The steward returned my smile politely.

“I’ll arrange your pre-boarding now, ma’am.”

While she picked up her phone to make the arrangements, my good mood took a dive. I very much doubted that I still had a boyfriend to come home to. Collin had been so angry—angrier than I’d seen him in a long time. But what had fueled that anger, I wondered. Why had he been so incensed that I traveled alone? Did he want me to become dependent on him? Couldn’t he be happy for me that I wasn’t giving up? Use it or lose it: isn’t that something to be proud of?

I shook my head. Maybe I was being selfish by making Collin worry. But honestly, what was going to happen in a resort where a credit card could solve every problem?

No. I’d been right to fight him on this. I was already too reliant on other people. I
needed
this weekend. The harder it was to get there, the more important it became.