CHAPTER Seven
Alek
Erin is already busy measuring the male dancers when I arrive at rehearsal the next day. She has passion and fire when it comes to her work. There’s a little over six weeks to go before the show begins, and she has already provided five sets of outfits for Nikolai’s troupe.
She’s dressed in all black clothing again today, and her hair is pulled up into an even tighter than usual bump, or bun as women call it. After what we went through last night, I now understand why she prefers dark clothes.
Erin might not realize it, but I do believe she’s in an eternal state of mourning. Glancing in my direction, she waves and gives me a bright smile.
There’s sadness in her eyes, though. I wish she’d let me take that away from her. She’s so close, and still miles away from me. We’re a lot alike in that way, running from a past that threatens to destroy what we’ve worked so hard to recreate. I’m honestly starting to believe I can be the type of man Mother wants to see me become.
That is, if I can have the type of woman who stands across the stage from me by my side along the way.
The 120 instrumentalists in my ensemble have all taken their places on the lower stage, while Nikolai and his troupe of sixteen dancers prepare to rehearse on the higher stage. “Le Maestro,” I hear a few of the players say to me in several different accents as I make my way down to the cockpit set up at the front of the lower stage.
Laughter drifts down from the area where the dancers are getting fitted by Erin. One of the male leads, Mikhail, is having his waistline measured by Erin. He seems to be more focused on joking around with my designer than he is on making sure she gets his measurements right. I don’t like it. I want to toss pretty boy through La Scala’s ornately decorated ceiling.
I scan the auditorium until I find my comrade. “Nikolai!” I call out. “Is your troupe ready to begin?”
“I find out for you,” he answers in our native Russian tongue. Right away, his gaze moves to his lead dancer, the one flirting with Erin. “Mikhail, get ready, now!” Score ten points for me. The guy says one last thing to Erin and then moves over to where Nikolai demonstrates a few of his most complicated moves for the other dancers. It’s time to make my move and claim what’s mine.
I walk toward Erin. She’s busy gathering her tape measures and fabric swatches. She doesn’t even see me walking up behind her.
“Hello, Erin.”
“Maestro. A surprise,” she says in clipped syllables as she glances up at me. She’s annoyed for some reason.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“Much better today. Thanks for asking.”
“A good man always checks up on his investments.” My eyes move up and down her body. I’m trying my best to behave. But damn the V-cut blouse she’s wearing. Women know what they’re doing when they choose these things. She moves her hand back up to her neck and subtly closes her shirt. She’s blushing. I love to see her blush. It gives her dewy skin a flushed look, an after-sex kind of appeal.
“Uh-huh. Well, a smart man knows the difference between the ventures he owns and other people’s personal property.” She raises her eyebrow, tilts her head, and gives me a bright, but sarcastic smile.
I’m locked inside her ebony-eyed gaze shadowed by lashes so thick they look phony. I would love to see those eyes glancing up at me as this little Jaybird calls my name when I push my cock inside her. I find it hard to explain the things this woman does to me.
Never have I seen such bewitching dark eyes with so much fire riding inside them. No, that’s not entirely true. I have seen them once before under a more harsh circumstance, something I’ll spend a lifetime trying to forget. “Who are you, Erin Angelo?” I ask before I even realize I’ve spoken the words.
She frowns. “What? I’m your designer. Are you okay, Maestro?”
“Stop calling me that. I’m Alek.” I snap out of her spell, clear my throat, and stand up tall.
“Right. I know. Also known as,” she leans over and whispers the next two words, “my boss.”
“Well, your boss has yet another proposition for you to consider,” I begin. “I’ve decided to add a singer to Requiem’s interlude. I’d very much like for that person to be you.”
Her eyes bulge. I wonder if she’s about to have another asthma attack. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.” Fear swims in her eyes. I won’t give up this easily.
“No? Just like that? No thinking about it, or considering what doors could open for you by doing this?” I push.
“I enjoy what I’m doing, Alek. What you’re asking me to do, it makes me feel…” She sighs and shakes her head before continuing. “It’s something I just can’t do. I’m sorry.”
“Think about it before you throw away a chance most people would die to have,” I suggest.
“Alek, my dear brother,” Adriana says, coming over to wedge herself in-between us. “I need to talk to Erin.” She’s already dressed for rehearsal with the ballet group she belongs to. I’m proud of the way my sister has worked hard to make a name for herself in the world of dancing dolls.
She turns to Erin. “Erin I got something for you. It took me all night to make, but isn’t it beautiful?” Adriana holds up a square piece of fabric with several stitches across the middle and sides. There’s no pattern to the design. It reminds me of something that might’ve been created for a horror movie. The best looking thing about it is the light blue color.
Erin passes a knowing glance in my direction before she says, “Okay. That’s…I’ve never seen anything so, um, eye-catching.”
“It’s a handkerchief. I made designs on the fabric too. Are you impressed?” Adriana hands Erin her gift. She takes it without hesitating and genuinely responds to my sister in a positive way. Glancing back at me, my sister’s smile fades. “I’m interrupting something, aren’t I?”
“No,” Erin says right away.
“Yes,” I respond back.
Erin glances at her watch and says, “I really need to be going. I have a session with my therapist that I rescheduled for today. Thanks again, Adriana.” She waves and walks away, leaving me standing there shuffling through every play I’ve ever made on a female before, hoping that somehow I can find one for a woman who somehow manages to move like the wind.
* * *
“I can bring a friend along to keep you company tonight. I know how you like it wild,” Nikolai suggests. We sit inside the Armani Cafe, one of Italy’s hottest social hangouts, and the place where Nadya and I used to find our most eager partners.
Although I’ve only been away from this scene for a few weeks now, I can already feel my sense of wild party mode seeping out of my veins. Now this place is nothing more than a bar I can rely on to put just the right amount of Kahlua inside my White Russian.
“What do you say? It’s almost never good to spend too much time alone after a breakup,” Nikolai says. “A supple, warm body would work miracles for you during this time.”
“I don’t think so,” I answer and wait for the rebuke. He’s right about needing a woman, but he’s way off in his observations about who I’d like that person to be.
“Wait a minute, Sasha,” Nikolai begins, “are you trying to settle down? Planning on abandoning me to a sea of eligible women?“
I smirk. “Why would you think something like that?”
“Hmph. Let’s see. You’re in a somber mood while sitting in a singles bar.” He points at my drink next. “That looks like a glass of unstirred, loaded White Russian you’re enjoying with a shot of Vodka on the side. Do I even need to mention your moodiness at rehearsal on days when a certain designer chooses not to show up?”
We both share a laugh. “That transparent, am I?”
“Like a big fat sheet of glass. It’s quite alright. I knew that sooner or later you’d go soft and give in to the American blood inside you.”
“Is that right?” I ask, wrinkling my forehead at him.
“Partially, yes. But I notice a lot of things you might not think I’m seeing. Like when my most flirtatious dancer strikes a fancy to our designer, and you send me over to set him straight,” he reminds. Nikolai sometimes knows what I want even before I do. Things have always worked that way for us ever since we met.
“You’ve been there for me over the last seven years. We’ve been through some crazy shit together.” I swallow a shot of Vodka, straight and pure. No, it’s not a good replacement for a woman, for her, but the way the heat burns in my stomach as the alcohol settles in can at least ease my burning hunger.
I think of Erin’s face and…reel it in. Getting unfocused as I’m preparing for a large performance messes with my coordination every time. Mother has too much riding on this show for me to f*ck it up. The fate of everybody’s careers, including Nikolai’s and even Erin’s, has fallen into my hands. It’s a big f*cking responsibility.
“Heard from Sergey?” he asks, making sure not to refer to him as my father. I clench my jaw and pour myself another glass of liqueur. I almost start to believe Nikolai enjoys messing with my head. He’s a psychologist, a head doctor hiding inside of a dancer’s body.
“Why should I hear from him? He has Dmitri,” I remind him.
“Since we’re obviously not here for all of these lovely ladies who are baring everything for us, we...” His words drift off as he stares at a woman in a blue dress walking by our seat. She does a double take in our direction, making sure she smiles extra wide for the both of us. “I don’t know what your goal is tonight, but mine is to make Nikolai Junior happy.” He grabs his crotch, emphasizing his point.
Across the room, our lady in the blue dress walks toward a section near the restrooms. Stopping to talk to a couple sitting near the back, she keeps glancing over at us. Eventually, she finishes her conversation, slinks through the crowds, and heads straight toward us.
“Well, there’s your chance, comrade,” I say, slapping him on the shoulder and nodding toward the woman.
“Ah yes. Good thing I came prepared.” He opens his jacket and shows me enough condoms to last well into the month.
“Always a good thing. Now go.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll have enough fun for both of us. Good luck with whatever your mission is supposed to be, as well.” He strolls off toward the woman. They strike up a conversation right away. Watching them makes me wonder what Erin is doing at the moment. My fingers are about two seconds away from punching in her digits on my phone.
Reining my thoughts back under control, I finish my drink, pay the bartender, and walk toward the exit. I’d already texted Hagar a half hour ago, telling him to pick me up from this spot.
Before I walk outside onto the crowded Via Croce Rossa, the street just outside the doorway, I take a final look at the club’s red and black interior. I might not have known what I came in here for tonight, but I think my subconscious does. It wanted to say goodbye.