“Something like that,” I answered with a weak smile.
“What’s up? You two look like you’ve been to a funeral. Oh my God, you haven’t, have you?”
“Just a really, really bad day,” I said quietly. “I’ll tell you later.”
“Okaay,” Sarah said doubtfully. “Ash, do you want to get changed first or shall I do your makeup?”
“I can do it if you like,” I offered.
Ash shook his head curtly. “No, you don’t know what to do.”
That hurt and he knew it. Sarah put her hands on her hips.
“You’re kind of being a dick, you know?”
I found a quiet corner to sit in while Ash went to shave and change into his first costume.
I watched without speaking, but I could tell he was wishing me far away.
Once he finished, he joined a couple of the other dancers in the room they used to warm up, and I muttered that I’d see him later.
“You’re being a real dickhead to Laney,” I heard Sarah say, as they went through their stretching routine. “Did you have a fight or something?”
Ash
I almost laughed. Was that the worst thing she could think of?
But then as soon as I had that thought, I was disgusted with myself. Would I want someone like Sarah to know that the bogeyman is real because she’d been ruined by him, too? No.
Sexy, smiling, flirty Yveta had been turned into something lifeless and hopeless.
I felt a small piece of the ice in my heart shatter, and I blew out a long breath as I glanced at Sarah.
“No. Just a bad day. A really bad day.”
She stared at me, her head on one side.
“We all have them,” she said evenly.
I looked away, stretching out my hamstrings.
“I was at a hospital. I saw some friends. They . . . they’d been hurt badly.”
Sarah’s hand covered her mouth.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Was it a car accident? I’d hate to drive in Chicago, the traffic is just crazy and . . .”
“It wasn’t a car accident. It was . . . someone hurt them.”
Sarah looked even more shocked, but we were interrupted by the AD who told us five minutes to showtime.
There’d been a sudden rush on tickets—nearly 70 sold. The biggest audience we’d had all week.
I stood in the wings, in the darkness, listening to the audience, hearing them breathe, whisper, rustle papers and sweet packets. I could smell the dust swirling under the stage lights, the greasepaint, the sweat from the dancers standing nearest to me. And when the music started, more of the ice dropped away.
My heart began to beat faster.
It was impossible to see beyond the footlights, but I pretended that the theater was full, and I told myself that this mattered—dancing, entertaining—it all mattered. Because living is hard and the world is cruel—and we all need a little sunshine in our lives.
Laney was my sunshine, so I would dance for her.
We moved onto the stage in unison, a shimmering chorus line, and the thin applause broke out, scattered and piecemeal, but it was there. I moved my body the way I’d been taught, and I smiled the way I’d been taught.
Sitting out there in the dark, she watched me. I knew because I felt it and a little warmth crept back into my numb body.
When I stepped onto the stage in the second half for my tango with Sarah, it was Laney that I danced for. The tango is a love story and a hate story; it’s two people fighting—two people at one with the music, at one with each other.
It’s hard to explain with words—you have to feel it—the push and pull, the intensity of the emotions.
I lunged forward, my hand snapping sharply, finishing the move. A noise like the crack of a whip rang out above the music and searing heat shot through my fingers.
Astonished, I stared up at my hand, completely missing the next move as Sarah stumbled, my body not being where it should have been to support her. I was mesmerized by the blood pouring down my wrist.
Someone screamed and then chaos broke out.
I’d been fucking shot!
I stared at my hand in disbelief, the tip of my index finger completely missing.
Adrenaline made me move and I dropped to the stage’s sprung floor, temporarily protected by the bank of footlights, clutching my hand to my chest, as screams rang through the air.
“He’s got a gun!” someone shouted.
It all came pouring back: the pain, the fear, the complete certainty that Sergei was out there—and that I was going to die.
One crystal clear thought pierced the panic and the overwhelming pounding of my heart: Laney!