Jealousy flared hot and deep inside me.
It’s just dancing, I told myself. But it was more than that—it was Ash announcing to the world that he’d whored himself in Las Vegas—and I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
I asked him once if he would have tried to get money from me.
His answer was enigmatic.
“When I dance, I lose myself in the music—it isn’t good for business.”
What could I say to that?
One of the women ripped his shirt open and I wanted to break every finger on her manicured hand.
It’s just dancing, I told myself And then the cute, poppy lyrics of Little Mix, but now with an uneasy undercurrent of sex for sale.
I could barely watch, until the artistry and sassiness of the sexy and seductive cha-cha with its Cuban breaks and vividness drew me in. It became a party, almost an orgy, as Ash danced with each of the women and all the backing dancers were on the stage, thrusting and grinding lewdly.
It was men with sleek stomachs, polished like Greek bronzes, tapered waists, strong thighs and tight asses.
It was women as voyeurs, window shopping for beautiful young men. I understood it, recognized it, but it made my blood boil when Ash’s partner looked at him with lust in her beautiful eyes. And God, it looked as though Ash felt the same.
It’s a performance, a beautiful goddamn performance.
But still, Volkov and Sergei lurked in the background, the evil puppeteers, glimpsed between the dancers so that you wondered if you’d really seen them or whether your paranoia was running overtime—and knowing that’s how it had been for Ash.
Slowly the music faded away, leaving just the jagged sound of a heartbeat as two pure white spotlights lit the stage. Sarah sat alone at a table, wearing a simple yellow dress that caught the light, the bodice glittering with tiny crystals.
She looked so vulnerable, so beautiful, and Ash stared at her, mesmerized. Another hot bolt of jealousy made me clench my fists.
A slow pulse of music started, in time with the heartbeat, and I recognized one of Ash’s favorite songs by Adele, but the lyrics were subtly altered as a man’s voice poured out his longing for a lost love.
Ash held his hand out to her, as if asking her to dance, and I gasped. That was me! Sarah was me! He’d recreated the moment that we met. This was how he saw me, how he felt when he thought of me. Tears formed in my eyes and I rubbed them away impatiently.
When the table was rolled away, revealing Sarah sitting in a wheelchair, the audience inhaled sharply.
I saw Ash’s shock. I saw the disbelief. I saw Sarah’s pain. I saw her humiliation and defeat—my humiliation and defeat.
Mom gripped my hand tightly.
But then Ash scooped her from the wheelchair, carrying her in his arms, her bare feet moving in exquisite rumba shapes, although they never touched the ground.
I was awed by the beauty of the dance, amazed at the display of physical strength as Ash carried 110 pounds of dancer in a way that appeared effortless, but I knew wasn’t.
And I finally understood why he had barred me from rehearsals. Because this was his gift to me, the dance we would never have; the first dance as it should have been but could never happen.
And this time I couldn’t hold back the tears. Every step, every look at her, every gesture he made to her, was to me. And he carried her for the entire dance.
And I forgave him for being stubborn and secretive. And I forgave him for being intense and driven. And I forgave him for shouting at me when he was stressed and tired. I forgave every time he’d closed me down or shut me out, because this was him telling me through every step, through every movement of his beautiful body, that I was loved, that I was desired, and that everything that had happened between us was real.
We were real.
When the dance ended, the audience stood on their feet and applauded. Except me, of course, because just like the night we met, I couldn’t stand on my own two feet.
The house lights came on, but the applause didn’t stop for several minutes.
All around me people were smiling and wiping their eyes; Angie’s reporter friend was scribbling furiously in his notebook.
“Oh my God!” Vanessa said, shock and awe in her voice. “That was you! That’s your story. He danced that for you! With you!”
“Yes,” I said, my voice lost and small.
Mom threw me a look of concern, then pushed my wheelchair up the slope to the tiny theater bar.
People pointed and whispered when they saw the chair, and a couple even blatantly took photographs of me. I was surprised and annoyed, but then two reporters came up to me, phones in hand, wanting impromptu interviews.
I steeled myself and smiled, answering their questions as well as I could. I was grateful when Selma arrived to help, agreeing to set up interviews with the principal dancers in the next few days.
“The reviews are going to be good, Laney,” she said once we were alone, her tone serious.