Vanessa walked behind my chair and handed me the pashmina that had been hanging on the back. Then she unlocked the brakes on my wheelchair and pushed me away from the table.
Ash’s mouth dropped open.
“Still think I’m pretty?” I asked, as my eyes filled with tears.
Forty days earlier . . .
Ash
“NAME?”
I’d been waiting in line, passport in hand, for 50 minutes. Fifty long, boring minutes, waiting for my life to start over.
I followed the shuffling line, a few nerves, but mostly waves of excitement spiking through me. I felt as if something didn’t happen soon, I’d crack wide open and all the chaotic, pent-up energy would come pouring out. But then the line moved along a few steps and I could look out of the window. Seeing the orange haze of a million electric lights that lit Las Vegas made me smile and my heart jumped up a notch. Soon. I’d be a part of it, living the dream, achieving everything.
“Name?”
“Alja? Novak.”
The Immigration Officer frowned at my passport.
“It says here that your name is ‘Al-jazz’.”
Outside my own country, that happened a lot.
“It’s pronounced ‘Ali-ash’.”
He squinted at the passport again.
“Purpose of your visit?”
I couldn’t help standing taller when I answered, pride in my voice.
“I’m here on business. I have a job. As a dancer in a theater.”
He didn’t seem particularly impressed as I showed him my H-1B Specialty Occupations work visa.
He studied the papers skeptically, then finally handed them back.
“These give you permission to work for one month,” he said, looking at me sternly.
I nodded, trying to look as serious as he did, withholding a need to touch the St. Christopher I wore.
Then he handed back the passport and waved me through.
I let out the breath I’d been holding.
The visa I had was used for dancers and fashion models in transit, that kind of thing. My new boss had explained that it was easier to apply for a long-term visa when you were already working in the country.
At the end of the stark, white corridor, the space opened up into a vast baggage collection area with hundreds of people milling around, searching for their possessions. I’d been in line for so long, that my suitcase was already waiting for me, slowly circling the carousel along with dozens more.
The bag was heavy, up to the maximum 20 kilos, and contained just about everything I owned. I’d sold most of my possessions once I knew I was leaving Slovenia. When it came down to it, there wasn’t much I wanted to keep—some of my trophies, a few photographs—and those I left with Luka before he went on tour.
Most of the things I’d packed were for dancing: six pairs of dance shoes, rehearsal clothes, Latin pants, shirts . . . things like that. I heaved my suitcase to the floor, then trundled it toward the exit and the sprawling arrivals hall.
I blinked, gazing around me at the sea of movement. The place was full of energy, bursting with people, slot machines going off, and a small crowd was laughing at an Elvis impersonator, a few singing along.
I felt like I’d come home.
Moving slowly through the airport, I scanned the unfamiliar faces until I saw him.
The man was enormous, swollen with heavy muscle that had partially gone to fat, and wearing a badly-fitting suit where rolls of flesh bulged out. His cold, lizard eyes skated over me then back again as he slowly lowered a sign that simply said ‘Novak’.
He was one intense guy and not what I’d been expecting. But I walked toward him confidently and held out my hand. He ignored me, moving away with a rubbery bounce that contradicted his massive frame. I could tell that he’d trained, probably as a boxer, if the flattened nose and scar on his cheek were anything to go by. Still an asshole though. He reminded me of Conan the Barbarian, but without the warm personality.
I followed him through the airport to a minivan waiting outside. He jerked his head as an instruction to get in, then muttered something in Russian.
My mood lifted when I saw four girls sitting inside. Each had a large suitcase like mine, and I guessed that they were dancers, too. The one nearest me was really hot. Things were definitely looking up, and my excitement returned.
“Hi, I’m Ash!”
I spoke to the stunning blonde, giving her my best smile. She seemed happy to see me too, and replied in heavily accented English.
“Hey, I’m Yveta. This is my friend Galina,” and she pointed to the brunette sitting next to her. “The redhead, I think is Marta. I don’t know the other.”
Two of them gave quick, nervous smiles, but when the other one turned to look at me, I was surprised to see how young she was. She reminded me of Luka’s little sister and I wanted to ask her if she was okay, but she turned to stare out of the window again.
“I don’t think she speaks English.” Yveta shrugged. “Or Russian.”
I shoved my suitcase into the only free space and settled into a seat.
“Is that where you’re from?”
Yveta smiled. She really was stunning.
“Yes, and Galina. But Marta is from Ukraine. Where are you from?”