“Slovenia.”
“You are dancer?” Her eyes drifted over my body appreciatively, but her next remark stopped my thoughts as they slid toward the gutter. “Exotic?”
Was that her idea of a joke? I shook my head.
“No. Latin, ballroom, contemporary.”
Yveta seemed amused. “I think we dance what they tell us.”
I wondered if something had gotten lost in translation.
“No, I have a contract.”
Then Conan climbed into the minivan and everyone fell silent. He leaned across the narrow aisle, glaring at us.
“Passports,” he growled.
I hesitated as the guy loomed over Yveta. I really didn’t want to give him my passport, but I didn’t want to make enemies on my first day either. Especially when he looked as if he could crush my skull with one hand.
I’m not a small guy at 6’ 2”, and dancing professionally isn’t for weaklings—not when you’re supporting or lifting your partner all day long. Plus, I worked construction when I wasn’t competing. But Conan must have weighed close to 300 pounds, and looked mean with it, the long scar on his cheek adding to the air of menace.
I told myself that he wanted my passport so my new bosses could get the longer-term visa they’d talked about, but still . . . I wasn’t happy.
No one wanted to argue with him, although the girls looked at each other, huddling closer together. Their gazes shifted to me, and I knew that they were waiting to see if I was going to do or say something. I shrugged and handed over my passport.
Conan snatched it, tucking it into his jacket pocket as he collected the others.
Then he squeezed into the driver’s seat and the minivan rumbled to life. Yveta frowned with disappointment, then stared out the window, completely ignoring me for the rest of the ride. It left me feeling irritated and uneasy. Not a great start to my new life.
But as we drove from the airport toward the glowing mecca of Las Vegas, I couldn’t help smiling. Russian women were moody—everyone knew that. Not like my people, who were hard-working, honest and passionate, in a country so small it was a common joke that everybody knew everyone.
Both my parents were from the old Yugoslavia, although my mama grew up in London. She returned when Slovenia won independence in ’91. I was born nine months later.
I think she would have liked to go back to Britain to live but never got the chance. So instead, she made a point of speaking English to me. It had been a while.
She’d loved dancing, so I guess that’s where I got it from because I was nothing like my father. Thank God.
Las Vegas was a river of colored lights as we swept past. From my window, I saw the exotically named hotels: the Monte Carlo, Aria, Bellagio with its famous fountains; Caesar’s Palace, the Mirage, Palazzo—old European names in a new world of loud, bold colors and 24/7 energy. I was home. That’s how it felt.
But when Conan finally slowed the minivan, it was at an ugly concrete tower—definitely one of the cheaper hotels—which was a real letdown. I hoped their theater was as good as they’d promised. That was all I cared about.
Conan pulled into a service entrance lined with dumpsters and empty crates, and I could see the disappointment on the girls’ faces, as well. Watching our arrival were two men in chefs’ uniforms who stamped out their cigarettes as soon as they saw the minivan and slunk inside, the heavy kitchen door slamming behind them. It looked like they didn’t want to be seen by Conan. A bad feeling began to brew inside me.
Conan heaved his bulk from the front seat and left without a word.
When he didn’t return immediately, Yveta and Galina whispered to each other anxiously.
“What do we do?” Yveta asked.
“Looks like we’ve arrived,” I shrugged, smiling with a reassurance that I didn’t feel.
The girls seemed relieved and smiled back, including the one who hadn’t spoken yet. Even in the unlit minivan, I could see that she was much younger than the others—maybe only 15 or 16. That was young to be away from home in a foreign country. It happened, especially with dancers, because you started early and your career was short.
I was about to speak to her when a door in the hotel opened, sending a path of light toward us. Our cue.
I slid open the minivan door and jumped out, happy to stretch after 24 hours of traveling.
The air was warm and dry, and if I craned my head back, I could see stars beginning to appear in the sky.
Conan arrived back, following another guy in a suit.
The new guy walked toward me, his hand outstretched, and spoke with a Russian accent as we shook hands.
“Welcome to Hotel Royale.”
“Thank you.”
Then he turned to the girls still sitting in the minivan, their faces drained of color in the gloomy parking lot.
“Come, ladies,” he laughed. “Don’t be shy.”