“I’ll be ten minutes.”
I took twenty, taking the time to curl and style my boring straight hair, as well as recover from my embarrassment.
When I re-emerged, Ash had put away his dirty work clothes and cleaned up the kitchen, putting the half-chopped onion in some Tupperware. Someone had trained him well.
I was surprised by the pinprick of jealousy I felt at that thought.
“Let’s go!” he said, tossing my heavy winter coat across the room.
He wore an old army surplus coat that reached down to his calves, and a woolen beanie pulled low over his forehead. I blinked at the transformation. He looked dangerous, like the kind of guy you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley. Gorgeous, of course.
Bundled up against the cold, we slogged down the icy streets. It was just five weeks before Thanksgiving and the stores were brightly lit and jammed with shoppers.
The cold wind whipped my hair into my eyes and I slipped on the slick sidewalk. Ash put his arm around my shoulders and tugged me into his side.
My hand crept around his waist and I felt guilty for enjoying it too much. Was Collin right? Was it impossible for men and women to be just friends? Or just impossible for Ash and me to be friends?
Without needing to discuss it, we headed toward a small, family-run pub with an Irish theme near the lake. The food was cheapish, and it had a warm, laid back atmosphere.
It was packed, being a Friday night, but Ash found us a couple of low stools near the fire. I was sweating before I managed to take off my coat. So much for trying to look nice.
Ash shrugged out of his coat and immediately attracted the attention of several women and a couple of gay guys. If he noticed, he ignored them, and headed for the bar.
The waitress had already taken my order for two Shepherds Pies, something that I knew was Ash’s favorite, before he returned with two pints of beer.
Collin would have bought champagne and insisted on a French restaurant for a celebration.
“Cheers!”
“Na zdravje!”
“Now will you tell me everything?” I asked impatiently as our glasses clinked against each other.
Ash’s excitement was contagious, and by the end of his story, I was on the edge of my seat, my drink in danger of tipping over.
“Tomorrow?! The audition is tomorrow? Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, preparing?”
Ash smiled. “I’m thinking about it all. I need to use your iPhone. Is that okay?”
“Of course you can. What song are you going to use?”
“I’m not sure. Can I borrow it tonight, to listen while I sleep?”
Ash
I’d miss work for the audition, and I knew it meant that I’d be fired. And I got the impression that Viktor knew a lot of people, so it might not be easy getting hired on another construction job. I didn’t care. I fucking hated it, and every day I was reminded that my dad’s blood ran in my veins was a fucking miserable one.
I passed this old theater on my way home . . . I mean to Laney’s home. It was usually closed, but tonight it had been brightly lit and a poster outside said ‘open auditions’. I nearly walked past, assuming it was for actors, when I saw a girl with a huge bag over one shoulder and a pair of salsa shoes in her hand.
It was like seeing a rainbow, or drinking freshly ground coffee. It was seeing a beautiful woman, smelling a favorite perfume and following the scent because even if you tried not to, you couldn’t help yourself.
I walked close behind the dancer, following her inside and scaring the woman checking names at the door.
“Can I help you?” she sniffed, looking me up and down.
I must have seemed ridiculous in my Army surplus coat, steel toecap boots and baggy jeans covered in demolition dust. I’d never looked less like a dancer.
“The open audition is for dancers?” I asked politely.
“Yes, and we’re very busy,” she huffed, trying to shoo me away with her hands.
I doubt if she was a day under 80, stood five-foot nothing, and weighed less than half my body weight. But she wasn’t intimidated, just annoyed. It was kind of funny.
“Guys, or just girls?”
“Really, young man! I’m very busy!”
“I’m a dancer,” I said, giving her my best smile, the one that usually worked on women.
“This isn’t some Hip Hop club,” she snapped. “This is for trained dancers.”
“Yes, ma’am. I am two time finalist in All-Stars International Ten Dance . . . in my own country.”
She blinked, then tapped her pen against the thick pad of paper, narrowing her eyes at me.
“Hmm, very well. Then tell me, in which dance would you see a syncopated separation?”
I smiled.
“Paso Doble—my favorite dance.”
Her eyebrows shot up and I grinned at her as she thought of another question.
“Well, well indeed! And what is an ocho?”
“It’s a tango step—the Argentine tango—the name coming from the figure eights women tango dancers make.”
And I demonstrated for her, which wasn’t easy in heavy work boots.
A thin smile passed her lips.