Slave to the Rhythm (39 page)

“No. No. You’re wrong. You tried to get me to do something, to tell someone, and I didn’t want to know. Jesus, even when you were all beaten up and desperate . . . I should have done something to help then. But I didn’t.”

He gestured to his own face and body.

“This is all on me. I’m just so happy that you got out. I have no idea how. I thought at first that they’d killed you, but when they kept asking me where you were, how you’d gotten away, I was happy. Well, I’d have been a lot happier if they’d stopped hitting me, but other than that, yeah . . .”

His words stuttered and stopped.

“They just beat you?” I asked doubtfully.

Gary glanced down at his hands, and then I saw the raw skin around his wrists. He’d been tied up or handcuffed.

He gave a fake laugh, his cheeks flushing.

“Well, I had to suck a few dicks, but that’s nothing new.”

And when he looked at me, I saw the darkness in his eyes that matched my own.

“You do what you’ve got to do to survive,” I said.

His eyes widened in understanding. “You, too?”

I nodded.

“Sergei?”

“Yes.”

“How did you get away from him? We never saw you again—you didn’t come back for the second half of the show.”

I grimaced and Gary was immediately apologetic.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

I shook my head. “Yes, I do.”

He didn’t speak as I stripped off my coat, sweater and shirt. Then I stood with my back to him. I let him look.

After a moment, I turned to face him. His expression was grave and he looked older.

“A woman found me before they did more,” I said, my voice soft. “A tourist. She got away and it gave me the time I needed. That’s when I ran. I’m sorry. I couldn’t warn you.”

He was thoughtful for a moment, simply watching as I dressed in silence.

“We all have our demons, Ash. I’ll be okay. My parents have been to see me. They’re upset, as you can imagine, but they came. So yeah, I’ll be okay. Eventually. I’ll just have to get some new teeth. I can’t go around looking like a hillbilly forever. But how did you end up in Chicago? I couldn’t believe it when they told me you were here.”

I cleared my throat. Explaining about Laney wouldn’t be easy.

His expression changed from surprise to disbelief to something more guarded as I spoke.

“I guess congratulations are in order,” he said, throwing me a fake grin.

“Thank you.”

His smile faded quickly.

“Have you seen Yveta yet?”

“No, I came to see you first.”

“You know they killed Galina?”

I sucked in a breath.

“The police told me they thought she was dead, but . . .”

“They killed her in front of us. After Sergei let his biker friends have her. God, Ash. I’ve never seen . . .”

His voice shook and he swallowed several times before continuing.

“It was obvious we didn’t know anything. Hell, I shit myself the moment they looked at me. I think that’s why they left me alone mostly. I was too disgusting for them.”

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

“Yveta had it worse. A lot worse. She . . . she’s not doing so well, Ash.”

I’d always thought of anger as hot and sudden, but what I felt now was ice filling my body. I could feel frost creeping through every vein, every artery, until my heart was frozen, too.

“You should go see her,” he said, resting his hand on mine and squeezing gently. “Just don’t expect too much. Try not to stare—she hates that. And, um, don’t tell her about the wife. Not yet.”

“But . . .”

“Seriously, Ash. One thing at a time.”

With that cryptic warning ringing in my ears, I nodded and stood up.

“I’ll come back.”

“Thanks,” said Gary, trying to smile. “I’d like that.”

Laney was waiting for me, her expression anxious, but I had no words for her. I simply nodded at the policeman outside Yveta’s room, and he let me through.

The only light came from the sinking sun, and deep shadows filled the room.

“Hey, it’s Ash,” I said quietly, not wanting to startle her.

Her head turned toward me slowly, but she didn’t speak and her eyes were lifeless. The left side of her mouth was pulled up, deformed by a long, puckered scar—new and badly healed—that stretched all the way up to her hairline.

“Is it okay if I sit down?”

She didn’t answer. Gingerly, I sat on the edge of the chair next to her bed. I couldn’t tell if she recognized me or not. Maybe she was so drugged up she didn’t know anything. I hoped so. I hoped like fuck that she was.

I didn’t know what to say to her.

I reached out slowly and took her hand in mine. Her fingers were cold, so I stroked them gently. Speaking quietly, I told her everything—almost—that had happened to me, and that I was sorry. Over and over again, I told her that I was sorry.

When I’d finished, I looked up. Her eyes were closed, but tears tracked down her cheek. I didn’t know if she was crying for herself or for me or for all of us. I wanted to cry, too, but my tears were frozen, locked away inside.

I wondered if I’d ever feel anything fully again.

I sat for an hour, holding her hand, saying nothing, until a nurse came to chase me out.

“I’ll come back,” I said, repeating the words I’d spoken to Gary.

I don’t know if she understood.

Laney was still waiting outside, and for some reason that annoyed me. I wanted to be alone with my dark thoughts. Laney was the sunshine, but I couldn’t stand her brightness right now.

She must have read my mood, because she didn’t try to touch me, although I could tell she wanted to. But she had questions, and that was worse.

“Will you ever tell me? About Sergei, I mean? Why he was so relentless?”

I shrugged, uneasy, wariness darkening my eyes.

She took hold of my hand, and I walked slowly along the hospital corridor. I found myself rubbing my ribcage, as if touch alone could relieve a pain that came from inside.

I still hadn’t answered her. My mind was trying to push away the panic and dread. I’d almost forgotten Laney was there, waiting to hear my story: sweet Laney, kind and good.

I looked up into her eyes.

“I can’t tell you.”

Her disappointment stabbed me in the gut and I had to look away.

“You can tell me anything. I love y—”

I snapped, all my rage and disgust and frustration aimed at Laney. I didn’t want to think about all that shit. Why did she keep coming back to it? It was done! Finished! Why wouldn’t she let it go?

“I survived!” I shouted.

Laney

I jumped as he slammed his fist into the wall, and then he ran. I could only listen to Ash’s rapid footsteps pounding down the corridor.

Tears started in my eyes and I rubbed them away angrily.

“Stupid,” I muttered aloud. “So stupid!”

Did I need to know every sordid, desperate thing that Ash had done? I’d seen what Sergei had been prepared to do to him—seen it with my own eyes. But some instinct still warned me that Ash was the one who needed to accept what had happened. If he couldn’t talk about it with me, maybe he needed to talk to someone else. A therapist, perhaps? For both of us.

I knew that Ash had moments of being completely numb. He coped by compartmentalizing what had happened. But maybe after all, the best therapy was in each other’s arms, clinging together, two shipwreck survivors.

I found him waiting outside the hospital entrance, smoking, his forehead furrowed in a deep frown.

“I’ve called a cab,” I said. “It’ll be here in a few minutes. We can go home . . .”

“I have a show to do.”

“Ash, you don’t have to . . .”

“Yes, I do!” he yelled. “Yes, I do! Why don’t you understand that?”

A passing nurse gave me a worried look, trying to decide if she needed to intervene, but in the end she walked away, throwing concerned glances over her shoulder. The staff probably saw a lot of crazy people in their hospital.

The cab ride was silent until Ash suggested that I go back to the apartment.

“No, I’m staying with you.”

His eyes narrowed and I felt a twinge in my chest, but I tried to ignore it.

The driver dropped us at the corner by the stage entrance, and I followed Ash inside. I could tell that he’d rather be alone, but the theater didn’t open to the public for another hour and it was cold outside. Besides, I thought he needed me, even if he didn’t seem to agree.

Ash was the last to arrive and the director didn’t look pleased, but seeing as it was the closing night, he didn’t say anything.

“Nice of you to turn up,” snarked Sarah. “Oh hey, Laney! Come to see us waltz off into the sunset?”

“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!

I half jumped, half fell off the stage and into the orchestra pit. It was still dark in the auditorium, but yellow gashes of light appeared at the exits as people streamed out, panicked and desperate. I prayed that Laney was with them, but I instinctively knew that she wasn’t.

The night before Thanksgiving, I’d seen Sergei’s face. I’d thought it was part of my waking nightmares, but it had been real. I knew that now. Just before I’d fought those men, I’d
seen
him, watching me, watching us. He knew about Laney. And he hadn’t been taken out by Volkov, he wasn’t in Mexico—he was real and he was here, hunting me, hunting Laney.

I felt hot and feverish at the thought of him getting his sick hands on her.

The sound system cut out suddenly and all that was left were terrified screams. Another shot rang out, and this time I was closer to the source.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are, Aljaž!” Sergei sang. “I’ve got your little wifey! Daddy’s waiting, and you’ve been a bad, bad boy!”