Slave to the Rhythm (44 page)

Sometimes I could tell the style of the dance because of the very specific moves; other times it was looser, less pure ballroom and more pure Ash.

The afternoon passed and the sky darkened, the street lamps washing the world in a deceptive glow that promised warmth. But winter days were short and the nights long.

I must have fallen asleep eventually, because I woke when Ash sat down next to me, passing me a chamomile tea.

“Luka is in,” he said excitedly.

“Who?”

“My friend Luka—he texted me. He’s been on tour in Germany, but he finishes soon, so he’s going to fly out here. Is it okay if he stays with us?”

I rubbed my forehead.

“Ash, did you offer him a job?”

“He’s a great dancer,” he said, defensively deflecting my question.

“I don’t doubt that. But he doesn’t have a work visa, we have no way of paying him, and we don’t even know when or if the show will happen.”

Anger flashed in his eyes and he leapt off the couch.

“You are always saying that we work and try and don’t give up. And now you want to give up before we start.”

“That’s not what I said! I’m just pointing out . . .”

“What? That it’s hard? That there are mountains to climb? My friends were raped, two girls were murdered, but this is too hard for you!”

“You’re not being fair!”

“Life isn’t fair!” he shouted.

“Stop yelling at me! I’m on your side!”

He stood in front of me, his fists clenched, his nostrils flaring.

“Ash,” I said more calmly, “I’m just saying there’s a lot of work to do before we’re anywhere near offering Luka a job. I’m not an expert in this—I don’t know if
I
can pull off helping you produce this show. And I don’t want to let you down.”

He sat heavily, his head thudding against the back of the couch.

“How much money do we need?” he asked, his eyes closed.

“Well,” I said, swallowing. “I’m basing it roughly on what you were paid for
Broadway Revisited
. If we assume 20 dancers, 12 musicians, six lighting, audio and backstage, two admin at $800 a week, say . . . and you want a month of rehearsal?”

“Minimum.”

“That’s $128,000—plus a couple of thousand for renting rehearsal space. My best guess, $135,000 for the first four weeks of rehearsals.”

“Fuck!”

“And if we assume a theater of 500 seats, $45 per head, 75% capacity—that works out at $16,875 per night. With the theater having 50% of the take and paying salaries for a three-week run . . .” I took a deep breath, wincing as I handed out the news. “We’d have to sell 10,500 tickets to break even.”

Ash stared at me. He looked sick. “Ten
thousand?
”

I nodded.

He stood up, fisting his hair and pacing the room with long strides.

“
Ten thousand?
”

“Yes.”

“
Pizda!
”

“Excuse me?”

“Fuck!
Fuck! FUCK!
”

Ash grabbed his coat and stormed out of the apartment.

The truth was, we needed the best part of a quarter of a million dollars to make the show viable.

Ash

I strode down the street, the heat of my anger warming me, even though I could feel the wind biting at my cheeks.

I wasn’t angry with Laney. I saw now why she’d been so worried. I was a fool—an imbecilic naïve fool. How could I not have understood all this? I’d got everyone’s hopes up for nothing.

And then I thought of Yveta’s face—the flicker of life in her eyes when I’d talked about the show, about taking control of our lives, taking back what had been stolen.

Somehow,
somehow
I had to find the money.

My footsteps slowed as I squinted up at the sky, but the stars were hidden under heavy clouds that promised more snow, and I could feel the weight of what I was trying to do press down on me.

Laney

Ash returned half an hour later, looking frozen, apologetic, and he wasn’t shouting at me anymore. But he was quiet, and I wondered what he was thinking. His face had settled into a sort of grim determination.

“Laney, does Chicago have a mayor?”

“Yes, why?”

He nodded.

“Good, then we start at the top. Can you make a list of 100 of the most influential people in Chicago: politicians, business, media, Chief of Police—everyone you can think of. We’ll contact them all.”

I blinked, surprised by what he was suggesting. A slow smile crept across my face.

“You’re not giving up.”

He stared grimly. “I can’t.”

The next two weeks were a whirlwind. The article came out and we milked it for all it was worth. Ash turned out to be a natural at schmoozing when he needed to, and soon we had TV and radio stations asking for interviews. Of course, it helped enormously that he was handsome and charismatic.

Money was beginning to trickle in. Not from traditional routes—all those grant applications would take months to secure, and that was just filling in the reams of paperwork. No, the public was funding us directly. Our Go Fund Me account already had nearly $13,000. We had a long way to go, but we were getting there. Ash was making it happen.

One of Angie’s colleagues agreed to donate time to prepare any contracts once we got to that stage, and Dad was setting up a press conference/photo opportunity with the Police Commissioner.

Best of all, my local gym offered Ash, Yveta and Gary free memberships, and use of the dance studio when it wasn’t being used.

Ash said he needed to get in shape. Believe me, I’d been checking, and his shape looked darn good to me. But the offer was a godsend and he spent a lot of hours there doing a combination of yoga, swimming and even weight lifting. That surprised me—I didn’t think dancers wanted bulky muscles.

“I don’t,” he said. “But I use light weights—the idea is to stretch and tone the muscles, not build bulk. For dancers, it’s best to go for more reps and fewer pounds, to build endurance. It’s not really necessary in traditional ballroom, but when you’re training to lift a partner, yeah, it’s useful.”

“Will you be doing a lot of that, lifting, I mean?” I asked, puzzled.

Ash gave me a look I couldn’t interpret and nodded.

Ash

I looked down at Laney, seeing the stress on her face, hating that I was the cause of it. She was in pain again, although she didn’t say much. She’d met me at the dance studio today because I’d been working late with Gary and we were all going to eat after.

I hadn’t shared my ideas for the show, and when we got to really rehearsing—if that ever happened—I’d have to ban her from coming, which would be hard because she wouldn’t understand and I couldn’t explain yet.

Laney was still watching me, her expressive face tired and worried. I leaned down to kiss her again, seeing in the studio’s mirrors, over and over, the reflection of two lovers, traveling into infinity.

I kissed her once more, my lips lingering as ever. Then with a promise of more later, I headed for the showers. Gary was already dressing when I got there, discretely eyeing up some men I recognized from the weight room.

He grinned and winked as I walked past, and I raised my eyebrows.

“Hey, showboat! Your locker has been ringing for the last ten minutes. Laney must be missing you.”

I frowned. “No, I just saw her in the studio. She’s going to wait for us at the front.”

“Well, someone wants to get their hands on your cute ass, not that I can blame them.”

I sat down on the bench and pulled my phone out of the locker—there was a missed call from a local number and a voicemail alert.

I listened intently.

“Hello, Mr. Novak. My name is Selma Pasic and I’m Director of the Savannah Phillips Theater. I’ve been reading about you and your dance performance. Well, we have a two-week slot available for the last two weeks of March and we’d like to offer it to you. If you’re interested, please call me as soon as possible to discuss terms.”

I replayed the message for Gary. He stared at me in disbelief.

“Holy shit! We have a theater!”

I called back immediately but got voicemail, so I tossed my phone to Gary.

“I’m going to shower. If she calls back, set up a meeting. I don’t care when. Now, if she wants.”

Three minutes later I was trying to pull my clothes over a damp body and Gary was twitching excitedly.

“She sounded really nice,” he gushed. “Totally in love with the concept. Oh, leave your shirt undone a bit more.”

“What?”

“She’s a woman. She has a pulse. Leave the shirt open.”

“Fuck that. It’s January and five below out there!”

“Listen, showboat! Right now the woman on the end of that phone is offering you everything you want. Work your freakin’ strengths. Shirt. Open.”

Muttering to myself, I did what he said. At least no one would see until I took my coat off. I felt like a douchebucket.

As soon as Gary saw Laney, he launched into an explanation, then grabbed the handles of her wheelchair and started to push.

I elbowed him out of the way. “My job,” I growled at him.

“Much as I adore your wife,” he said pointedly, “I’m still gay. Stop being so territorial.”

“My job!” I repeated.

Laney giggled, but Gary poked me in the ribs, making me squirm.

We skidded along the rain-soaked streets, Gary marching ahead and waving everyone out of our way as if we were royalty.

“Is he always like this?” Laney asked quietly.

“Worse,” I snorted.

“I can totally hear you!” Gary snapped.

Laney buried her face in her scarf to stop herself from laughing.

God, every day I fall deeper in love.

It was a slow falling, like floating through clouds, my body weightless. It was a peaceful falling, with sun on my face, my heart warmed. Just ordinary things that nobody else would notice—the way she tapped her fingers out of time when a favorite song was playing, the way she looked at me when I walked through the door. Always the same: my eyes, my lips, my body, back to my eyes.

And she was so strong. I was in awe of her.

Also, sex with Laney was the best I’d ever had. I couldn’t figure that out. She wasn’t the most athletic, obviously; she wasn’t the dirtiest and it took a while to persuade her to try new things. But every time, the woman rocked my world. I came so hard and so often, I sometimes couldn’t believe I wouldn’t shrivel up and die happily.

Maybe it was love that made the difference.

We skidded to a stop outside a slightly shabby theater with fresh posters of new plays. It might be small and older, but they were showing some interesting work.

“Uh, maybe I should wait at that coffee shop,” Laney said hesitantly.

“What for, honey?” asked Gary, beating me to it.

“Well, she’s expecting to see dancers, not me.”

I yanked open the door, pushed her inside, then leaned down and whispered in her ear.

“Where would we be without our producer?”

“Besides,” said Gary, arching one eyebrow. “Between us, we cover all the diversity groups: gay, foreign, less able.” Then he frowned at Laney. “Can you pretend to be a black lesbian, too?”

“I can’t believe you said that!” she snorted, trying not to laugh.

A striking looking woman with long brown hair and a nice set of tits came around the corner to greet us.

“Mr. Novak?” she asked, her eyes flicking from me to Gary and back again, then dipping to Laney.

“Yes,” I said, holding out my hand and ignoring Gary’s whisper to open another button on my shirt. “Ms. Pasic?”

“Call me Selma.”

She looked at me expectantly.

“Ash,” I smiled. “And this is my wife Laney Novak, also our producer; and my co-lead Gary Benson, also co-choreographer.”

She led us to a small and cluttered office, pushing aside a prop of a horse’s head to make room for Laney’s wheelchair.

“So, we unexpectedly have a slot for the last two weeks of March. Since it’s such short notice, we’ll cut our commission to 40% of the box office takings, and provide all the front of house services, as well as our sound and lighting team. You’ll be responsible for bringing the production to the stage: and that includes all the relevant permissions for music and insurances. We’ll take care of ticket sales and marketing, but we’ll need you to keep up some media presence. So, what do you say?”

I was nodding throughout her whole speech, amazed that finally things were going our way, but Laney rested her hand on my arm.

“It all sounds wonderful, Selma. If you could forward the contracts to me, I’ll have our legal team go over it.”

I grinned at her. We had a legal team now?

Thirty minutes later, we were out of the door with draft contracts in our pockets.

Laney

“I need a name for the company,” he frowned.

“You could call it
Novak
,” I suggested. “You told me your surname translates as ‘new man’—it seems apt.”

Ash shook his head. “It means something more like ‘rookie’. Anyway, I need something that explains
us
.”

I wasn’t sure who he meant by ‘us’: the dancers, the story, or him and me, but I had an idea.

“How about
Syzygy
: a union of opposites, a mystical alignment?”